Hot Ice(129)
“Not even for you, sugar.” He gripped her left wrist and, taking the ring from her, slipped it on the third finger. The look he gave her was long and steady. “Deal?”
“Deal,” she agreed, and laughing, launched herself into his arms. “Damn you, Douglas, I’ve been miserable for two months.”
“Oh yeah?” He found he liked the idea, almost as much as he liked kissing her again. “I see you like the dress I bought you.”
“You have excellent taste.” Behind his back she turned her hand so she could watch the light bounce from the ring. “Married,” she repeated, trying out the word. “You mentioned settling in. Does that mean you plan to retire?”
“I’ve been giving it some thought. You know…” He nuzzled into her neck so he could draw in the scent that had haunted him in Paris. “I’ve never seen your bedroom.”
“Really? I’ll have to give you the grand tour. You’re a bit young to retire,” she added, drawing away from him. “What do you plan to do with your spare time?”
“Well, when I’m not making love to you, I thought I might run a business.”
“A pawnshop.”
He nipped at her lip. “A restaurant,” he corrected. “Smartass.”
“Of course.” She nodded, liking the idea. “Here in New York?”
“A good place to start.” He let her go to pick up his glass. Maybe the end of the rainbow had been closer than he’d thought all along. “Start with one here, then maybe Chicago, San Francisco. Thing is, I’m going to need a backer.”
She ran her tongue around her teeth. “Naturally. Any ideas?”
He shot her the charming, untrustworthy grin. “I’d like to keep it in the family.”
“Uncle Jack.”
“Come on, Whitney, you know I can do it. Forty thousand, no, make it fifty, and I’ll set up the slickest little restaurant on the West Side.”
“Fifty thousand,” she mused, moving toward her desk.
“It’s a good investment. I’d write up the menu myself, supervise the kitchen. I’d… What’re you doing?”
“That would come to sixty-two thousand, three hundred and fifty-eight dollars and forty-seven cents, all told.” With a brisk nod, she double-underlined the total. “At twelve and a half percent interest.”
He scowled down at the figures. “Interest? Twelve and a half percent?”
“A more than reasonable rate, I know, but I’m a softie.”
“Look, we’re getting married, right?”
“Absolutely.”
“A wife doesn’t charge her husband interest, for Chrissake.”
“This one does,” she murmured as she continued jotting down numbers. “I can figure out the monthly payments in just a minute. Let’s see, over a period of fifteen years, say?”
He looked down at her elegant hands as she scrawled figures. The diamond winked up at him. “Sure, what the hell.”
“Now, about collateral.”
He bit back an oath, then smothered a laugh. “How about our firstborn son?”
“Interesting.” She tapped the pad against her palm. “Yes, I might agree to that—but we don’t have any children as yet.”
He walked over and snatched the notebook from her hand. After tossing it over his shoulder, he grabbed her. “Then let’s take care of it, sugar. I need the loan.”
Whitney noticed with satisfaction that the pad had fallen faceup. “Anything for free enterprise.”