Do You Love Me? Page 5

  “No. I have taken courses in auto and machine mechanics and landscape design.”

  “Pedro, if we are to be successful, I believe we must be honest with each other. We probably should start by agreeing not to say hurtful things, either directly or by innuendo, by suggestion.” She forced her gaze to his.

  He gave her a silent, sober nod, so she continued.

  “My friends tell me I’m inclined to be blunt. Also, I can be super sensitive. What that means is, I dish it out, but I can’t take it. Do you understand?”

  He snorted a half laugh, half cough, puckered his lips, and nodded again.

  “When I say something that offends you, tell me I have done so and how. Will you do that?”

  “Do you mean only if you offend me without evil intention?” His finger brushed her hair and she leaned enough to put herself again beyond his reach unless he changed position.

  “Certainly.” Now, what did he mean by that? Did he think she would offend him on purpose? “You have a point. We must try to understand one another, not just the words we speak, but the intent of our words.”

  “And our gestures?”

  She glanced again at his face. His teasing finger was still and he looked sincere. She took a deep breath. “Communication is difficult enough when people try to understand one another. It is worse when we intentionally try to misunderstand. I’m sure you’ve had that problem on your job. A man who doesn’t want to do what you tell him, for reasons of his own, will not follow directions and claims later he didn’t understand.”

  He nodded. “Ah, yes. He plays dumb.”

  “Exactly. Let’s not do that with each other.”

  “All right.”

  She took another deep breath and wondered why she seemed to be having difficulty breathing, and why the house felt uncomfortably warm.

  “Now, Pedro, if you are to be Americanized, you’ll have to call yourself by a different name. The English equivalent for Pedro is Peter, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Or we can call you another name entirely, if you’d rather.”

  “Do you object then to the name Peter Rivera? Is it too un-American?”

  “Not at all. Peter is a biblical name. It’s a good solid name.”

  “What about Rivera?”

  “It’s nice. Very lyrical. Sounds fine to me.”

  “Fine to you as long as it is not your name?”

  She flashed him an impatient frown. “There’s nothing wrong with your name.”

  He sat straighter, meeting her frown, watching her closely. “What else about me must be changed?”

  “I’d say you are a reasonably attractive man.” His eyebrows arched, his expression became a little smug and she saw his conceit. She’d like to subdue that. “Perhaps, with the right clothes and some changes in your demeanor, we might elevate you to moderately handsome.”

  The self-satisfied look wilted to disbelief before he responded, cocking his head to one side, scrutinizing her. “How do we do that?”

  She’d nicked his pride. Good. She needed to deflate his ego to adjust his attitude. “I know some men take great pride in their hair, Pedro…Peter…but…” She hesitated. She wanted to modify, not disembowel him.

  “But what?”

  “Your hair must be cut.”

  “All right.”

  “You have to lose the entire ponytail.”

  He nodded again, encouraging her.

  “The mustache, too.” The cocky smile faded as he nodded again. She was on a roll. “Also, you need new clothes.”

  He glanced down at his khakis. “I have saved money to buy a proper wardrobe when the time comes.”

  “The time is here, but I want to choose the clothes you will wear, everything. Therefore, I insist on buying them.”

  He started to object, but she held up a hand, her palm toward his face. “You said we would do this my way. The only reason I agreed to this project in the first place was because I needed something new in my life. Something stimulating.” He brightened. She hurried on. “I wanted to commit to something worthwhile. You are my feel-good project, Peter. How can I take credit for its success unless you allow me to be totally in charge?”

  “That is who I am to you, then, your feel-good project?”

  “Yes. Does that offend you?”

  A mix of puzzled annoyance shaded his expression but he didn’t speak, only nodded.

  “It has to be my way, Peter, or no way.” She put her elbows on the desk and tented her hands above the computer’s keyboard to punctuate her statement. You must do exactly as I say.” She laced her fingers together. “We can discuss things, options, strategies, approaches, and I will consider your opinions, but final decisions will be mine. I want that understood right here at the beginning.”

  His nod was tentative as he focused the amazing green eyes on her face, but there was something in his gaze that unnerved her.

  “You do agree to those terms, then?” she asked.

  “I do.”

  She swelled as she drew another deep breath. She’d won the first skirmish, now to implement it.

  “We’ll go to Tennyson’s this morning. I want to talk to a stylist about your hair and a shave. I want you to have a manicure, the works. “While you’re there, I’ll step next door to men’s clothing. I’ll select items off the rack for you to try. We’ll worry about evening clothes and accessories later. Is that agreeable?”

  Again she noticed the veiled twinkle in his eyes as he nodded, acquiescing, his gaze steady. That’s all she required. As long as he kept agreeing, she could disregard any rebellious ideas that might lurk in the dark recesses of his mind.

  She excused herself, picked up the phone, dialed the office and asked for Vice President Darryl Hightower.

  “Speak to me, sweetheart,” Darryl crooned as he came on the line. “Your wish is my command.”

  “I have work to do at home today and a couple of errands. I won’t be in the office. Will you tell Tina? She can call my cell phone if she needs me.”

  “Sure. Anything else?”

  “Yes.” She paused a moment, then plunged. “You have your hair razor cut at Tennysons, right?”

  The timbre of his voice sharpened. “Yes.”

  “What stylist do you use?”

  His laugh sounded artificial. “I suppose I should be flattered, but just why would you be needing a man’s hair stylist?” He was trying to sound playful. Instead, he sounded curt, as if he were trying to put her in her place, beneath him. That was the way he liked sex, too, Darryl always on top. Dominant. Playing at control.

  “A new neighbor…”

  He laughed more easily. “See to it you don’t get too chummy with this new neighbor. You don’t want to get me all jealous and twitchy. No telling what I might do.”

  Savanna rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. What a paper tiger Darryl was, at least he had been until their last time together. She’d told him she was not interested in a long-term, personal relationship. His response had been a confident, “But you will be.”

  She didn’t know if the words were assurance or a threat. He had been acceptable, until he tried to force things. The bruises healed but the memory did not.

  Darryl had seemed a prick, anal retentive, ambitious with a poorly concealed appetite for social position and money. The man made a good salary and came from a socially acceptable family. For him, however, that wasn’t enough. He didn’t mince words. Upwardly mobile, he’d set his sights on Savanna. On occasion, in moments of loneliness or insecurity, she had inadvertently fed his ambition with her own acquiescence.

  He acted confident that no one else she considered acceptable was going to express any romantic interest in her. She had to admit, in the past couple of years, he had been right. If she hadn’t been desperate for an escort on occasion…even then, she should not have encouraged him. But she had. They had appeared together, inciting speculation and gossip. She had compounded the error by inviting him into
her bed, more than once. Their joint performances there were adequate, though not rapturous.

  His answer over the telephone interrupted her wool gathering. “Mr. Gardeny. He stays booked solid. I don’t think even I can get your neighbor in for an appointment in less than two weeks.”

  “I wouldn’t think of asking you to go out on a limb like that. I just wanted his name. Thanks.”

  She looked up the number, then dialed Tennyson’s salon and asked for an appointment with Mr. Gardeny.

  “He can take you the thirtieth.”

  “Today’s the fifth,” Savanna said. “I need something today.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Let me speak with Mr. Gardeny.”

  “He’s not available.”

  Savanna lowered her voice for dramatic emphasis. “What is your name, dear?”

  “Leslie.”

  “Well, Leslie, this is Savanna Cavendish. I have a project in which I think Mr. Gardeny will want to participate. He may be very disappointed if you take it upon yourself, Leslie, to snub me.”

  Leslie probably didn’t know or care who Savanna Cavendish might be, but Savanna thought the threat was worth a shot. Happily, the voice on the other end of the phone softened. “Let me have him call you, Ms. Cavendish.”

  Savanna gave her the cell phone number. “I’ll wait fifteen minutes. Then I’ll try elsewhere.”

  “I’ll certainly tell him that, Ms. Cavendish.”

  Surly in the bargain, huh? A snippy receptionist might discourage some people, but Savanna was accustomed to having her way. She’d go to her armory, haul out a big gun. She called Carol.

  “Oh, Susu, Gardeny’s no problem, but I must be there. I want to witness the transformation with my own eyes. Just the thought of seeing that hunk denuded is delicious. When shall we have the unveiling?”

  “We’re eating breakfast. The drive in will take forty minutes. We can meet you at Tennysons at ten.”

  “Right. Mr. Gardeny will be there, scissors poised, ready to shear our boy into a proper manly man.”

  Savanna took another look, reassessing her visitor, and gave him a wry smile. He returned the smile, obviously puzzled.

  A manly man? She doubted any hair stylist in the world could transform this particular specimen into anything else.

  She hummed into the phone. “Un-huh.”

  Chapter Six

  Savanna insisted they drive her car. Hesitating only a moment, Peter agreed.

  “Where is your truck, by the way?”

  “Behind the garage where it cannot be viewed from the street.”

  “Why?”

  “So fewer people will see it and know I am here. Also, it is unsightly.”

  “People driving by can’t see down the driveway from the street.” She studied him a moment. “I would never have suspected that you were ashamed of your truck.”

  His gaze darkened. “I am proud to be the owner of that vehicle or any other. It is your reputation I would protect.”

  “Then I suppose you think we should only be seen in my car.”

  “My truck may be more reliable.” He arched his brows. She gave him a withering smile, strode to the driver’s side and opened the door only to have him reach around and slam it.

  “Am I to be el niño running along behind the mama?”

  She looked at him. “No, of course not.”

  “Then perhaps you will allow me to drive.”

  Grudgingly, she relinquished the keys and he put her into the passenger seat.

  Her cell phone rang as they hummed along the tollway. Mr. Gardeny was effusive.

  “I am terribly honored, Ms. Cavendish, to have you call upon me. I will gladly contribute any of my humble gifts for the benefit of any cause you deem worthy.” She started to speak, but he wasn’t finished. “I consider having my name spoken in the same breath with yours as my greatest honor.”

  He was laying it on a little thick, but his answer to her initial request seemed to be yes. She took advantage of his pause for breath. “This is more of a personal matter, Mr. Gardeny, than a charitable effort. I hope to keep it confidential.”

  “I understand perfectly. We’ll keep the matter entirely under our hats, so to speak.” He gave a twittering laugh. “A little barber humor. Of course, I don’t need the publicity. However, I must warn you, I do thrive on praise. A man can never have too much of that.”

  She was accustomed to flattering men in business, stroking their so-easily-deflated egos. If praise was part of Gardeny’s fee, she would pay gladly.

  As she ended the call, Savanna allowed herself another glimpse of her companion who appeared aloof as he drove. Gardeny’s words echoed in her mind. In spite of Peter’s apparent self-assurance, he might appreciate a kind word occasionally, too. Mr. Gardeny might inadvertently have given her some much-needed advice. She must remember to encourage Pedro…Peter, compliment him from time to time. “You’re a good driver, Peter.”

  He turned a curious look on her and his eyes narrowed. “Thank you.”

  She shuddered. Maybe now wasn’t the time. So far, Peter Rivera seemed to be in the driver’s seat on this little project, figuratively and literally.

  As they approached Tennysons, she pointed to a sign. “They have valet parking.”

  Peter maneuvered into a parking space then hurried around to escort her out of the car.

  “You don’t have to be so attentive,” she said. “You’re not my chauffeur.”

  His eyelids hooded his gaze. “Or your lover?”

  She flashed him a warning look. “Nor will you ever be.”

  He cocked his head and smiled the insolent smirk she had begun to dislike. “I would be happy to be either one, Ms. Cavendish. Both, if you wish.”

  She felt an unfamiliar tingling like a herd of butterflies stampeding through her stomach. “Truthfully, Mr. Rivera, I have no need of either.”

  His smile broadened and she was again reminded of nettle, irksome but not actually harmful.

  He didn’t touch her as they walked toward the sprawling department store, but she was aware of being somehow hovered over, moving along beneath his protective wing. Occasionally someone cast them a curious glance.

  Savanna spoke and nodded to people she knew, a couple from the club, a concert pianist, a woman who had once given a night class on “Getting The Most From Your Bread Machine.” All of them regarded Peter as if he were an oddity. They quickly dismissed him and she thought they probably assumed he was a handyman there to tote and fetch.

  She preferred the dismissive looks to the accusing ones from strangers who speculated and disapproved the possibility that she and Peter might be a couple.

  Mr. Gardeny rushed to the door of the salon to greet them, fawning, posing, simpering. His reaction to Peter was scarcely concealed excitement. He batted his eyes as he evaluated this newest subject, tilting his head first to one side, then the other.

  “He’s really quite a marvelous subject, Ms. Cavendish. Full, thick, healthy hair. Lots and lots of it. And he’s perfectly conformed, the lion’s regal head balanced on the thick neck, the fabulous shoulders. Of course, you were absolutely right. The facial hair simply must go. All of it.” He flipped a wrist, dismissing the Fu Manchu. “And that tail. We’ll trim him up short.” He waggled his head again from side to side and raised a single brow, “Bring out the man in him. Grrr.”

  Savanna couldn’t help feeling a little put off by the man’s effeminate posturing and his excitement as his eyes darted flirtatiously over his new charge. In her chagrin, she glanced at Peter. His gaze caught and held hers and shone with understanding. The look conveyed determination. He understood Gardeny’s scantily concealed enthusiasm. Still, for the sake of their project, Peter would place himself in the babbling maestro’s hands.

  She felt uncertainty wash through her with an almost audible whoosh. Was this a mistake, taking this rich, raw sample of manhood and attempting to change him into some kind of fawning lap dog?

  Savanna
shivered at the thought of turning Peter the rock into a modern, sophisticated, American male.

  She didn’t want him to allow her to emasculate him. He had asked a favor and she had agreed. She would renege now only if he requested it. Suddenly, she wanted him to exonerate her from this enterprise that was rapidly becoming tedious, maybe even threatening.

  Responding to her unspoken concerns, Peter gave her a slight smile and nodded, almost imperceptibly. He wanted to continue. She tried to return the smile, but her heart wasn’t in it.

  At that moment, with the very private communication bonding them, a whirlwind of commotion blew into their midst.

  Carol called hellos boisterously as she fluttered through the salon. Savanna turned, welcoming her friend, then wondered, downheartedly, if she only wanted Carol there to share the blame for this travesty.

  Carol had long been able to yank Savanna unceremoniously out of her doldrums. It took her only a moment.

  “You go look for clothes.” Carol clasped Savanna’s shoulders firmly and turned her toward the salon’s exit. “I’ll look after our Pedro.” She giggled like a schoolgirl.

  Savanna’s disposition soured. “We’re calling him Peter now, Carol. Not the other.”

  “Gotcha. Wisdom in that. See ya.” Carol winked, bumped her with a hip and gave her shoulder a nudge.

  Savanna looked back at Peter. He grinned at what she assumed was the confusion and concern in her own face. He tipped his head, indicating she should go.

  “I’ll be back in an hour.” No one seemed to hear or care except Peter, who glanced at the wall clock and nodded again.

  She didn’t know if her words were intended to reassure him or herself.

  Carol made a salacious visual survey of Peter, then her eyes followed his to Savanna. “Don’t hurry, darling. We’ll get along just fine without you.”

  As Savanna passed the front counter at the salon’s entrance, she couldn’t help turning for one last look.

  Gardeny was giving the shampoo girl instructions, pointing at bottles of preparations. Carol was speaking to Gardeny at the same time. A manicurist was setting her instruments in place and ogling Peter. He was answering the woman when he glanced up and caught Savanna’s departing look. He smiled that taunting little smile and dipped his head, another reassuring nod, before Gardeny closed the privacy curtain.