his way, driving carefully down the slick, wet streets. His mother had never mentioned the lack of a grandchild before today. He wished she’d kept quiet about it. Pressure in that department he didn’t need.
Feeling unsettled and out of sorts, he decided to drop into the squash club, where he’d purchased a guest pass the day after he’d arrived. It was round robin night; he’d be bound to find a partner.
Before he changed, he checked the schedule by the desk. Tom MacLeod and Bruce Waring were here tonight; he’d played with both of them before. Then another name leaped out at him from the pencilled list. Cory Haines. She’d signed up for a court at seven tomorrow morning with someone called Joe Purchell.
He stood still, his memory calling up her face, so changeable and so vividly alive. Somehow he wasn’t surprised that she played squash, a game that demanded lightning-swift reactions, total concentration and a high level of fitness. Besides, she lived not far from here; he’d discovered that when he’d checked out her company before he’d left the office. Not to his surprise, her business was healthily in the black.
Frowning, he headed for the locker rooms.
At seven-thirty the next morning, on his way to the office, Slade pulled into the parking lot at the squash club. He’d slept badly again. His dreams had been blatantly sexual and when he’d woken at about six he’d remembered all too clearly the woman who had cavorted with him on peach-colored satin sheets with such enthusiasm and expertise. Cory Haines. Naked, beautiful and incredibly inventive.
He could control most aspects of his life. But he couldn’t control his dreams.
He slammed the car door and took the steps two at a time. Then he strode along the upper gallery that offered a view into the courts below. When he came to the end court he stood back, so that he could see without being seen.
They were rallying, both players covering the hardwood floor with speed and precision, the ball thwacking against the walls like miniature gunshots. Then Cory maneuvered her partner into the back of the court, raced for the front and placed a gentle drop shot into the corner. The man gave a yell of frustration that echoed off the white-painted walls and Cory laughed, a full-bellied chuckle of delight. “My serve,” she said, flipping the ball into the air with her racquet.
She was wearing regulation white shorts and T-shirt, her hair in a thick braid down her back. As she stood poised to serve, Slade could see her breasts heaving and the sweat trickling down her neck; her legs were long, their grace in no way lessened by the taut calf muscles. Involuntarily his body hardened in response.
Scowling, he flicked his gaze to her partner. Joe Purchell was taller than Cory, boasted a crop of black curly hair and was extremely good-looking. He was also several years younger than Slade and, by the look of him, in better shape. Slade disliked him on sight.
The rally began. The two players were equally matched, Cory making up in intelligence what she lacked in reach. When the score had been stuck at seven-all for nearly five minutes, Slade left as unobtrusively as he’d arrived.
She played to win. But she also played for the sheer joy of the game. And she was every bit as seductive in the squash court as she’d been in bed in his dreams.
He gunned the car out of the lot and drove to the office, his mouth set in a grim line. The smartest thing he could do was say no to her proposal. A flat no. That way he wouldn’t have to see her again. Because the last thing he needed was to be lusting after a woman who almost undoubtedly was involved with someone else. Especially a woman as intense, intelligent and heart-wrenchingly beautiful as Cory Haines.
A woman like that wasn’t on the cards for him.
CHAPTER TWO
ONCE in his office, Slade plugged in the coffee machine and spread out the plans for the harborfront, forcing himself to concentrate. Years of discipline came to his rescue; when Mrs. Minglewood tapped on his door to tell him it was ten twenty-five, he’d figured out what was wrong with the boardwalk and had come up with an inventive and ingenious way round the parking problem. Feeling well pleased with himself, he ran downstairs to meet Cory.
The snow had melted and a pale, unconvincing sun was bathing the street in an equally pale warmth. He’d tell her that on reflection he’d decided against her proposal; this would save both of them the time and trouble of inspecting the two sites. Then he’d forget about her. In a couple of weeks he’d be back in Toronto, where he belonged.
Ten-thirty came and went. Ten thirty-five, then ten-forty. Anxiety began to gnaw at his gut; somehow he was sure she wasn’t a woman to be late. Then at ten forty-three a small green truck with “Haines Landscaping” emblazoned in gold on its side panels sneaked in between two cars and drew up at the curb with a jolt. Cory leaned over and unlatched the door. As Slade pulled it open she said incoherently, “I’m so sorry I’m late; I’m never late; my mother had a thing about punctuality and it’s ingrained in me. I can’t stand keeping someone waiting... I do apologize, Mr. Redden.”
He’d intended to stand firm on the sidewalk and deliver his speech and then go back to the office. Instead Slade found himself climbing into the truck beside her, his eyes glued to her face. She looked pale and distraught, a very different creature from the woman he’d watched at the squash club only three hours earlier.
Watched? Spied on would be more accurate. “What’s wrong?” he rapped.
“Nothing! I told you, I just hate being late.”
“What’s wrong, Cory?” he repeated.
It was the first time Slade Redden had used her first name. And it was quite clear he’d sit there until she answered him. Cory said rapidly, “The reason I’m late is because my best friend had a baby this morning—her second. I got the message when I got to work, so I had to rush to the hospital, and then I was late for my other appointment.” She gave a weak giggle. “A retired RCMP inspector whose ideas on punctuality would rival my mother’s.”
“And your friend? Was everything OK?”
“Yes! Yes, of course.”
“You don’t look particularly happy about it.”
Her head jerked round. He saw far too much, this man with the cool gray eyes. Trying to subdue the storm of emotions that had been rampaging through her body ever since she’d seen Sue at the hospital, Cory snapped, “Of course I’m happy for her.”
“Yeah? Could have fooled me.”
In a loud voice she said, “I’m very happy ... she has a lovely eight-pound boy. I’m extremely happy.” She scowled into her rearview mirror and pulled out into the traffic with scant regard for the clutch. “We’ll go to Cornell Street first.”
Slade had no idea what was going on, other than that she looked like a volcano about to erupt. He said mildly, “You know, that’s the first time in our acquaintance that you’ve been less than truthful with me.”
“Mr. Redden, I’m—”
“Slade, please.”
Cory was unable to think of any diplomatic way to get him off her case. She couldn’t possibly explain all her tangled and contradictory feelings to him because she didn’t understand them herself. She said in a clipped voice, “My
