Playboy Bachelors. Marie Ferrarella
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he would balk and make excuses why he couldn’t go.
His eyes narrowed. It didn’t look encouraging. “When?”
“Now.” It was half a query, half a direct order.
He shook his head. “I can’t go now. I’m in the middle of something.”
“How long before you’re not in the middle of something?” she asked.
Philippe thought for a second. The deadline had been moved just yesterday. He’d never been comfortable about rushing through a project. That was his name on the cover and his reputation meant a great deal to him. “End of November.”
Janice looked at him, stunned. November was three months away. She couldn’t stretch things out until then. “Look, if you’re trying to break the contracts—”
“Go with the lady,” Georges said, picking that moment to walk in. “A few hours away from the drawing board might recharge your batteries.”
Philippe began to protest that Georges didn’t know what he was talking about. Georges was a doctor, not a designer. He had no idea what was involved in the process. But then he shrugged. The sooner he agreed and got this over with, the sooner the woman would be busy working and out of his hair.
He looked at J.D. “How fast can you get me there?” he wanted to know.
He’d done a one-eighty so fast, she felt as if she’d just sustained a severe case of whiplash. “Fast,” she volunteered. Then, because she sensed he’d appreciate it, added, “But I’ll try not to break any speed limits.” As she spoke, she reached for her car keys and headed toward the front door. Turning, she nodded at Georges, silently thanking him.
He winked at her in reply.
Definitely less family resemblance than more, she decided.
Janice drove him to an area in Anaheim known among contractors as tile row. As far as the eye could see was store after endless store offering every kind of tile.
She had just assumed the lead since this encompassed her territory. But the short journey across the freeway, for once not hopelessly congested, had her rethinking her decision. Zabelle sat beside her now, wrapped in silence since she’d announced, “I’ll drive,” and gestured him into the passenger seat of her truck.
It wasn’t the kind of comfortable silence of two old friends who momentarily had run out of things to say. This was the kind of silence bound up by tension. At least, for her it was.
As she got off the freeway and turned down the first of the streets leading to their destination, Janice felt she couldn’t take the oppressive silence any longer.
“Anything wrong?” she asked. When Zabelle didn’t answer, she repeated the question, her voice more forceful. This time, she managed to penetrate the haze.
“Hmm? Oh, no.” And then Philippe looked at her for a moment before changing his reply. “Well, yes.”
The light was red. “All right, what is it?”
Since she’d asked, he gave her an honest answer. “I’m not used to sitting in the passenger seat.”
Janice wasn’t sure she followed him. “Excuse me?”
“I’m usually the one driving.”
Funny, if asked, she wouldn’t have said he had an ego thing going. Apparently she was getting to be a worse judge of character than she thought. “But you don’t know where we’re going,” she pointed out.
“I understand that,” Philippe answered. “It’s just that I guess I’m not comfortable having anyone else behind the wheel.”
Well, that was pretty honest, she thought. Most men would have said something about being natural pathfinders and being the better driver right out of the box. “I’m a safe driver,” she told him.
He shook his head. “It’s not that.”
Making a left turn, she kept her eyes on the road. “You like being in control,” she guessed.
That sounded obsessive, Philippe thought and he’d never pictured himself that way. His mother had elements of obsessive-compulsive in her makeup, not him.
“No.” The denial didn’t taste quite right on his lips. And if he were being completely honest, if only with himself, maybe there was this one small streak that leaned toward control. “Well, maybe,” he allowed, adding, “to some degree.”
Janice had a feeling it was more than just that, but she wasn’t about to push. Besides, they’d arrived at the first shop. She’d never come here herself, but some of the other contractors told her that the store had some very decent inventory.
“Lucky for you, we’re here.” With a smooth turn of her wrist, she pulled into what she believed would be the first of many parking lots that afternoon.
Instead of bolting out of the truck the way she’d expected him to, Zabelle sat on his side, eyeing the front of the store. The sign advertising the place was made completely out of black onyx. There were no windows in front. “This is the place?”
She got out, closing the door with finality, hoping that he’d take the hint. “This is one of them.”
“One of them,” he repeated. Slowly, without taking his eyes off the store, he got out of the truck. “How many are you planning on going to?”
She could almost hear him saying dragging me to in place of the words he’d used. “As many as it takes for you to find something you like.” She gestured toward the other stores that lined both sides of the street. “I’ve never actually counted, but there are probably at least thirty or so stores along here.”
“Thirty,” he repeated incredulously.
“Or so,” she added as a reminder.
Philippe slowly let out a long breath, as if bracing himself for an ordeal. He then squared his shoulders like a man going into battle and opened the front door. Stepping to the side, he held it for her, then glanced at her with a silent query.
For once, she could read him. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to bite your head off for holding the door for me. I actually like that kind of thing.”
Philippe responded to the warm smile on her lips. Given the line of work she was in, he wasn’t sure if holding a door for her would somehow offend her sense of independence. Life in his mother’s world had taught him to take nothing for granted about women’s reactions to things.
“Good to know,” he murmured.
The store looked deceptively small on the outside. Inside it was divided into fifteen or so sections, each showcasing a different kind of tile intended for every single foot of the house. Tile for the fireplace, for the pool area, for bathrooms, the kitchen and so on. There was so much to see that it was overwhelming.
Standing to the side, Janice could see that this was definitely a great deal more than Philippe had expected. Time for her to step in and be the tour guide, she thought.
Once she got started, she had a tendency to talk fast. This time Janice deliberately curbed her impulse. “I know that this can be a little mind-boggling at first. There are different grades of marble and granite, ceramic and glass—”
He seemed not to be listening. And then, just as she got warmed up to her subject, he pointed to a royal blue piece. “That one.”
Janice blinked, and then looked at it. “That one what?”
“I pick that one. For the tile,” he added since she was still staring at him as if he’d lapsed into an unknown dialect of pig Latin.