corners. “You don't like my dress?"
"On the contrary,” Lynn replied, “I like it very much. Where did you buy it?"
Obviously flattered by Lynn's compliment, Ruthie gushed, “I got it at the little boutique down the street. It's a great place to shop. I buy a lot of my clothes there. I also like to shop at Miss Irene's Dress Shop over on Henry Street.” She stopped to catch her breath before saying, “They both have a much better selection than Grover's Department Store."
Second thoughts moved in to undermine Lynn's bold plans. “I always buy my clothes at Grover's.” Maybe she should back to Grover's this time.
Ruthie, honest as always said, “I know."
Lynn echoed, “You know, how?"
With artless candor Ruthie replied, “They look like old ladies dresses."
Lynn vaulted to her feet. “I'm going shopping. Hold the fort until I get back."
"Are you going to Grover's?"
Lynn retorted, “Not on your life.” Impulsively she asked, “Where do you get your hair done?"
Ruthie touched her long blonde tresses. “At Trudy's, but you have to have an appointment. She doesn't take walk-ins.” As Lynn removed her apron, Ruthie added, “You should get a rinse to bring out the red highlights in your hair."
Lynn grinned at her. A red rinse, huh? Perfect idea—that would make just the right kind of statement. She hurried out the front door, thinking as she moved along that in some ways Ruthie was one smart woman.
Chapter 8
Trace whistled as he drove to the back of the bakery and parked his pickup. If all went well tonight, by tomorrow morning, he would have that McGuire woman out of his dad's life permanently. That was a big if, and the success of his plan depended to a great extent on Lynn. Could he count on her to keep her end of the bargain? He hoped so. If she cooperated, the two of them should be able to pull off this little charade without a hitch. If she cooperated . Damn it, why did this woman have to be so opinionated and unpredictable?
He was halfway up the steps to Lynn's apartment when she came through the door and stood on the landing looking down at him. Trace stopped dead in his tracks and did a double take as his whistle died away on a caught breath. She was wearing a fire-engine red dress with a scooped neck and a short skirt. It was made of some soft, clinging material. She carried a little beaded handbag with a chain handle that looked like a relic from the 1920's.
Lynn waved and called out, “Don't bother to come up, I'll come down.” Hanging her handbag over her arm she began her slow descent.
Trace retreated back down the steps and stood looking up at her. He found it hard to believe that the voluptuous creature gliding down the stairway was really dowdy little Lynn Evans. As she came to a halt on the step above him, he gasped, “What have you done to your hair?"
Lynn ran her fingers through the sides of her long red tresses. “I got a rinse to bring out the color. Do you like it?"
Did he like it? He loved it! Her hair looked like spun fire. Trace turned on his boot heel and headed for his pickup taking long strides as he moved along. As if he didn't have enough to worry about, the sensible woman that he had expected to appear had been replaced by a stunning, eye-catching stranger. For no reason he could explain, he felt she had deceived him. “Not in particular, why?"
"That's not a very nice thing to say.” Lynn ran to catch up. “Slow down, I'm wearing heels."
It wasn't very nice. He should apologize. He couldn't bring himself to do that. Trace slowed his pace. As Lynn caught up, she asked, “Do you like my dress?"
Trace stopped and turned to stare down into her upturned face. She wore an inordinate amount of makeup. “I...” He stepped back and his eyes traveled over her body, taking in the ample cleavage that the dress revealed. Good God! He could see her nipples pressing against the clinging material of the dress. She wasn't wearing a bra!
"Don't you think it's a little
"On the contrary,” Lynn replied, “I like it very much. Where did you buy it?"
Obviously flattered by Lynn's compliment, Ruthie gushed, “I got it at the little boutique down the street. It's a great place to shop. I buy a lot of my clothes there. I also like to shop at Miss Irene's Dress Shop over on Henry Street.” She stopped to catch her breath before saying, “They both have a much better selection than Grover's Department Store."
Second thoughts moved in to undermine Lynn's bold plans. “I always buy my clothes at Grover's.” Maybe she should back to Grover's this time.
Ruthie, honest as always said, “I know."
Lynn echoed, “You know, how?"
With artless candor Ruthie replied, “They look like old ladies dresses."
Lynn vaulted to her feet. “I'm going shopping. Hold the fort until I get back."
"Are you going to Grover's?"
Lynn retorted, “Not on your life.” Impulsively she asked, “Where do you get your hair done?"
Ruthie touched her long blonde tresses. “At Trudy's, but you have to have an appointment. She doesn't take walk-ins.” As Lynn removed her apron, Ruthie added, “You should get a rinse to bring out the red highlights in your hair."
Lynn grinned at her. A red rinse, huh? Perfect idea—that would make just the right kind of statement. She hurried out the front door, thinking as she moved along that in some ways Ruthie was one smart woman.
Chapter 8
Trace whistled as he drove to the back of the bakery and parked his pickup. If all went well tonight, by tomorrow morning, he would have that McGuire woman out of his dad's life permanently. That was a big if, and the success of his plan depended to a great extent on Lynn. Could he count on her to keep her end of the bargain? He hoped so. If she cooperated, the two of them should be able to pull off this little charade without a hitch. If she cooperated . Damn it, why did this woman have to be so opinionated and unpredictable?
He was halfway up the steps to Lynn's apartment when she came through the door and stood on the landing looking down at him. Trace stopped dead in his tracks and did a double take as his whistle died away on a caught breath. She was wearing a fire-engine red dress with a scooped neck and a short skirt. It was made of some soft, clinging material. She carried a little beaded handbag with a chain handle that looked like a relic from the 1920's.
Lynn waved and called out, “Don't bother to come up, I'll come down.” Hanging her handbag over her arm she began her slow descent.
Trace retreated back down the steps and stood looking up at her. He found it hard to believe that the voluptuous creature gliding down the stairway was really dowdy little Lynn Evans. As she came to a halt on the step above him, he gasped, “What have you done to your hair?"
Lynn ran her fingers through the sides of her long red tresses. “I got a rinse to bring out the color. Do you like it?"
Did he like it? He loved it! Her hair looked like spun fire. Trace turned on his boot heel and headed for his pickup taking long strides as he moved along. As if he didn't have enough to worry about, the sensible woman that he had expected to appear had been replaced by a stunning, eye-catching stranger. For no reason he could explain, he felt she had deceived him. “Not in particular, why?"
"That's not a very nice thing to say.” Lynn ran to catch up. “Slow down, I'm wearing heels."
It wasn't very nice. He should apologize. He couldn't bring himself to do that. Trace slowed his pace. As Lynn caught up, she asked, “Do you like my dress?"
Trace stopped and turned to stare down into her upturned face. She wore an inordinate amount of makeup. “I...” He stepped back and his eyes traveled over her body, taking in the ample cleavage that the dress revealed. Good God! He could see her nipples pressing against the clinging material of the dress. She wasn't wearing a bra!
"Don't you think it's a little
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