Love Came Just In Time Part 15

He felt something wrap itself around his head. He unwrapped and found himself holding a sweatshirt. He used it liberally, smothering and beating until he was sweating and rather cross. Finally, he stood back and looked at the ruins of his working tools. He fanned his hand sadly over the smoking remains. It was a tragedy, really. He'd planned to put this fortnight to good use.

He looked at the sweatshirt in his hands, then unwadded it to see what was left.

"So sorry about Mickey's ears," he said, casting the woman an apologetic look.

She waved her hand dismissively, "Don't worry."

"I'll have another purchased."

"You can't. They gave it to me at the Kingdom when they canned me. In lieu of severance pay."

"The Kingdom?"

"Disneyland."

"You were sacked from Disneyland?"

She scowled. "I kept stepping on Dumbo's ears, all right? Can we move on to less painful topics? Your

computer, for instance."

Gideon sat down heavily. It was just more than he could talk about.

"Can I make a suggestion?"

Gideon nodded.

"Take a vacation."

"You sound like my brother." He gave her a cross look. "He's the reason I'm stranded here. Told me

he'd sack me if I didn't come."

"Hmmm," she said, "a workaholic, then."

"I have many responsibilities. I run the family business."

"Really? I'd hazard a guess the family business runs you."

He looked at her narrowly. "You Americans are very outspoken."

She shrugged. "I call 'em as I see 'em. And I'd say you needed a vacation."

"It doesn't look as if I'll have much say in the matter. Unless," he said, an idea springing to mind, "unless I

might find a computer for let somewhere here about."

She laughed. "Where, here in the boonies? You'd be better off with pencil and paper."

He shook his head and rose. "No, I fear a search will have to be made. I'm already behind on the Far

East markets today." "And I'm behind in my meal schedule, so if you'll go back to where you came from, I'll be going to the dining room." She looked at the sweatshirt in his hands. "You can keep that if you like. So you can carry your mess away," she added.

Gideon was recovered enough to take the hint. He gathered up the smoldering remains and nodded at his unwilling hostess. "Thank you..." "Megan," she finished for him. "Megan McKinnon."

He balanced his computer on one arm and thrust out his hand. "Gideon de Piaget. I run Artane Enterprises."

She took his hand and smiled politely. "What a pleasure to finally learn your name after all we've shared so far."

"You've heard of me?"

"No," she said slowly, "we just met, remember? Maybe you should get some distance from your computer. The fumes aren't doing you any good."

He shook her hand some more. "You've never heard of Artane Enterprises?"

"Sorry."

"We're an international company."

"How nice for you."

Gideon found, oddly enough, that he couldn't let go of her. He wondered if it might be because of something sticky from his battery charger, but nothing seemed to be burning his skin.

Except the touch of her hand, of course.

He looked at her searchingly. "The name doesn't ring any bells for you?"

She put her free hand to her ear, listened, then shook her head. "Nary a jingle."

"I'm the president of the company."

"Ah."

"A powerful CEO."

"I see," she said. Her gaze slid down to his ravaged computer, then back up. "Believe me, I'm impressed. I would have rushed to let you into my room if I'd only known."

"I don't think you're nearly as impressed as you should be."

She pulled her hand out of his and walked over to the door. "Beat it, business boy. I'm starving."

"Scores of people know who I am," he said, as she pushed him out into the hall.

"I'd take a shower if I were you. That scorched computer smell is starting to rub off on you."

The door closed behind him with a firm click.

Gideon stopped, sniffed and then began to cough. She had a point about the last.

He made his way unsteadily down the hallway to his room, the smell of burning components beginning to make him rather ill. He entered his room, shut the door behind him and set his burden down on the floor. He'd have to take it out to the trash. By the smell of things, his hard drive hadn't survived the fire.

Then he pulled up short. The lights were back on in his room. Gideon shook his head. Perhaps one of Stephen's henchmen had been at the fuse box, flipping things on and off on Stephen's direct orders. Gideon snorted. That he could believe.

So Megan McKinnon had no idea who he was. Gideon scowled to himself over that thought as he pulled his suitcase off the bed, opened it on the floor and rummaged inside for his kit. Maybe he was looking a bit on the unkempt side. A shave might be just the thing to restore him to proper form and jar Megan's memory. Perhaps he'd drop a hint or two about his t.i.tle. He rarely made mention of it, preferring to impress and intimidate with his wits alone, but she looked to be a particularly difficult case. His was a small barony, and one he rarely had the time to visit, but it was a bit of prestige all the same. Short of clouting her over the head with a copy of Burke's Peerage, it was the best he could do.

And once she was properly impressed, he would turn his thoughts to procuring some other kind of machinery. If there was a laptop within a hundred miles, he would find it.

He shaved quickly, then showered, hoping a good scrub would leave him smelling less like char. He tied a towel about his hips and dragged his hands through his hair, surprised at how much better he felt. Perhaps that was what he'd needed all along. He wiped off the fog from the mirror and stared at himself. A bit of holiday now and then wasn't such a bad thing. s.n.a.t.c.hing the occasional half hour every few months for a bit of rejuvenation might improve his disposition.

He stepped out of the bathroom, humming cheerfully. Then he came to a teetering halt.

His suitcase was on fire.

Or, more to the point, the clothes in his suitcase were on fire.

"d.a.m.n it!" he exclaimed.

He whipped off the towel and leaped across the room to beat out the flames. It took more doing than he'd expected, almost as if the fire was determined to burn through every last article of clothing he'd brought with him.

By the time all that was left was a bit of smoke wafting lazily toward the ceiling, Gideon was sweating and swearing with equal intensity.

He stared down at the ruins of his clothes, ashes which of course contained the clothes he'd been wearing earlier, and wondered at which end of his more colorful vocabulary to start. He had the pair of boxers he'd worn into the bathroom. Period.

He waved away more smoke. It was becoming a bad habit. He waved a bit more and considered.

"h.e.l.l," he said, finally, unable to find anything else that properly expressed the depths of his disgust. He folded his arms over his still damp chest and glared at no one in particular.

"Would anyone care to tell me what I'm supposed to wear now?" he demanded. "The bed linens?"

There was a small squeak from the wardrobe to his right. His gaze snapped immediately to it and he looked at it narrowly. Wonderful. No clothes, but likely a very large rodent. He strode over to the wardrobe and jerked the door open.

There was nothing inside but a pair of baggy yellow tights and a long green tunic.

Gideon stared, agog. Tights? There was no way in h.e.l.l he was going to put on a pair of yellow-

The tights shook themselves.

Gideon frowned. There had to be some kind of hole in the back of the b.l.o.o.d.y armoire. With that kind of draft, Heaven only knew what sorts of things were making their nests inside.

The tights wiggled again, brushing the tunic and sending it dancing as well. Well, it was either wear the blasted things or go naked. Perhaps Mrs. Pruitt could be persuaded to go out in the morning and procure him something suitable. Gideon donned his boxer shorts, then retrieved the tights from the closet. He stuck his feet into the legs and drew them up. It wasn't a pretty sight. He took an experimental step or two, finding the way the tights scrunched up between his toes to be highly irritating. He swore and hitched the tights up forcefully. Then he coughed and abruptly hitched them back down. He put on the tunic. It felt more comfortable than he'd dared hope. He looked into the wardrobe again, wondering if by chance there might be something to put on his feet. Oh, but there was. He pulled out a pair of bright purple elf shoes. Indeed, they could be nothing but elf shoes. The toes curled up several times. Gideon looked at them askance. Just watching him walk would probably put any rational person into a trance. Perhaps he could use them to hypnotize Miss McKinnon, aiding her in recovering what memories she had to have of him.

Gideon put on the shoes, cursing over the renewed scrunching of tights between his toes. But he didn't hitch; he'd learned his lesson about that. He jerked open his bedroom door. "The court jester arrives," he groused. "Dinner can begin."

Chapter Three.

Megan walked down the hallway, feeling completely ridiculous in the King Arthur-era dress that made her look as if she expected the deluge to turn into a flood at any moment-and boy would she be prepared with her hemline halfway to her knees! If her own clothes hadn't been wringing wet, she would have put them back on and taken her chances with pneumonia.

Well, it wasn't as if she was out to impress anyone. And not that anyone in the vicinity would have forgotten about business long enough to be impressed. Gideon de Piaget was a man who needed to learn to relax. She could have taught him a thing or two about leaving work behind. Considering the times she'd done just that involuntarily, she could have written a book on the subject.

Megan descended the last of the stairs only to find that Mrs. P. was no longer at her post. Megan took that as a sign: either the woman had flipped out and left the inn for good or she had retreated to the kitchen to whip up something for dinner. Megan sincerely hoped for the latter. The taste of airline food still lingered in her mouth.

Not knowing where to go, Megan began opening doors. She found a sitting room boasting the same kind of comfortable clutter her own bedroom did. It was tempting to curl up in one of the overstuffed chairs and do her best to forget the last twenty-four hours. On the other side of the hall was a beautiful library with shelves stocked full of books, and a cheery fire burning in the hearth.

After searching through several more rooms, she opened up a double door and hit the jackpot. This room contained a long, elegant dinner table, chairs, a side buffet, and several other chairs sitting against the walls seemingly waiting for their turn to be needed. Megan took it all in, delighted by the atmosphere. Then she realized what had nagged at her from the start.

There were no places set. No fine linens, no silverware, no candles in silver candelabras. Maybe Mrs. P. had driven off all her helpers.

Or maybe she'd driven herself off and Megan would be left to fend for herself.

The thought was terrifying.

All of a sudden there was a terrible clang. Megan ran to the door at the back of the dining room, then stopped short. What if intruders had come in? She looked around, s.n.a.t.c.hed a handy ornamental dagger from the wall and put her hand on the doork.n.o.b. Maybe those fencing lessons would finally be of some use.

She opened the door a crack and looked into the kitchen.

Mrs. Pruitt was doing battle with thin air. She held a lid up as a shield and waved a cleaver in front of herself, frantically fighting off something Megan couldn't for the life of her see.

"Nay, I'll not listen to reason!" Mrs. Pruitt shouted. "Ye b.l.o.o.d.y Scot, I'm sick to death of ye and all yer undead cohorts! I'll sign the b.l.o.o.d.y deed and be done with ye all!"

And then, quite suddenly, Mrs. Pruitt dropped her pot lid and her blade and clapped her hands over her ears. With a screech she turned and ran straighttoward Megan. Megan jumped out of the way, then turned and watched, openmouthed, as the woman ran the length of the dining room. Gideon stood at the far doorway, wearing a similar look of disbelief.

"Out of my way," Mrs. Pruitt said, giving him a healthy shove. "I'll not stay here another minute with these b.l.o.o.d.y old ghosts ahounding me!"

Megan watched Mrs. Pruitt disappear out into the hallway, then looked at Gideon, wondering what he thought it all meant.

Then she did a double take. Gideon was dressed in bright yellow tights and an apple green tunic that barely covered, well, all the important parts. His sandy hair was mussed. His aqua eyes were blazing.

And his tights were sagging at the knees. That didn't even begin to address his shoes.

Megan set down her dagger and clapped her hand over her mouth. She didn't clap fast enough: an errant giggle escaped before she could stop it. Gideons expression darkened considerably. "Oh my gosh," she gasped, doubling over and wheezing. "If your board of directors could see you now!" "Ah ha!" he said, striding forward and wagging his finger at her. "You do know who I am! I knew it would come to you soon enough. Perhaps you've seen me gracing the cover of Fortune, or clawing my way up the Forbes 4-"