The two top floors of Charlotte’s brand-new Madison Hotel had been transformed for the lingerie trade show. The entire place was covered with froth. Companies from California to Paris had mounted exhibits of panties, nightgowns, bras, teddies, robes and lounging outfits. A rainbow of pastels predominated, though there were splashes of scarlet and black as well.
The suppliers outnumbered the designers. Sales reps for manufacturers of cotton, satin, silk and lace roamed the floors. Industrial sewing machines of many kinds were on exhibit. Thread companies, such as Metrosene from Switzerland, were demonstrating the superior quality and strength of their product. Advertising people were everywhere. The flow of dialogue was 90 percent American slang, with an occasional smattering of French and a few Irish brogues. Though the French didn’t like to believe it, Belgian and Irish lace was nothing to sneeze at.
The huge turnout of exhibitors indicated just how big the lingerie industry had become. If the look was frothy, the mood was cutthroat. And by late afternoon on Thursday, Greer had had enough. The razzle-dazzle had had some appeal in the beginning, if for no other reason than that she couldn’t possibly think about anything else over the noise, particularly about a nasty-tempered man with fathomless blue eyes.
For once, Ryan was less on her mind than a growing headache. Comparing prices, finding potential new suppliers of fabrics, taking note of quality variations in the industry, comparing the various sewing techniques, trying to gauge trends-she and Ray had work to do here, and both Grant and Marie would expect an extensive report on their return. Only Greer had discovered quickly that fibs and fast lines abounded; talk was cheap and true information difficult to come by.
It wasn’t her scene. The constant noise had gotten to her long before dinnertime, when Ray grabbed her arm and suggested a quick and quiet meal in their rooms.
“We shouldn’t,” Greer said wearily. “This only happens once a year. I promised Marie I would talk to Barteau, and I haven’t even seen him…”
“You’re entitled to put your feet up, darling. You can track him down tomorrow.”
She didn’t need much more persuading. A huge yawn escaped her lips as the elevator closed on the two of them. Ray’s midnight-dark eyes regarded her with amusement.
“Now I know why I never wanted to go to these things before,” Greer admitted. “It would be different if I felt as if I’d accomplished something besides running my feet off.”
“You’re not supposed to accomplish anything at a trade show. You’re supposed to toot your horn and sharpen your nails on the competitor closest to you. You did well,” Ray assured her as he led her out on their floor. “Seems foolish for each of us to order room service separately, doesn’t it? Your room or mine?”
She paused indecisively, wishing her blasted headache would go away. His room was a long way down the opposite side of the hall. “I suppose mine…” she started uncertainly.
“Fine.” He followed her, waited patiently while she fumbled with her room key and closed the door behind them while Greer collapsed with a sigh of relief in the closest chair.
From her fourth-floor window, she had a view of downtown Charlotte, and her room was lovely. The decor was rose and cream; she had her own couch and chair as well as a large bed and a spacious dressing room, and the maid had put away her carelessly strewn clothes while she’d been working. It was heavenly to be waited on.
Her eyes at half-mast, she tilted her head back and curled her feet under her, watching while Ray picked up the phone to dial room service. He was dressed in a dark suit and tie and looked, as usual, sophisticated and ready to seduce, but he’d been very close to an angel this day. He had spared her his usual sexual innuendos and undercurrents. He’d also saved her from a boring lunch with an overbearing advertising executive and had popped up at her side several times during the day with coffee and snacks.
Wearily, she considered getting up to apply fresh makeup, and decided the energy just wasn’t there.
Ray put down the phone. “Steaks and wine. Twenty minutes-they claim,” he said wryly. “Go ahead. Take off your shoes. Don’t tell me you’re standing on ceremony because I’m here?”
Wandering toward the window, he was already shrugging off his suit jacket and loosening his tie. He still had energy, Greer marveled, though as always with Ray, it was a restless, uneasy energy. A sudden minuscule tremor touched her spine, the awareness of being alone with him rather catching her by surprise. Foolish. Slipping off her powder-blue pumps, she bent over to rub her aching feet. “We did well, didn’t we?” she said lightly. “I thought our booth was as tasteful as any. And from listening to the scuttlebutt, I got the feeling our sales are better than most. What do you think of that new acetate Bingham’s is pushing?”
Ray shrugged casually. “I’ll take a sample back to Marie.”
He didn’t want to talk. She couldn’t blame him. They’d talked all day. When dinner came, she unbuttoned the jacket of her pale blue suit, tucked her legs under her and dug in. Room service had delivered the meal on a tea cart, and Ray pushed up to her chair and then sat on the couch across from her.
Twice he leaned over to refill her wineglass. Twice all she could think of was that Ryan did it differently. Ray moved with…finesse. Expertise. As if every move had been predetermined by a set of rules. Ryan’s body moved with such natural ease…but she’d sworn off thinking of Ryan. The man didn’t want her around. Not on any basis she was prepared to offer him.
She’d worried about him for three days, which was undoubtedly why she was so wretchedly exhausted after one simple ten-hour period of being on her feet. The relationship…was dead. He didn’t want a woman who worried about him. He wanted a woman to share his bed. And she knew that just wouldn’t work.
An aching loss had trembled through her for three days, but she couldn’t have possibly crossed that hall again to make sure he’d recovered from the flu. She’d given up the right to care. Her heart just refused to understand that.
“Why so serious all of a sudden?” Ray teased.
She looked up, embarrassed at not having even offered him companionship over the meal. “Sorry. Woolgathering, I’m afraid.”
He pushed the table aside, lifted her full wineglass and handed it to her. “You were bothered by that man this morning?” he asked casually.
“Jacore?” Greer shook her head. She’d nearly forgotten him. The retailer had expressed interest in Love Lace’s products. He’d also cupped a hand on her fanny. When Ray had stepped in, the gentleman had been in danger of losing his hand from the wrist. “No,” she said wryly. “Just a little disbelieving anyone could be so crude in front of fifty people.”
“You found him particularly…offensive, I could tell.”
Slightly startled at the odd note in Ray’s voice, Greer glanced up. “He wasn’t worth fussing over,” she said frankly. “Not that I didn’t appreciate your running interference, but honestly, I could have handled him.”
“I could cheerfully have strangled him.”
A little startled, Greer shrugged and took another sip of wine. “He was hardly worth that,” she said dryly. “And I expected some of that kind of thing when I came here.”
“You have a lot of men pursuing you. I always knew that!”
A second wave of uneasiness traveled down her spine. She wasn’t sure why. Ray was perfectly at ease. He’d finished his wine, had poured her another glass-good heavens, her third?-and had stood up to stretch. He leaned back against the wall, his hands loosely in his pockets, his eyes on her. Enigmatic dark eyes.