Alma looked at her. ‘Because of somethin’ that happened to you back home?’
Gabrielle busied herself with the roses. ‘You could say that, yes.’
The other woman sighed. ‘Gaby,’ she said slowly, ‘you are goin’ to hate me for what I’ve done.’
‘Don’t be foolish. Why would I?’
Alma squared her shoulders. ‘I told your Mr Forrester to stop by this morninY
‘He is not my Mr ’ Gabrielle straightened and
stared at her assistant. ‘You told him what?’
‘He said he’d be in the neighbourhood and he asked
if you’d be in. So I said ’
‘Well, you shouldn’t have.’ Gabrielle stabbed the rose she was holding into a vase. ‘You had no right to do that, dammit! I told you I didn’t want to talk to him.
Or see him. Or ’
‘Good morning, ladies.’ Both women spun towards the sound of the amused male voice. James Forrester stood in the open doorway of the shop, a faint smile on his face. ‘I hope that’s not me you’re arguing over.’ His smile broadened. ‘Although, I have to admit, it’s not every day a man has the pleasure of being fought over by two such charming women.’
Alma’s cheeks turned bright pink. She giggled and turned to Gabrielle, who was staring at her with icy calm. Her laughter became a cough, and she looked away.
‘I… I’ll just take these roses into the back,’ she said, scooping up the roses and the ferns. ‘And I’ll call the
wholesale florist, and I’ll ’
‘You do that.’ Gabrielle’s voice was glacial.
A scattering of ferns drifted in Alma’s wake as she hurried to the rear of the shop and the green and blue beaded curtain that separated it from the back room. The beads swung’ violently as she pushed through, and then subsided.
Gabrielle’s heart was racing. How dared Alma do this to her? And how dared this man pursue her in this way?
She drew a deep breath. The last thing she wanted to do was let him see how upset she was. Be calm, she thought, be cool…
She turned slowly and faced him. He was still standing in the doorway, watching her. At least, she assumed he was watching her: he was wearing those damned mirrored sunglasses again, the ones that masked his eyes and his emotions. He was dressed casually, in faded jeans, Reeboks, and a black turtle-neck sweater. A leather flight jacket, well-worn and expensive-looking, hung open over his shoulders.
Gabrielle swallowed.
‘What are you doing here, Mr Forrester?’
He stepped inside the shop and closed the door behind him. ‘And good morning to you, too, Miss Shelton.’ She flushed. ‘I asked you a question.’
He grinned. ‘I take it you’re not happy to see me.’
‘Mr Forrester…’
‘I’m here to buy flowers,’ he said. He smiled. ‘Why else would I be here?’
She watched as he began to walk slowly through the shop, pausing every few seconds to peer at a plant or floral display, occasionally bending forward to sniff at a blossom.
‘Mr Forrester,’ she said finally, ‘I am very busy this morning. So if you’d come to the point…’
‘What do you call this?’ he said, poking his finger at a hanging basket.
Gabrielle looked at the plant and then at him. ‘It’s a spider plant,’ she said. ‘And now if you’d just tell me…’ He smiled. ‘Descriptive. And this?’
‘That’s a begonia,’ she said impatiently. ‘Look, Mr…’
‘Roses,’ he said triumphantly, pausing beside the red ones Alma had stripped from the wedding display. He looked at Gabrielle and grinned. ‘I just wanted to show you I’m not completely ignorant about these things.’
Gabrielle drew in her breath. James Forrester was standing very close to her now; his scent—masculine and musky—filled her nostrils with a dizzying richness.
‘Which of these do you prefer?’
She looked at him in bewilderment. He was staring into the case filled with roses and orchids.
‘I don’t understand.’ .
Forrester sighed. ‘It’s a simple question, Miss Shelton. Do you like orchids?’ He nodded at the white and lavender blooms in the case. ‘Those are orchids, aren’t they?’
Gabrielle stared at him. ‘Yes. But ’
‘Well, which do you like better? The orchids or the roses?’ ¦
She looked at him blankly. ‘I’ve never thought about it,’ she said after a few seconds. ‘The roses, I suppose.’
He nodded. ‘Fine. I’ll take them.’
You’ll take…?’
‘The red roses, Miss Shelton. I’ll take all you have.’
A flush spread across her cheeks. ‘I have six dozen long-stemmed red roses, Mr Forrester. They were supposed to be for a wedding, but ’
He waved his hand in dismissal. ‘Six dozen are fine.’
Gabrielle’s flush deepened. ‘Save your money,’ she said sharply.
James Forrester’s eyebrows rose. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I said, save your money, Mr Forrester. The roses will cost you a small fortune.’ Her chin rose. ‘And they won’t mean a damn to me. In fact, I’ll throw them away.’
His eyes glinted with laughter. ‘That’s a bad business practice, Gabrielle. How can I buy them if you throw them away? Unless…’ He leaned back against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. ‘You don’t think I was buying them for you, do you?’
She stared at him. ‘Don’t play games, please. You’ve
telephoned a dozen times in two days ’
‘Three,’ he said.
‘—and then you walk in here and buy up all my roses…’
‘Why didn’t you take my calls, Gabrielle?’
Could her cheeks get any redder? She fought against the desire to touch them with her hands. ‘I’ve been busy. I…’
He smiled suddenly, the kind of smile that suggested they shared a very private joke. ‘I thought you might have been trying to avoid me,’ he said softly.
Why had she let Alma vanish into the back room? She wasn’t good at these games, she never had been, even before she’d learned to question everything a man said or did.
‘And that would have distressed me deeply.’ The smile came again, flickering across his lips like a shadow. ‘You see, you have something I want, Gabrielle.’
His voice was husky and intimate. Gabrielle looked at him, the sudden leap of her pulse reminding her of the feel of the feel of his mouth on hers. He laughed softly, as if he knew what she was thinking, and then he leaned away from the wall and began moving towards her.
Her heart lurched wildly. She took a step back; the marble edge of the work-table pressed into her spine.
‘No, I don’t,’ she said throatily, her eyes on his. ‘Please, stop this right now. I’ll call Alma…’
He reached out slowly and put his hand to her cheek. Gabrielle swallowed as he smoothed an errant strand of dark hair behind her ear.
‘What do you mean?’ Her voice was scratchy. ‘I don’t…’
His lips drew back from his teeth. ‘You have my jacket.’ .
His jacket! She had his jacket! Gabrielle’s face registered disbelief, then shock. Of course, how could she have forgotten? But she had: the incident in the alley, his kiss, his knowledge of the name of her shop had all boiled together into a witch’s brew of anxiety. She’d stumbled into the shop, gasped out her story to Alma, and tossed his jacket unceremoniously into the supply cupboard in the back room where it still lay, the dirt and grime of the New Orleans street probably now embedded in the soft tweed for eternity.
No wonder the man had phoned so often. He wanted his jacket returned, that was all.
‘That jacket’s been with me a long time.’ He was unsmiling, but he was laughing at her—she could hear it in his voice. ‘I’d hate to lose it now.’ His eyebrows rose politely. ‘Unless, of course, you’ve developed an attachment to it.’
Gabrielle cleared her throat. ‘I?
?m terribly sorry about this, Mr Forrester. I’m afraid I forgot all about your jacket. I haven’t even had it cleaned.’
James Forrester clucked his tongue. ‘Terrible way to treat a man’s favourite Harris tweed,’ he said solemnly.
‘Look, I’ll take care of it today. I’ll send it to the cleaners and…’ She turned and snatched up a pad and pencil. ‘Just tell me the name of your hotel and I’ll have it delivered first thing tomorrow.’
He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid that’s not good enough, Miss Shelton.’
Gabrielle nodded. He was probably right. After so many days, the jacket was most likely ruined. ‘I’ll replace it, of course, if the cleaners can’t do anything with it.’
Forrester frowned. ‘You can’t replace it. I told you, that jacket’s been with me a long time.’
Gabrielle ran her tongue across her lips. ‘I don’t know what else I can do.’
A boyish grin spread across his face. ‘I do,’ he said, and suddenly she knew he’d been leading up to this moment all along. ‘You can agree to have lunch with me.’
She drew in her breath. ‘What?’
‘Lunch, Gabrielle.’ She couldn’t see his eyes behind the mirrored glasses, but she knew they were moving over her just the same, lingering first on the thrust of her breasts and then on the curve of her hip. ‘I suspect you may not have a first-hand acquaintance with the meal, but most people take it at just about this time of day.’
Gabrielle shook her head. ‘No,’ she said quickly, ‘I can’t.’ “
‘Can’t or won’t?’
‘Would you mind telling me what this has to do with my returning your jacket?’