Do You Love Me? Page 6

  Savanna waved off the clerks in the men’s clothing department after she described Peter, six-foot-one or two, probably two hundred pounds, to get their advice on sizes.

  They suggested a thirty-four-inch waist in slacks and at least a thirty-four inseam. Shirts extra-large or seventeen-and-a-half with a thirty-five-inch sleeve length.

  Following a salesman through sportswear, she saw an advertisement for Baggies jeans and stopped. The picture on the display captivated her.

  Shirtless, the male model looked seductive, the muscles in his raised arms flexed, his hands clasped behind his head. The well-defined latticing in his chest and stomach were compelling and the jeans clung provocatively to his hips.

  Imagining Peter in those jeans in such a pose, her mouth watered before she could chastise herself. It was difficult to keep thinking of him as a philanthropic project when he looked so…she set her jaw. She had to try harder.

  Except for gifts for her dad or an occasional male friend, Savanna didn’t browse in men’s clothing departments. Breathing in the male aromas, she riffled through leather goods. She liked being there, choosing apparel for a man, particularly this man.

  It took her a while to settle on a half-dozen pairs of slacks and two blazers, one navy, one black, and a leather bomber jacket. She also chose a dark pinstriped, three-piece suit, and a deep green suit flecked with black to emphasize his eyes.

  She laid the items on the counter beneath the slavering gazes of two clerks who obviously had caught the scent of healthy commissions in the making.

  From that beginning, Savanna picked out shirts and ties. She diligently avoided sportswear, reluctant to torment herself with the Baggies’ advertisement.

  An hour slipped by before she realized it. She asked one of the clerks to put the clothes she had chosen in a dressing room while she went to collect their customer.

  Her mouth got tinny and butterflies fluttered in her stomach as she hurried, anticipating her first view of the new, improved Peter Rivera.

  Cutting through sportswear toward the exit, she again let her eyes drift to the Baggies ad. She paused, glanced at the clock on the wall, and fidgeted. She’d been gone an hour and ten minutes. She shrugged. What would another five minutes matter?

  She thumbed through the stack of jeans until she triumphantly extricated a pair marked “34/34” and hurried back to the clerk. He met her in the aisle, grinning as she tossed the jeans his way.

  “Put these with the other things, please.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” His grin broadened as he shook them out and turned toward the dressing area.

  The manicurist, Carol, and Gardeny hovered behind the chair, blocking her view of the subject as she stepped into the area behind them. Her eyes met Gardeny’s in the mirror. His admiration for his own work was obvious as he raised his comb in triumph.

  “See what I have created, Ms. Cavendish.” With a flourish, he stepped aside.

  The Fu Manchu was gone. Peter’s upper lip looked pale and naked. Freshly shaved, his face was ruggedly handsome, his cheekbones pronounced, not at all the schoolboy she had imagined. The absence of other facial hair dramatized his eyes, the black brows and lashes.

  He didn’t smile as his shimmering eyes sought hers, scrutinizing her face, searching for her reaction, she supposed.

  Without the mustache, his mouth looked broad, generous and nearly perfect, except for a scar about an inch long that paralleled his lower lip.

  The ponytail, also gone, left thick, close-cut, blue-black hair lustrous over his well-formed head. Gardeny had cut the hair short on top but left it more abundant at the back, trimmed straight along the neckline. The stylist had been right. Proportionately, Peter’s neck and head were perfectly scaled to his broad shoulders.

  Never one to wait for a person to consider things in a circumspect manner, Carol said, “Well?”

  Savanna looked into Peter’s face. His expression, so expectant, assumed a slight frown of concern as his gaze held hers, awaiting her verdict. The hope she saw in his stare tugged at her. She began nodding her approval before she could verbalize it.

  She bit her lips, trying to quell the unmanageable smile. Magnificent before, Peter was now more, more beautiful, more acceptable. She found his new look disarming, almost to the point of being disabling.

  His smile mirrored hers, a little reluctant at first, then opening like a morning glory to the sunshine. She was again reminded of dawn bristling into a dewy morning, warming, cleansing, exhilarating.

  He swiveled in the chair, caught a portion of the cape in his hand and swiped it off the front of him with a rip of velcro. In three strides, he stood at arm’s length without touching her, towering over her, peering down into her face.

  “Mr. Gardeny is most proud of his creation.” He smiled secretively. “We know this is not his doing, don’t we?”

  Mutely, she nodded.

  He continued gazing into her eyes, compelling her to close the scant distance between them. She inched forward, scarcely aware of her own movement until Carol slid between them, again breaking the invisible thread with which Peter pulled Savanna to him.

  “Come on, Susu, say something,” Carol prodded. “Mr. Gardeny needs to hear what you think.”

  Startled out of the peculiar enchantment of Peter’s emerald eyes, Savanna looked from Carol to the manicurist to Gardeny.

  “You have done a masterful job.”

  The stylist ducked his head, pretending to be humbled by her praise, but Savanna saw the ruse for what it was and laughed lightly. How strange to look from the raw honesty in Peter’s face to the dishonesty in Gardeny’s. Glad to be aware of the difference, she prayed at that moment that she’d always be able to distinguish between the two.

  Bowing and scraping, Gardeny managed to slip Savanna the bill for his work. Peter craned his neck to see but she crumpled it in her hand and scurried to pay at the front desk while the admiring attendants dusted Peter and continued heaping accolades.

  Chapter Seven

  Savanna kept well back but the clerks in men’s clothing were forced to shoo Carol from the dressing rooms repeatedly, assuring her they would encourage Peter to model each item for the ladies as he tried them on.

  He emerged first wearing a pair of hounds tooth slacks and one of the dress shirts, but was in his stocking feet. He carried the black blazer over one arm.

  The slacks rode a little higher over his hips, a little lower in front. Carol fluttered and whispered, “Look at those buns. He is exquisite. That is absolutely the sexiest butt I have ever seen.”

  Savanna closed her eyes and turned away rather than ogle his remarkable anatomy.

  Carol, on the other hand, stared openly, flitting, patting, stroking, touching, a shoulder here, a waistband there. Her familiarity gave Savanna uncomfortable twinges. She assured herself Carol’s behavior was none of her business and Peter certainly could defend himself if he found the attention annoying. He only smiled and those smiles seemed to encourage Carol’s interest and heighten Savanna’s angst. As she became more irritated, Savanna had to bite her tongue to keep from sniping at them both. She should have expected them to develop a rapport. He’d admitted he was a hands-on kind of man and hands-on was Carol’s stock and trade.

  “Susu, where’s his belt?” Carol blurted the question in an accusing tone. “He has to have a belt. And shoes. Honey. Whatever were you thinking?”

  Savanna winced. “I guess I thought we would add accessories later.” Recalling Carol’s comment about the correlation between foot size and…and the other, she sidled close to the clerk. “Ask him what size shoes he takes.”

  Obviously confused since they were all there together, the clerk conveyed her question, as if Savanna didn’t wish to speak to Peter directly.

  “Twelve-D. American.”

  Savanna waved acknowledgment as she scurried to the nearby shoe department. She returned almost immediately with high-gloss, alligator tassel loafers and a matching belt, to a choir of approv
al from both clerks and Carol.

  Both women remained uncharacteristically silent as Peter stood on a riser in front of the three-way mirror again and again while a tailor marked cuffs and minor alterations. Peter balked, however, when Carol urged him to pick out some things for himself.

  “This is enough.”

  Carol scanned the area. “You didn’t get anything casual, leisure clothes. How about a bathing suit? Savanna has that great pool and I’d love to see you model swim wear. And underwear, too.”

  “I have underwear.”

  Carol lowered her voice. “Not new, silky, sexy underwear.”

  Savanna felt her face warming and she turned away.

  Peter and one of the clerks withdrew, mumbled together, and the clerk went alone to select the necessary items.

  Browsing, waiting, Savanna suddenly remembered the Baggies. Had they not fit? She turned her scowl on the remaining clerk. “What about the jeans?”

  The clerk gave her an apologetic shrug. “He didn’t want to try them.”

  She set accusing eyes on Peter. “Why not? I love those.”

  “I can wear my work clothes when I am at my leisure or working on your cars or in your yard.”

  She tried to hide her disappointment. She wanted to allow him some autonomy, his own opinions on some things, even if they were only minor concessions, but she felt terribly disappointed about the Baggies.

  He studied her a long moment, then retreated into the dressing room. He returned quickly, wearing the jeans. He had thrown one of the dress shirts on, the shirttail out, the unbuttoned garment gaping, allowing an expansive view of the dark hair that dusted his sculpted stomach and chest.

  Carol’s gasp spoke Savanna’s own reaction as eloquently as any words. Neither woman could tear her eyes from the hair that trailed from the squared plates of pectoral muscles down his flat abdominals to his belly button, and disappeared into the waistline of the jeans.

  Savanna bit her lips and blinked. She had never seen a sexier looking man in her life. Peter’s anatomy must be God’s compensation for his having been born poor. She thought maybe it was fair reparation.

  Still, she reminded herself for the hundredth time, a nice body was only one component of any person. She had long prided herself on looking beyond people’s physical attributes, of valuing an individual for intelligence, personality, spirit to overcome adversity. This man had shown many of those virtues, but none of his attributes shouted as loudly as his physical appearance. She could feel his eyes tracking her, obviously confused by her prolonged silence.

  “Okay, Susu, what’s wrong?” Again, it was Carol serving as interpreter. “He has to have the jeans. I’ll buy them if you don’t want to. He looks better in them than the guy on the teaser advertising the damn things. Can’t you see that?”

  Laughter bloomed inside her as the blush blossomed outside. Savanna couldn’t control either one, although she pretended an itch and eased a hand over her mouth, a self-conscious, girlish giggle erupted into the room, inspiring puzzled smiles all around before she realized it was coming from her.

  Both clerks laughed lightly, uncertainly.

  Carol brayed a loud guffaw.

  Peter narrowed his eyes, staring straight into Savanna’s astonished gaze, then, grinning mischievously, he raised his arms. His shirt gaped wide as he locked his hands behind his head and leaned a little to one side, emulating the male model in the ad.

  Savanna couldn’t stop giggling, couldn’t take her eyes off of him, gawking, enjoying the taunt directed at her. His roguish laugh rumbled into the room, mingling with hers and the others’ as he studied her, reading her face that, she could tell by the heat, was crimson.

  Dropping the pose, he eased so close that the new, intoxicating scent of him enveloped her. His shirt continued gaping making it difficult for her to look anywhere but at his glorious chest.

  He spoke quietly. “Have I conquered you so easily then?”

  She sobered, suddenly annoyed. “You have not.”

  He arched his brows. “I think perhaps I have.” His words sounded like a challenge.

  “You’re mistaken.”

  He lowered his eyebrows and nodded, his green eyes glimmering with irritating self-assurance. “We shall see, Savanna Cavendish. We shall see.”

  Chapter Eight

  “I want to stay at your house this week.” Carol spoke bluntly as she and Savanna walked through Tennyson’s parking lot to the car.

  Peter, stunning after they talked him into a pair of moss green gabardine slacks, knit shirt and dark deck shoes, was several yards behind, juggling bags and packages of shoes, shirts and accessories, and studiously ignoring female shoppers coming from a nearby jewelers ogling him.

  Savanna fumbled in her purse for her car keys. “No, Carol. It will be complicated enough without you. Maybe after we’ve gotten into a routine, after he and I have our game rules laid out.”

  Carol brightened. “Games? Susu, you know I’m just about the best game player around.”

  “That was only a figure of speech and you know it.”

  “I’m beginning to suspect you want to keep the hanky panky to yourself?”

  Savanna gave her a disapproving glare. “There’s not going to be any hanky panky. Peter and I are developing a mutual respect for one another. I want to nurture it.” She couldn’t bring herself to look at the subject of their conversation until she realized he had the keys.

  His eyes met hers. Her breath caught as she regarded his transformation. He shifted his armloads of packages, dug a hand in the pocket of his new slacks, and produced the keys.

  Carol barked a laugh that carried across the parking lot, then lowered her voice. “Honey, if you think there’s no hanky panky in the offing between the two of you, you haven’t been paying attention. He looks at you the way I look at a marshmallow sundae. If I stay close, I might siphon off a little of that heat.”

  “The power of suggestion, Carol, you plant your ideas in the ether to enlist the aid of the spirit world. It’s not going to work this time. Peter and I are going to develop regard and trust and genuine friendship. No intrigue, no manipulation, no sex. This is going to be a pure-as-the-driven-snow relationship. That’s the way I want it and that’s the way it’s going to be.”

  “I think he’s got another agenda entirely. Take my advice. If you really want to keep things with him uncomplicated, mix in plenty of other people, particularly females, and stay out of the water.”

  Savanna blinked her confusion as she hesitated at the car door. “I understand about crowds but what does the water crack mean?”

  “Don’t get in the pool with him…or the hot tub,” Carol paused and arched her eyebrows, “or the shower.”

  Savanna kept Peter at arm’s length physically and mentally as they finished his resume that afternoon. It worked fine as long as their eyes didn’t meet.

  “Do you read English as well as you speak it?”

  “Yes.”

  She rose, stretched and went to the book shelf where she selected a novel. She looked longingly at the sofa, but chose instead a wing back chair near the hearth.

  “Read to me.” She handed him the book.

  “Only if we sit together on the sofa.”

  She sighed, got up and motioned him to one end as she settled at the other.

  “Put your feet here.” He patted his leg. She declined. He insisted. “You’re tired. Elevating your feet and legs will help.” He refused to read until she did as he asked.

  She slipped off her shoes, pivoted to sit with her back against the arm of the couch, and carefully placed her stockinged feet on the indicated thigh.

  He opened the book and began reading. “There were crimson roses on the bench…”

  Gradually, seemingly unaware of what he was doing, he began massaging one of her feet. She would have objected, except his thumb seemed to work magic in the aching spot below her toes. It was all she could do not to moan out loud.

  He read wel
l but she soon realized his diction was the problem. It was good. Too good. He wasn’t casual enough with the language. His precise pronunciation called attention to his accent. She didn’t want to break into the moment, particularly after his warm hand slid over her instep

  Finally, she cleared her throat, interrupting the reading and the massage. “We’ll put a television in your quarters. Listen to the contractions, the way Americans swallow and slur our words.” She couldn’t complete the thought as he pressed his thumb into her arch. She groaned, wriggled the foot and tried to recapture her concept.

  “Don’t watch programs where the accents are too pronounced…cop shows set in New York…ooh, that feels so good.

  “Watch old cowboy movies.” She closed her eyes for one moment but when she opened them again, he was staring at her. “What is it?”

  Her gaze followed his to her feet. Her toes were curled around his fingers and the gesture seemed somehow sexually provocative. She sat bolt upright. He grinned.

  “Do you play chess?” he asked.

  “A little. Why? Do you?”

  “Could we play?”

  “Yes, but not right now.” She pivoted, swinging her feet to the floor. “We’ll play several board games. Also we’ll try some sports. We’re going to expose you to all kinds of activities.” Did that sound suggestive? Lord, she hoped not. He either didn’t notice or let it pass.

  “And bridge?” he asked. “Many people like to play that.”

  “I love bridge. Yes. We’ll sign you up for lessons.”

  “I have inquired before. One must bring a partner to take the lessons. Will you be my partner?”

  “If not me, Carol. We’ll find someone.”

  His expression darkened. “I am your feel-good project. You said…”

  “I know. Okay. Yes. I’ll be your partner.”

  “I want to dance also. I dance, of course, but probably not as you and your friends do.”