Minutes later, Miranda stepped into a tub of water so hot it made her toes hurt, but she needed the warmth, needed the heat to thaw her heart. Being near Frank Taggert was like standing near an iceberg. She wondered if he had ever had any human warmth in him, whether he’d ever loved anyone. She’d like to think he was like one of her romantic heroes: wounded by some callous woman, and now his cold exterior protected a soft, loving heart.
She almost laughed aloud at the absurdity of the idea. All evening he’d been watching her speculatively; she could feel his eyes even through her back. He seemed to be trying to decide where she belonged in the world. Rather like an accountant would try to figure out where an expense should be placed.
“At least Leslie had passion,” she whispered, lying back in the tub. “He lied with passion, committed adultery with
passion, made money with passion.” But when she looked into this Frank Taggert’s eyes, she saw nothing. He would never lie to a woman about where he’d spent the night because he’d never care whether or not she was hurt by his infidelity.
All in all, she thought it was better not to think about Mr. Billionaire. With longing, she wondered what Eli and Chelsea were doing tonight. Would Eli eat properly if she wasn’t there? Would he ever turn off his computer and go to bed if she didn’t make him? Would he get seasick? Would—?
She had to stop thinking about her son or she’d cry from missing him. It suddenly dawned on her that whoever had played a joke on Frank Taggert had inadvertently also played one on her. Obviously, someone thought that sending a plain, ordinary woman such as she was to spend a week with a handsome, sophisticated, rich man like Mr. Taggert was the most hilarious of jokes.
Getting out of the tub, she dried off, then opened her night case to get her flannel gown and old bathrobe. At the sight of the garments inside, she felt a momentary panic. These were not her clothes. When she saw the Dior label on the beautiful pink nightgown, she almost swooned. Pulling it out, she saw that it was a peignoir set, made of the finest Egyptian cotton, the bodice covered with tiny pink silk roses. The matching robe was diaphanous and nearly transparent. It didn’t take a brain like Eli’s to see that this was not something a woman who was merely a housekeeper would wear.
Wrapping a towel about herself to cover the beautiful gown and robe, she rushed out of the room, past the bed on which Frank Taggert sat, scurried behind the blanket partition, and began to rummage in her not-yet-unpacked suitcase for her own clothes.
“Is there a problem?” he asked from behind his side of the blanket.
“No, of course not. What could be the problem?” She went through her bags frantically, but nothing was familiar. If a 1930s-era movie star were going to spend a week in the Rockies, these were the clothes she would have worn. But Miranda had never worn clothes made of silk or linen, or a wool so soft you could use it as a powder puff.
She knew herself to normally be a soft-tempered person. After all, she’d had to put up with Leslie’s shenanigans for years. But this was too much!
Throwing aside the blanket room divider, three cashmere sweaters in her hand, she pushed them toward Frank Taggert. “I want to know exactly what is going on. Why am I here? Whose clothes are these?”
Sitting on the side of the bed, Frank was trying to unlace his boots with one hand. “Tell me, Mrs. Stowe, are you married?”
“Divorced.”
“Yes, I think I am beginning to understand. I come from a large family that is constantly reproducing itself. I believe they have decided I should do the same.”
“You—?” In shock, Miranda sat down on the edge of her bed. “They have . . . You mean, they want us to . . .”
“Yes. At least that’s my guess.”
“Your . . . guess?” She swallowed. “My guess is that your family sent me here because the idea of a woman like me with a man like you is a great joke.”
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand her. While she’d been speaking, he’d continued to work at untying his bootlaces. So far he’d not managed to even loosen the knot.
Not even thinking about what she was doing and certainly not what she was wearing, Miranda knelt before him and untied his laces, then pulled off his boots. “I don’t mean to pry,” she said as she removed his socks. Then, just as she did for Eli and used to do for Leslie, she gave each foot a quick massage. “But why would they choose someone like me? With your looks and money, you could have anyone.”
“My family would like you. You look like a poster illustration for fertility.”
She had her hands on his shirt collar as she began to unbutton it. “A what?”
“A symbol of fertility. A paean to motherhood. I’m willing to bet that this son of yours is your whole life.”
“Is there something wrong with that?” she asked defensively.
“Nothing whatever if that’s what you choose to do.”
She was helping him out of his shirt. “What better life is there for a woman than to dedicate herself to her children?”
“You have more than one child?”
“No,” she said sadly, then saw that his eyes seemed to say: I knew it. “So your brother sent me up here in the hope that I would . . . would what, Mr. Taggert?”
“From the look of your gown, I’d say Mike did this, since his wife, Samantha, is the personification of a romantic heroine.”
“A romantic heroine?”