Fire and Ice. Diana Palmer

if it isn’t Mount Rushmore,” Margie murmured with a wicked smile. She half turned, leaning one arm over the back of her chair to look him up and down. “Sit down, honey, and have a drink with me.”

      He didn’t smile. He looked as if he never had. His eyes wandered over her with growing disapproval. “No thanks. I have a prior engagement with a young lady.” He stressed the last word, as if to imply that it could not be applied to Margie.

      She liked his voice immediately. It was deep and faintly rough, very masculine and cultured. “Blind date?” She laughed.

      He shook his head. “Social obligation,” he said as though it were a distasteful one.

      “Well, I’m a native,” she drawled. “I might know her.”

      He looked as if he seriously doubted that. “Her name is Janet Banon.”

      Margie blinked. “Jan’s my sister,” she said without thinking, sitting up straight. Her eyes sized him up again, registering the returning hostility in his face. “What do you want with my sister?”

      Instead of answering, he pulled out a chair and sat down as if he owned the table. He signaled a nearby waiter. “Bring me a scotch on the rocks,” he told the white-jacketed waiter. “And a…Tom Collins for the lady,” he added, glancing at the tall glass in her hand.

      “Yes, sir,” the waiter said politely, departing.

      “And I take back the last word of that sentence,” the man told Margie evenly. “A lady doesn’t make blatant advances to strange men in restaurants.”

      Margie’s green eyes sparkled. “You wrong me, sir,” she said in her best Georgia drawl. “When I make advances to a man, I always take my clothes off first.”

      He cocked an eyebrow, appraising the expanse of skin visible in the long slit of her neckline. “I can’t imagine that that would give you any advantage,” he said flatly.

      Always conscious of her small measurements, she glared at him. “Are you always so forthright?” she asked.

      “Play with fire and you get burned,” he replied curtly. His dark eyes pinned hers. “I don’t like permissive women who dress like tarts. Nor do I care for women who get drunk before a meal and solicit men.”

      “How dare you…!” she began tritely, lost for words.

      “Shut up,” he said with the kind of authority that commanded instant obedience, even from renegade romance authors.

      He paused until the waiter, depositing their drinks along with a check, had departed before he lifted his dark head to glare at her. “I understand that my brother wants to marry your sister. Over my dead body.”

      She gave him a quick glance. “Andrew’s older brother?” she asked politely. “The one who makes women’s underthings?” she added with a wicked smile.

      If she had hoped to embarrass him, she didn’t succeed. He leaned back in his chair, sipping his scotch, watching her with unblinking dark eyes. “We make a superior line of undergarments,” he replied. His gaze fell once again on the bodice of her dress. “Along with a lightly padded bra that would do wonders for you.”

      The ginger ale sloshed out of the glass all over her napkin and part of the tablecloth, while her face flushed for the first time in five years.

      “You’ll have to excuse God for my shortcomings; he threw me together between wars,” she growled.

      He flexed his broad shoulders, and she noticed for the first time the elegant cut of his evening clothes, and how well black and white suited him. He was a fashion plate—not quite handsome, not really young—but hardly over the hill, either. Margie judged him to be about forty, or slightly under. Those hard lines in his face were the marks of high pressure, not age. He had the look of a human bulldozer.

      “Why isn’t your sister here?” he asked coldly.

      Margie also leaned back, staring at him. “Jan didn’t give me any explanations. She asked me to meet her here at seven and hung up. You know as much about it as I do. Probably more,” she added wickedly. “I understand you tell your brother what clothes to put on every morning when he gets up. Do you also tell him which girls to date?”

      His head tilted slightly to one side and his eyes narrowed. “Shall I be blunt?” he asked quietly. “Your sister would fit into my family the way a dormouse would fit into a cat convention. My world—and Andrew’s—is best described as a social round of civilized warfare. Your sister, from what I’ve seen, couldn’t fight her way out of a domestic dispute.”

      “Oh, I don’t know,” Margie replied thoughtfully. “She used to play tackle football when we were kids, and she still tells me what to do.”

      “You look as if you could use some guidance,” he replied with maddening carelessness, staring pointedly at the dress.

      “It’s a designer dress,” she returned.

      “It would probably look better on the designer.”

      “He’s a man.”

      “Exactly.”

      She took a deep breath and her eyes glittered. “Well, Mr. Undergarment Tycoon, you’ll just have to excuse me. It’s pretty obvious Jan got me here to meet you, and now that I’ve had that dubious honor, I’m going home.”

      She started to stand up, but a steely hand caught her wrist and jerked her back down. She was startled as much by the unexpected action as by the tingle of pleasure that ran up her arm at his touch.

      “Not yet,” he said in a deep, low tone. “My brother isn’t marrying your sister. I’ll see to it.”

      “I couldn’t be more pleased,” she replied hotly. “Because I don’t want bad blood in my family, either!”

      “Watch it, honey. I bite,” he cautioned.

      “On the neck?” she asked with a venomous smile.

      “Andy and I are going down to Florida to visit our mother for a few weeks,” he mused. “That should cool his ardor. And I don’t think there’s much danger of your sister following him.”

      “Why?” Margie demanded. “Because she’s a secretary with a low bank balance?”

      “Something like that.”

      “For your information,” she said softly, “I can afford to charter her a plane to Florida if that’s what she wants. And I will. Not that I want Andy for a brother-in-law, you understand,” she added. “But because I don’t like stuffed shirts with big bank accounts telling my family what to do.”

      His eyes were calculating. “Drawing battle lines?” he asked softly. “I’ve never lost a skirmish, Miss Banon.”

      “My name isn’t Banon,” she said stiffly. “It’s Silver.”

      He cocked an eyebrow, glancing at her ringless left hand. “My condolences to your husband, although I’d bet good money that you’re no longer living with him.” He laughed shortly when she blushed. “On the button, I presume?” He sat forward, leaning his forearms on the table, and his eyes were threatening. “I don’t intend for Andy to marry your sister, regardless of whether or not there’s money in your family. It wouldn’t work. I don’t want another broken marriage to add to my mother’s heartaches.”

      Her own eyes went to his ringless left hand and she smiled demurely. “No longer living with your wife?” she asked.

      His face went harder, if that was possible. “I rue the day I agreed to let Andrew manage the Atlanta branch of the company,” he said coldly, getting gracefully to his feet. “But fortunately, it’s a problem I can solve. Keep out of it, Mrs. Silver. I won’t tolerate your interference.”

      “What will you do, Mr. Van Dyne, honey, have me flogged?”