No Ring Required. Laura Wright

and was, God forbid, snoring. Every once in awhile NRR got a client who was so dull one or all of the partners would actually find themselves nodding off while discussing contracts.

      Today it was Mary’s turn to down a third cup of coffee and pry her eyes open with toothpicks. She shifted in her chair and focused on Ivan Garrison, a new client who had hired her to design a menu for a party he was throwing aboard his yacht, Clara Belle. For the past thirty minutes the forty-year-old wannabe boat captain had been sorrowfully telling Mary that he’d named the boat in honor of his dead wife, who he’d married for her “outstanding boating skill and formidable rack.”

      It had taken Mary a good thirty seconds to realize that Ivan was referring to his wife’s chest and another ten seconds to contemplate passing him on to Olivia, since the job mainly consisted of culinary planning. But he was one of those trust-fund jerks who made Olivia’s skin crawl, and the risk of having her abide by NRR’s seventh vow, Do No Harm might be asking too much.

      Who knew? If he took Olivia for a ride in his yellow Lamborghini and insisted she call him Captain like he did everyone else, Olivia just might bop him on the head the night before the party and serve him to his guests with an apple in his mouth the next day.

      “The date for the regatta gala as you know is the twenty-fifth,” he said, touching the brim of the snow-white captain’s hat he had worn to both meetings. “I’ll have my secretary send over the guest list. Please make sure to refer to me as Captain on the invitation. That’s how my friends and business associates know me.”

      Aye aye, sir! Mary nodded. “Of course.”

      “I’d like to really pack this party. We always get enough entrants for the race, but the galas aren’t as well attended.”

      “We could make it as a charity event,” Mary suggested.

      “I’ll think about that.” He leaned back in his chair and sighed. “Now, have I told you how I came to be called Captain?”

      “No.” If Ivan was going to come around every week, she’d have to invest in some NoDoz.

      “As you know, it’s not my given name,” he said. “When I was six—wait, no, closer to eight, my nanny, her name was Alisia and she was the one who bathed me—”

      “Excuse me. I’m sorry to interrupt.”

      Mary glanced up and smiled thankfully at her partner. “No problem, Olivia. We were just finishing up here.”

      Olivia acknowledged Ivan with a quick nod. “Hello, Captain.” Then she turned back to Mary. “Your next client is here.”

      “I don’t have—” Mary stopped herself. What the heck was she doing? Her savior, Olivia had clearly noticed her drooping eyelids and coffee-stained teeth, maybe even heard the beginning of the creepy nannyand-the-eight-year-old’s-bath story and was giving her a way out.

      “We can discuss the rest on the phone, Captain,” Mary said, standing and shaking his hand. “Or if you’d prefer, we could e-mail.”

      The captain sighed wistfully. “My Clara Belle loved the e-mail. Did I tell you she had twelve computers, one for every bathroom? She wanted to stay connected. I haven’t had the heart to remove them.”

      After one more minute of commiserating about the impracticality of expensive technology in damp places, Mary told Ivan where to find the little captain’s room and walked toward the lobby with Olivia.

      Mary released a weary sigh. “Thank you so much.”

      “For what?” Olivia asked.

      “The ‘your next client is here’ save. I’m thankful for the business, but sadly Ivan is only eccentric and strange in an uninteresting way. There’s nothing worse.”

      Olivia looked confused. “Mary, I’m always happy to help with tedious clients, but in this case, you really do have someone waiting.” She nodded toward the man sitting in one of the lobby’s artfully distressed brown leather chairs.

      Mary’s breath caught at the sight of him, and she wanted to kick herself for the girlish reaction, but she walked toward him instead. Ethan Curtis wasn’t the kind of handsome you’d see on the pages of a Businessman Weekly. No three-piece suits or slicked-back hair, no calm, refined demeanor. He looked edgy and ready to pounce, his severe blue eyes alert and ready for a battle. Dressed in tailored pants and an expensive, perfectly cut black shirt, his large frame ate up the leather chair as around them the air crackled with a potent mixture of desire and conflict.

      “We didn’t have an appointment today, Mr. Curtis,” Mary said in a gently caustic tone.

      Amusement flashed in his eyes. “Yes, I know. But this is urgent.”

      Obviously she wasn’t getting rid of him anytime soon. “Let’s go into my office.”

      “No. I need to take you somewhere.”

      “Impossible,” she told him sharply.

      “Nothing’s impossible.”

      “I can’t.” Didn’t he see that Olivia was still lurking around? If she overheard them, she’d get the wrong idea…well, the right idea, and Mary didn’t want that. “I have insane amounts of work—”

      “This is work.”

      Mary pressed her lips together in frustration. She felt caught in a trap. If she refused, made even the smallest of scenes, Olivia would be out here, wondering what was up. That could bring Tess, too. She eyed Ethan skeptically, lowered her voice. “You say this is work?”

      “Of course.” He spoke the right words, but he stared at her mouth while he said them.

      “Better be.” She tossed him a severe gaze before heading into her office for her purse.

      Mary stepped into the world of trendy layettes and custom chintz toddler chairs and felt her heart sink into her shoes. It was the last place in the world she wanted to be. The fact that not only was she lying about being pregnant but that it would be a long, long time before she came into this type of store for any real purpose weighed on her like an anchor. She eyed the blue and pink bookcases and dressers with cute custom airplane and unicorn knobs.

      “This is a baby shop, Mr. Curtis,” she said quietly, sidestepping a beautiful whitewashed Morigeau-Lepine changing table.

      Ethan dropped into a pale-green gliding chair. “Can we drop the ‘mister’?”

      “I don’t think so.”

      He raised one brow in a mocking slant and whispered, “Hey, I’ve seen that tiny raspberry birthmark right below your navel.”

      A wash of heat slipped over her skin and she could only mutter, “Right…”

      “Come sit down.” He motioned for her to take the yellow duckie glider beside him. “You never seem to get off your feet.”

      “I’m fine. I’ll stand.”

      “Ethan.”

      “Fine. Ethan,” she ground out. “Now, are you going to tell me why we’re in a baby shop?”

      He picked up a lovely piece of original artwork from a nearby table and studied the drawing of two frogs sailing a boat. “I’m thinking we could add one more item to your workload.”

      “Like?”

      “A nursery in my house.”

      Mary’s pulse escalated to a frenetic pace. “You want me to design a nursery for the…our…”

      “Baby, yes. I may have unlimited resources, but you weren’t far off when you suggested I grew up under a rock. It was a trailer park actually. Dark, dirty and decorated with the curbside castoffs of the rich people on the other side of town. So, I have zero taste. And as you can see, I’m a guy.”

      She stared at him, not sure how to feel