To Be A Bridegroom. Carole Mortimer
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‘Jordan?’ She looked taken aback to see him standing there.
‘You didn’t have any champagne earlier.’ He smiled, holding up the cooled bottle of bubbly liquid and two glasses, that he had taken from the wedding reception on his way out. ‘An oversight I felt needed rectifying,’ he added huskily. It had been his own morose temper earlier that had created the ‘oversight’; he hadn’t even given her the common courtesy then of ensuring she was provided with a drink!
Her eyes widened, the deepest, clearest blue he had ever seen. ‘Wouldn’t you rather be sharing that with Stella?’ she queried, making no effort to open the door wider and move aside so that he could enter her apartment.
Not that he could blame her for that, either; he hadn’t exactly been attentive so far in their acquaintance. And from the cool way she was looking at him, he wasn’t sure he was going to be given the chance to make amends!
‘Stella is something else that needs rectifying,’ he drawled dismissively.
‘You don’t owe me any explanations, Jordan—’
‘I know that,’ he replied sharply. He didn’t owe any woman anything! ‘I just thought it would be nice if we shared some champagne together,’ he continued less aggressively—so much for making a fresh start with Stazy!
‘Okay,’ she accepted without further argument, opening the door to let him in.
Jordan was a little taken aback at her sudden acquiescence, but he stepped inside before she changed her mind as quickly.
Her apartment had the same layout as his own; he knew that because he had looked at it first when he was thinking of moving in five years ago, but in the end had decided that the apartment he had now possessed the better view of the two.
But as soon as he stepped inside he could see the differences in their tastes. Stazy had chosen decor in creams and golds, with bright splashes of orange, giving a much lighter, airier feel, a warmth, that his own green, cream and brown furnishings didn’t achieve.
The touches of orange in the rugs and scatter cushions somehow seemed to be the same shade of burnt copper as her hair, the furniture in the lounge she took him into consisting mainly of big, comfortable-looking armchairs and several huge bean-bags. Overall, Jordan felt a peace and restfulness amongst this casual comfort that he didn’t feel in his own apartment.
‘This is great,’ he told Stazy admiringly, putting the bottle of champagne and glasses down on a very low table. ‘You’ll have to give me the name of your interior designer.’
‘Stazy Walker,’ she provided softly.
His brows rose. ‘You decorated all of this yourself?’
Stazy nodded, smiling slightly at his obvious amazement. ‘I’m an interior designer.’
He gave the sitting room another look. She was good. Very good. And his apartment hadn’t been decorated since he’d moved in... Not that he spent a great deal of time there anyway, being either out at work, or just out. But if she could transform her own apartment in this way...
He picked up the bottle of champagne. ‘I don’t suppose you would be interested in a job?’
Stazy curled herself up on one of the bean-bags while he uncorked the champagne, and she eyed him warily across the room. ‘Doing what?’ she prompted guardedly.
Now that he had taken the trouble to notice her at all, Stazy Walker was fast becoming an enigma to him! She had seemed so open and friendly, but with each thing she revealed about herself she appeared to be holding something else back... In fact, he knew absolutely nothing of real relevance about her, he realised with a start. Like what she was doing in England at all. Where were her family? If she had any family.
‘Decorating my apartment,’ he told her, pouring out the champagne before handing her one of the glasses. ‘What did you think I meant?’
‘You wouldn’t believe some of the suggestions I’ve had over the last three months!’ she told him disgustedly.
Jordan settled himself down in one of the comfortable armchairs, finding it as soft and bolstered as it looked; the bean-bags looked relaxing to sprawl in, but the last thing he wanted was to get down on one of those things and then struggle to get back up onto his feet when the time came! He had to be a good twelve, or maybe fourteen years older than the age he guessed Stazy to be, but he didn’t have to end up on a bean-bag looking decrepit!
‘Try me,’ he invited, his curiosity piqued.
She shrugged. ‘Maybe it has something to do with the language—we do speak a different language, no matter what anyone tries to say to the contrary. When I first moved here I got a job as a window-dresser in one of the large stores in town—I’d rather not say which one!’ She grimaced. ‘The manager’s idea of working after the store was closed was to try and drag me off to the bed department, to see if there were any improvements I could make there!’
Jordan was having trouble holding back a smile at the graphic picture she portrayed—and he certainly didn’t think it had anything to do with a language problem; Stazy was beautiful, whatever language she spoke!
‘What happened?’ he asked.
‘I kneed him in the place I felt needed improving,’ she told him directly. ‘I also got fired,’ she sighed. ‘For being unsuitable for the job! Actually, I’ve always preferred working in people’s homes, so after that I put a few cards in shop windows, hoping to get some business that way. I was offered a job decorating a little boy’s bedroom.’
‘Sounds safe enough,’ Jordan drawled—because he had a feeling it hadn’t been safe at all.
Stazy grimaced again. That “little boy” turned out to be about sixty-five—and he wanted me to do the decorating wearing a gym-slip!’
This was just too much for Jordan, unable to hold back his chuckles any longer. In fact, he more than chuckled; he couldn’t help it. ‘What sort of shop windows did you put your cards in?’ he finally sobered enough to query.
‘You’re much quicker than me!’ Stazy gave him a shy grin. ‘I realised that had been my mistake when the next “client” who rang asked me my age, and told me to bring along a set of red underwear!’
‘I prefer cream myself,’ Jordan observed.
‘I took all my cards back before I got any more calls like that!’ She shook her head disgustedly. ‘Do you suppose people actually enjoy that sort of thing? Telephoning a complete stranger for sex?’ She grimaced her distaste at the idea.
Jordan looked at her. She couldn’t be that innocent. Could she...? ‘How old are you, Stazy?’ he mused.
‘Twenty-one, almost twenty-two,’ she supplied promptly, her tone implying she didn’t see what that had to do with anything.
She was young. Younger than any of the women he had been involved with in recent years—though he wasn’t going to get involved with Stazy Walker; he was just curious, that was all.
‘Don’t you read the newspapers?’ There was an edge of scorn to his voice, created by that residual anger towards himself.
She stood up in one gracefully fluid movement, her glass steady in her hand. ‘Of course I read the newspapers,’ she returned impatiently. ‘But to find a bed-partner in such a way seems—What work do you want done on your apartment?’ She abruptly changed the subject. ‘Which room?’
‘All of them,’ he decided, relaxing back in his chair. ‘Are you up to it, do you think?’ he derided.
She looked ready to tell him what he could do with his offer of work. But something held her back, and she turned away, breathing deeply.
Jordan accepted she hadn’t had a very good time of it since moving to London. And he wasn’t helping to make it any better. Besides, this apartment,