Texas Glory. Joan Elliott Pickart
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those eyes...dear heaven, those gorgeous blue eyes of Bram’s were holding her immobile. Was she breathing? Oh, she hoped so. She’d be mortified if she fainted dead-out-on-her-nose from being in close proximity to Bram Bishop.
“Glory?” Margot said.
“Hmm?” Glory turned her head to look at her secretary, then blinked. “Oh, thank you.” She took the paper Margot was extending toward her.
Margot stared at Glory questioningly for a long moment, then hurried across the room, closing the door behind her as she left.
“Well, we meet again,” Glory said, sitting down gratefully in the chair behind her desk.
Her legs were trembling, she realized. Her heart was racing. There was heat—pulsing heat—thrumming low in her body. This was absurd, ridiculous and absolutely unacceptable.
“Have a seat, Mr. Bishop.”
“Bram,” he said, settling in one of the chairs opposite her desk. “After all, we’re already acquainted, Dr. Carson. You might have corrected my use of Ms., you know.”
“It didn’t seem important at the time,” she said. “I’ll need a minute to look over this new-client form you’ve filled out.”
“That’s fine,” Bram said.
There she is, Bram thought, looking intently at Glory. Man, he was glad to see her. He’d been really rattled when he discovered he’d lost track of her. But now he’d found her again, and she was even lovelier than the image he’d been carrying in his mind.
She was dressed very much as she’d been on the airplane. Ultrabusiness—cream-colored slacks, a pale blue blouse and a navy blue blazer.
What would Glory look like in jeans and a T-shirt?
And, oh, man, what would Glory look like with her hair falling free?
“You didn’t answer any of the questions on the form, Bram,” Glory said, “beyond name, address, telephone number and age. There’s a whole section here on how long you’ve been married and so forth.”
Bram propped one ankle on his opposite knee.
“I told you on the plane that I wasn’t married,” he said, no readable expression on his face.
Glory slipped the paper into Bram’s file, then folded her hands on top.
“Yes, so you said. But I thought since you’d made an appointment to consult with a marriage counselor that perhaps you actually were married.”
“No.”
Hooray! Glory thought. No, forget it. Glory, just stop it. Get it together. Professional conduct at all times, remember?
“I’m planning on getting married,” Bram said.
“Oh, I see,” Glory said. “Well, that’s nice.” No, that was terrible, just awful, really depressing, and... Oh, Glory, please stop. “Congratulations.” She cleared her throat. “When’s the big day?”
Bram shrugged. “I have no idea. Soon, I hope.”
“So! What brings you here?”
You, Bram thought. But Glory had been more relaxed, more open, on the plane. In her professional setting, she was stiff as a board, her smiled forced and phony.
If he marched around the desk, hauled her into his arms and kissed her senseless, would she loosen up? No. she’d probably deck him.
Easy does it, Bishop, he told himself. Take it slow and easy.
“Well, here’s my theory,” Bram thought. “If a person consults a marriage counselor before he gets married, he stands a better chance of not gumming up the works after he’s married. Get it?”
Glory frowned slightly. “Well, I... Well, the idea has merit, I suppose. I’ve never done any prenuptial counseling, but... Don’t you think your fiancée should take part with you in these proposed sessions?”
A slow smile broke across Bram’s face, widening into a grin.
“I don’t have a fiancée,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I want to get married. I fully intend to get married,” he said, his smile fading. “I just haven’t been able to find the right woman yet. In the meantime, I’m going to prepare myself to get married, sort of like boot camp. You know what I mean?
“I have a lot to learn about the appropriate behavior for being a husband, partner, the half of a whole. When I marry, it will be until death parts me from my wife. The Bishop boys believe in forever love.” He paused. “Yes, forever love.”
Oh, no, Glory thought, was that the ache of tears she was feeling in her throat? Yes, it was. Control. She had to gain control of her emotions. Right now.
But, dear heaven, what Bram said had been so touching, so honest and real. The words had obviously come straight from his heart, spoken in a voice low and reverent, with an echo of wistfulness.
Forever love.
What a beautiful way to express it, to define the essence of his hopes and dreams. Bram wasn’t strutting his machismo stuff at the moment, he was simply being a man, rendering himself vulnerable to her censure.
Bram Bishop was asking for her help as a professional, who had expertise in an area where he admittedly was lacking in knowledge.
How could she, in all good conscience, refuse his heartfelt request?
Three
Bram was hardly breathing as he watched the changing emotions on Glory’s face.
She was, he knew, weighing and measuring, reaching a decision regarding his “boot camp for marriage” theory. Personally, he considered the idea nothing short of brilliant.
Of course, his mental patting himself on the back was due to his having concocted a plan whereby he could see a great deal of Glory and really get to know her, the person, the woman.
He certainly didn’t need a training course on how to be a proper husband. All a man had to do was love his wife with his entire heart, mind and soul, be faithful, be honest. That was marriage, pure and simple.
But he didn’t mind pretending he needed training if it accomplished his goal of discovering whether or not Glory Carson was a viable wife candidate.
Glory sure was doing some heavy-duty thinking. Come on, sweetheart, Bram silently directed, open your pretty mouth and say yes to the plan.
“Well,” Glory said finally.
Bram dropped his booted foot to the floor and sat up straighter in the chair.
“Let me be very candid with you, Bram,” Glory said. “I moved to Houston from Chicago about seven months ago to escape the brutal winters. I’m in the process of building my practice here, which takes time and energy.
“I’ve been attending workshops, seminars and giving lectures—all and everything necessary to become known in the psychologist community.”
Bram nodded.
“Your idea of prenuptial counseling,” Glory went on, “just might offer something different, unique and, therefore, bring in new clients.”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“I was wondering, though, if the concept should be offered in group sessions.”
“No,” Bram said, nearly yelling.
Glory jerked in surprise at his outburst.
“Sorry,” he said. “But no, that’s not a good suggestion. The whole thing is too personal, too private. I mean, cripe, Glory, do you think I want a bunch of strangers knowing that I’m worried I won’t