As You Like it. Lori Wilde
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tell Marissa about the house and its history, and while she was very interested, she couldn’t get her mind off the fact Beau was glaring at her so hard her neck was perspiring.
This wasn’t working out quite as she had planned. It was a little hard to flirt with a man who acted as if her face was on the wanted poster at the post office. She had no idea she had upset him to this degree the day before. So much for charm. Apparently he wasn’t one to easily forgive and forget.
Jenny guided her up the sweeping staircase and past a hallway chock-full of antique rocking chairs. “My mother is a rocking-chair connoisseur,” she explained. “We even hold a rock-off every summer.”
“A rock-off?”
“The annual rocking-chair finals. Last year one of the contestants made it into the Guinness Book of World Records for most consecutive hours spent rocking.”
It sounded like a fate worse than death and Marissa found all those rockers lined up a little spooky-looking. They put her in mind of mobile coffins. But she was concentrating hard on adopting the Southern lifestyle long enough to win Beau over.
“You’ve got some beautiful pieces here,” she commented, the scent of Beau’s sweet basil–scented cologne toying with her nostrils. To distract herself from his disconcerting aroma, she stroked the arm of a nearby rocker. It glided smoothly like satin, without a single creak or groan.
How someone under the age of eighty could sit here and rock for hours on end was beyond her. Guinness Book of World Records champion or not.
“Are you a collector?” Jenny asked.
“No, not really,” Marissa admitted.
“Oh. I thought you might be in town for the antiques auction at the Conroy estate.”
“She’s here,” Beau muttered darkly, “to drive me crazy.”
Jenny turned and looked at Beau. “Do you two know each other?”
“We met yesterday,” Marissa explained.
“She showed up at the bar trying to get me to go back to Manhattan and design sex video games for her.”
“No kidding?” Jenny looked surprised.
“It’s not like that.” Marissa glared at Beau. The way he said it made her sound like a pervert. “The videos are for Baxter and Jackson. You know, to help the clinic’s patients overcome sexual dysfunction. It’s completely tasteful.”
“Cool.” Jenny grinned.
“You like the idea?” Beau blinked at his sister.
“I think it’s a great idea.”
“Good grief.”
“I can see how designing a sex video game might drive you crazy,” Jenny teased. “Seeing as how you haven’t been with a—”
“Hush!” Beau commanded and Jenny shut up.
But not before Marissa caught the gist of what the younger woman was saying. Apparently it had been quite a while since Mr. Thibbedeaux had enjoyed sex with a partner.
Marissa grinned.
“I think you should do it,” Jenny said to Beau.
“You think I should go back to Manhattan?” Beau frowned.
“Oh, not that part.” Jenny waved a hand. “You were miserable in New York. But couldn’t you just design the game from here?”
Marissa snapped her fingers. “Of course he could. You’re a genius.”
The concept had never occurred to her. The level of effort would be easier to keep tabs on him in Manhattan, of course, because that’s where the programmers were, but if a long-distance arrangement was the only way she could get him to sign on, then why not? She had already negotiated her travel expenses into the contract, so shuttling back and forth shouldn’t bother Judd.
“Beau really needs something to do,” Jenny said. “He loves designing video games but he’s got this thing against competition. Totally weird.” She rolled her eyes.
“Back off, the both of you,” Beau snapped. “You’re discussing this as if it’s not my decision to make.”
He stalked past them, opened the door to one of the bedrooms and deposited Marissa’s luggage on the floor. Then without another word, he turned and disappeared down the stairs.
Marissa blew out her breath. “That went down like rock salt.”
“Oh, he’s just blowing off steam. He does it when he’s feeling cornered, but if you really want to know, I can tell you how to handle him.”
“Spill!” Marissa grabbed Jenny’s arm.
“Boy, you are eager to make this happen.” Jenny chuckled.
“The promotion I’ve wanted for three years hinges on me signing him.”
“Well, I have to warn you, it takes him a long time to make a decision. Be patient.”
“Gotcha.”
“He rebels under pressure, nagging or complaining. Goes back to life with his mother.”
“You two don’t have the same mother?”
“We’re half siblings. Francesca is a terror. She’s a diva to end all divas.” Jenny shook her head. “I barely knew Beau until he was old enough to get away from her. But that’s a long-drawn-out story. What you need are the Cliff Notes.”
Marissa nodded.
“Do you really want to know the best way to get him to agree to develop the game for you?” Jenny enticed.
“Oh, absolutely.” She would do almost anything to make this deal happen, even if it meant donning kid gloves and an asbestos suit in order to handle Beau Thibbedeaux.
Jenny grinned. “Then play with him.”
4
WITH ANNA TROTTING at his heels, Beau sauntered toward the two-story detached garage, whistling under his breath, determined to ignore the walnut of agitation lodged low in his belly. That’s what fast-paced people excelled at—disturbing the rest of the world with their high-pressure hurry, hurry, hurry, go, go, go tactics, twisting everyone else into knots.
Well, he wasn’t going to let her get away with it. So, Marissa had shown up here unexpectedly. He was calm. He was cool. He was unruffled. He would think of a creative, easygoing way to get rid of her.
The tortoise eventually bests the hare.
Grinning at the naughty idea brewing in his brain, he opened the garage door and flicked on the overhead fluorescent lights. He squeezed past Jenny’s little red Honda Civic, parked too close to the lawn tractor and the other gardening equipment, and made a beeline for the staircase.
Upstairs in the loft he found what he was looking for. The boyhood treasures his father had bought for him and Francesca would never let him keep at her house.
While Anna sniffed around searching for hidden treasures, Beau dug through his past, unearthing an electric train set his dad had mounted on plywood. He found a pogo stick. Stilts. A skateboard. Two bikes. A football gone flat. A seasoned baseball glove. Model airplanes. Plastic army soldiers. A box of broken crayons. Board games—Monopoly, Clue, Life, Backgammon, Twister.
In one corner hunkered his drum set. As a kid, whenever he felt perturbed with his life, he would sneak up here to bash away his demons. He sank down on the stool behind the drums and blew a layer of dust off the cymbals. He reached for the drum-sticks. The grip had eroded to a smooth groove from years of practice. He drummed a couple of riffs and Anna took off.
Bang, crash, bang.
A familiar serenity stole over him and he felt the tension drain from