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“Go on.”
“Yeah,I’dbettertalkfast,beforeIletmyselfrealize what a terrible idea this is.”
Cynmadeaface.“Lifeisagamble.Ifwesitaround waiting for a sure thing, we’ll be sitting around forever.”
“Okay, I’ve never met him, but our Mr. Cecil Breckenridge is a professor at the university. Tenured, of course.Thereshouldn’tbe—”Marygrinned“—any moral turpitude lurking in his background.”
“Drat. That’s a count against him.”
“His specialty is English Romantic poets.”
Cynclappedherhandsandbouncedinherdelicate Queen Anne chair. “How delightful! My favorites.”
Cyn struck a pose with the back of her hand poised melodramatically against her forehead. “ ‘She walks in beauty, like the night
“ ‘Of cloudless climes and starry skies ... ’ ”
Cynstraightenedandtriedtolookserious.“I’mgoing to try to like this one. Can you imagine anything moredeliciousthanmarryingamanwhoquotesLord Byron to you while you lie back in your bubble bath with candlelight and a glass of ruby-red wine?”
Mary’s mind had shot straight to the scent and silk of honeysuckle bubbles, and naked Van putting the book of poetry aside to — “Stop right there. Imagine anything you want, but if you tell me about it, I’ll die of envy.”
“Spoilsport. I’ll just say one can forgive a lot of foibles in a man who can quote Shelley or Keats.”
“There is that. I also heard he’s very ambitious, though. Very fond of the sound of his own voice too, maybe with reason. His students and friends rave about his voice. Smooth, molten Godiva chocolate, one of them said.”
“You needn’t say another word,” Cyn said. “I don’t care about another single solitary thing. Send him out for a marriage license this afternoon.”
Chapter Twelve
In Training for Touching Mary
O
NCE AUNT CYNTHIA TOLDVan about the Husband ParadeParty,hehadnochoice.Hehadawhole string of no-choices.
He leaned back in his office chair while his reluctant brain laid the no-choices out backward from the most dangerous one of all. He’d have to dance with Mary in some slinky, revealing evening gown at the Parade Party. Yes, that was the root problem.
Could he avoid it?
He had to attend the Parade Party. This was his aunt,andhelovedher,evenifhewastryingtomarry her off. He had to make sure the man she chose was worthy of her.
If Van was there, and Mary was there, he’d have to dance with her. It would be monumentally rude not to dance with her.
Ontheotherhand,he’dbeentraininghimselftobe rude to strangers ever since he took his aunt’s dog for a walk in the park and fell for the magic the place could spin. Toronado wasn’t a tiny town, but Central Parkmadetheplacefeellikeone.Everyonehungout there. There was always something to do, people to meet. It wasn’t surprising that Van got talking one day to some poor guy down on his luck. Van offered the man a job and later learned he cleaned out the coffee-room cash before disappearing.
Van shook his head in disgust at himself. Coaxing his sculptor side out into the light had made him stupid. He’d never been that gullible. You couldn’t be that gullible if you ran a business thousands of people depended on.
But he couldn’t defend himself from Mary with monumental rudeness, not anymore. He owed her for going along with his aunt’s crazy scheme. He’d have to be polite enough to dance with the demoness. His sculptor hands tingled at the mere thought of touching her and all that bare, soft, warm skin. Yes, his sculptor hands were downright lecherous.
Aversion therapy, that’s what he needed to get them under control before they touched her in public. But how could he arrange that?
So, what could he do instead?
A trial run, that was it. Training in being near enough to touch her without overdoing it right into bed.
Distraction, that might help too. He’d repair the death traps in Mary’s house. That would keep his hands too busy to — He wouldn’t think about what they might do if they weren’t too busy.
He was on the phone five minutes later, on her doorstep five minutes after that. Soon, he was crouched in her hallway, attacking the killer quarter-round on her baseboards, while Lancelot mooned around in the backyard with Guinevere. The lucky dogs.
