An Offer He Cant Refuse - By Christie Ridgway Page 0,12

didn't change what had to happen next, however. She sucked in a determined breath, then shook back her hair, pressed her lips together to even their color, and finally gave a little shimmy of her hips to straighten out the fall of her skirt. With her appearance the best it could be, she pasted on her most professional smile and continued her approach.

"Hello," she said, as she neared him. "I'm Tea Caruso."

"Yes, I've been waiting for you," he said, without looking up.

It was Johnny Magee, all right.

His fingers continued to race over the keyboard of his laptop. "Could you sit down a minute?" Apparently aware of the precarious balance of the notebook computer beside him, he lifted it up in one hand.

"Oh, uh, of course," she replied, eyeing the vacant spot he'd created and the murky depths of the lagoon beyond it. An odd frisson of distaste edged down her back, but she strode forward anyway. Then she set down her portfolio and briefcase and bent her knees to poise just the minimum of her weight and her behind onto the uneven surface of the rock wall.

Without a word or warning, the man plopped the computer he was holding onto her lap. To give it an adequate resting place, she was forced to settle more fully on the ledge. As her weight shifted, she slid backward along the slick surface and had to dig her heels into the soft ground to keep her seat. Ewww. She felt dampness penetrating the fabric of her dress. A slimy coating of moss covered the rock wall, she realized, and now the backside of her dress as well.

She grimaced, but her companion didn't seem to notice her discomfort. As a matter of fact, he didn't seem to notice anything beyond the contents of the two computers. He shifted the one on her lap to more fully face him and with a hand on each keyboard, proceeded to play them like a virtuoso.

"I hope you had a good flight," she ventured after a few moments of uninterrupted tapping.

He nodded, but whether it was at her or the numbers rolling by on the dual screens, she didn't know.

"I have several mock-ups of my designs I'd like to present to you," she tried again. "I'm looking forward to it. I have a great affinity for mid-century modern."

His fingers stilled and his head came up, his eyes magnified by heavy-framed glasses. The thick lenses along with his unkempt hair made it difficult to assess his age, but he was definitely younger than she expected.

"What is that, anyway?" he asked.

"Affinity?"

"Mid-century modern."

She blinked. Johnny Magee had seemed settled on the style from the beginning, so she could only assume this was some sort of test. Swallowing, she pressed her knees together and tried for a concise answer. "It refers to post-World War II domestic architecture. At that time, Palm Springs was becoming a luxury resort for the rich, and architects used experimental materials and technologies to create homes for people who wanted something more daring than a cozy cottage with a picket fence."

His gaze shifted back to the screens and his fingers returned to clicking the keyboards. "Psychedelic posters and bean bag chairs?"

"Um, no, not really. That was a bit later. The heyday of mid-century modern was in the 1940s and 50s, when this property was originally developed. The style is characterized by light, flowing interiors and a strong indoor-outdoor relationship."

He shrugged. 'Too bad. I like bean bag chairs and psychedelic posters."

"Well, um, I..." Tea's voice petered out as the implications of his comment sank in. Bean bag chairs and psychedelic posters were Budweiser and Kool-Aid to the martinis and highballs that symbolized sophisticated mid-century modern design. But nobody knew better than Tea that if the client wanted beer and soft drinks, then that's what she would give him.

Her shoulders sagged. All the concern over her appearance and the attempts to impress him had come to nothing more than this. She exhaled a small sigh, but that was the only sign of discouragement she allowed herself before setting about retooling her plans on the fly.

Shag carpet, she thought. The colors of lime and orange. Pet rocks. Okay, so it wasn't going to revamp her reputation as a designer, but it was probably no worse than the animal-print-everything Saharan sitting room she'd done for Mr. and Mrs. Finkelstein last spring.

She closed her eyes, hoping to envision a new look for the Magee residence. From what she knew of the house, it