"Face powder." Deliberately, he scanned the papers, took a pen out of his pocket, and made a quick note. "That would come under 'Miscellaneous Luxuries.' I think I've been very generous there. Now, as to your clothing allowance—"
"Allowance!" She used both hands to shove him back a step. "Just let me tell you what you can do with your fucking allowance."
"Careful, duchess." He brushed the front of his shirt. "Turnbill and Asser."
The strangled sound in her throat was the best she could do. If there had been anything, anything at all to throw, she'd have heaved it at his head. "I'd rather be picked apart, alive, by vultures than let you handle my money."
"You don't have any money," he began, but she barreled on as she whirled around the room. Watching her, he all but salivated.
"I'd rather be gang-raped by midgets, staked naked to a wasp nest, be force-fed garden slugs."
"Go three weeks without a manicure?" he put in and watched her hands curl into claws. "You go after my face with those, I'll have to hurt you."
"Oh, I hate you."
"No, you don't." He moved very fast. One instant he was leaning lazily on the wobbly banister and the next he'd flashed out, grabbed her. He took a moment to enjoy the dark fury on her face, the lethal glint in her eyes, before he crushed her snarling mouth under his. It was like kissing a lightning bolt—that heat, the jolt of deadly power, the sizzling sting of fury.
He knew that when he finally got her into bed, it would be a full-blown storm.
She didn't resist. That would have given him too much satisfaction. Instead, she met him force for force and pleased herself. Until they both stepped back, gasping.
"I can enjoy that and still hate you." She tossed her hair back. "And I can make you pay for it."
Maybe she could. There were women in the world who had the innate gift of knowing just how to make a man suffer and burn and beg. All of them could have taken lessons from Margo Sullivan. But he wasn't fool enough to let her know it. He walked back to the stairs, picked up the papers.
"Just so we know where we stand, darling."
"I'll tell you just where we stand, darling. I don't need your insulting offer. I'm running my life my way."
"And that's been such a rousing success so far."
"I know what I'm doing. Take that ridiculous smirk off your face."
"I can't. It sticks there every time you say you know what you're doing." But he tucked all the papers back in his briefcase, closed it. "I'll say this, I don't think it's an entirely moronic idea—this place."
"Well, I'll sleep easy now, knowing I have your approval."
"Approval's a little strong. It's more like hopeful resignation." He gave the banister a last wiggle. "But I believe in you, Margo."
Temper died into confusion. "Damn you, Josh. I can't keep up with you."
"Good." He strolled over, flicked a finger down her cheek. "I think you're going to make something out of this shop that'll surprise everyone. Especially you." He leaned down, and when he kissed her this time it was light and friendly. "Got cab fare?"
"Excuse me?"
Grinning, he pulled keys out of his pocket. "Fortunately, I had a spare set to the Jag. Don't work too late, duchess."
She didn't smile until he was well out of sight. Then she gathered up her bag, her clipboard. She was going to put her newly healed Visa card to use and buy a paint sprayer.
It took Josh less than two weeks at Templeton Monterey to fine-tune his strategy for dealing with Peter Ridgeway. He had already made it clear with a single phone call from Stockholm that it would be best for his brother-in-law, personally and professionally, to take a brief leave of absence from Templeton.
Until, as he'd put it, all reason and bonhomie, they'd gotten this little domestic matter ironed out.
He had always steered clear of his sister's marriage. As a bachelor, he hardly felt that he qualified to hand out marital advice. And as he adored his sister, and had mildly despised her husband, he'd also had to consider the indisputable fact that his advice would have been heavily one-sided.
Since Peter had always performed well as a Templeton executive, there'd been no cause for complaint there. He was, perhaps, a bit rigid in his view of hotel management, more than a bit distant from the staff and the day-to-day problems and triumphs, but he'd had a fine hand with the corporate groups and foreign businesses that poured money into Templeton coffers.
Still, there came a time when professional efficie