to think of him, she slowed her steps. As executor of Prescott’s estate, the man would be a fixture in her life for the next twelve months, and she’d better learn to handle the consequences.
Blake Edmund Hunter looked from one woman to the other as Melinda stood to leave his office and Rachel Perkins remained in her chair gazing at him. Another one of nature’s stupid tricks! Rachel wanted him so badly she was practically salivating, and Melinda Rodgers didn’t know he was alive. His gaze followed Melinda’s svelte physique, straight, almost arrogant carriage and sweetly rounded buttocks as she strolled out of his office. He wanted her and had from the minute he first saw her, but he was Prescott’s friend, so he hadn’t let himself give in to it when Prescott was alive. He was damned if he’d succumb to it now.
If anything turned his stomach, it was a gold-digging woman, an unfaithful wife, or a treacherous friend. She hadn’t given him reason to believe that she would be unfaithful to Prescott, and he was grateful for that, because she’d been temptation without trying and he wouldn’t have considered disloyalty to Prescott.
Yet, as much as he desired her, he had reservations about her. For instance, that virginal innocence she wrapped around herself didn’t fool him. She was less than half Prescott’s age, and nobody could make him believe a young, gorgeous woman like her had married an old, solitary recluse for love. She’d married Prescott Rodgers for his money, and Blake would see that she carried out the terms of that will, or else. That clause Prescott had inserted requiring Melinda to marry within a year or lose her inheritance…He squeezed his eyes shut and told himself the lump in his throat had nothing to do with that.
He answered the phone, grateful that its ringing had derailed his thoughts. Dangerous thoughts.
“Yes, Lacy. Look, I’m sorry, but I have to deal with this will.”
“But you can leave it long enough to have lunch with me.”
He glanced at his watch and banged his left fist on his desk. Softly. Reaffirming his intention to stay away from her. “I’m having lunch at my desk today, and for goodness’ sake, Lacy, please don’t pout. It’s so childish.” He could imagine her lower lip protruding in what she considered a sexy come-on.
“You’re busy every time I call.”
Leaning back in the chair and closing his eyes, he told himself not to show annoyance. “Lacy, I told you I’m not ready for a relationship, and I haven’t said or done anything that would make you think otherwise. I’m sorry.”
In his mind’s eye, he could see her lighting a cigarette and taking a long drag, a habit he hated. “Maybe this weekend?” She had the tenacity of Muhammad Ali smelling victory, but he refused to be roped in.
“I’m longing to see you,” she whispered.
He wished she wouldn’t beg. Three dates didn’t amount to a commitment. “Yeah, right! I’ll…uh. Look, Lacy, I wish you well. I’ll see you around.”
He hung up, but he doubted that ended it. Any other woman would know that he’d just broken ties with her, such as they were, but not Lacy Morgan. He’d never seen a human being with thicker skin.
He walked over to the window and looked down at the flowering trees, but they didn’t engage his thoughts. What would happen to Melinda if she couldn’t do as Prescott’s will required? His long, tapered fingers rubbed his jaw, and he shook his head as if to clear it. The Rodgers account was but one in his portfolio, and several others required his attention. He pushed the intercom button.
“Irene, could you come in and take a letter to Folson?”
“Yes, sir.”
Now here was a woman he admired: always professional, and she expected him to be the same. So he wasn’t prepared for her comment.
“Blake, I don’t see how Melinda is going to set up that foundation. People here don’t think highly of her since she married Mr. Rodgers. And to make things worse, she never once went anyplace with him from the time they married till he died. Some say they weren’t really married, that she just lived with the old man.”
His jaw twitched, and he knew he grimaced, for her blood reddened her light skin and she lowered her eyelids. So much for her unfailing professionalism. He looked over a few notes and dictated the letter.
“Anything else, sir?”
With his elbows propped on the desk, he made a pyramid of his ten fingers and looked her in the eye. “Yes. There is. I was Prescott Rodgers’s witness when he married Melinda Jones in this office in the presence of her parents. That’s all.”
He didn’t care for character assassins any more than he liked gold diggers, and he hated feeling protective toward Melinda, but he did. Feeling a flush of guilt, he tapped his Mont Blanc pen on his desk. If she couldn’t establish that foundation, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to live with himself. He’d insisted that Prescott include that provision in the will and had worded it himself. If she ever found out…
Melinda dressed carefully that morning, choosing a white linen suit—she wasn’t going to mourn in black; Prescott had made her promise she wouldn’t—a blue-and-white striped linen blouse and navy accessories. She wanted to look great, but she didn’t want Blake to think he’d ever entered her mind.
“Come in, Melinda, and have a seat,” Irene said, when she opened the door. “He’ll be with you in a second.”
Looking around the reception room, she marveled at its decorations, carpets, paintings, and live green plants—elegance without ostentation.
“Good morning, Melinda. Nothing pleases me like promptness.”
She stood, accepted his extended hand and wished she hadn’t, as her heart lurched, and fiery ripples spiraled up her arms. His gaze seemed more piercing than ever, or had he noticed what that physical contact with him had done to her?
“Hello, Blake. I’ve thought this over and figured that I can either try to comply with this strange bequest or walk away from the entire thing.” At his quick frown, she added, “Neither one of those provisions is easy to comply with, but I’ve made up my mind to do all I can to get that foundation up and operating. Reading is what brought Prescott and me together, and I know how dear this project would be to him.”
His frown deepened. “What do you mean by that?”
So Prescott hadn’t confided that problem! She lifted her left shoulder in a dismissive shrug. “Long story. Let’s get started on this.” Something flickered in his gaze, but she discounted it as being impossible. Blake Hunter had no feelings for her.
She made notes as he talked, suggesting names of people she should contact, and providing her with tips about their personalities and attitudes. Once, when she glanced up at him and saw the softness in his fawnlike, brown eyes, she had to stifle a gasp and quickly turned her attention to the tablet in her lap.
“Your father wants to be on the board,” he said. “I can’t advise you about that, but I’m sure you’ll want board members who can get along with each other.”
Laughter flowed out of her at the thought of her father cooperating with any group of eleven people anywhere in the world. She looked at Blake. “Do you know anybody in this town who can swear to having had a gratifying conversation with my father?” She’d often thought
