Gone was old the blue sectional couch. Gone were the sculptures and the blue paintings. Instead, elegance and splendor met her gaze. Chippendale? Queen Anne? Re gency? She wasn't sure what you called it. But it was everywhere. Mahogany buffed to satiny smoothness was set off against brocade in armchairs, a love seat, low ta bles and a writing desk. French Impressionist reproductions covered the walls. A Persian rug lay on the living- room floor. And in the corner a huge china cabinet sat empty.
"What on earth?" she managed to gasp, turning slowly to gaze at each piece. "What's happened?"
Ross was back, dressed in soft gray slacks and carrying a shirt he was about to don.
"No rattan," he said sadly. "No grass mats. Nothing tropical."
"No." Her voice sounded like a strangled gasp for air. Nothing tropical. Nothing even remotely middle-class. Where could he possibly have found these things? Was the Queen of England having a rummage sale?
Ross frowned. "Don't you like it?" he asked. He was beginning to get a bad feeling about this. Charity looked like a different woman today. He'd spent the night think ing about her, about her spring-like freshness, about her open honesty, her beautiful smile. But the woman he'd been imagining looked nothing like this. The Charity that stood before him looked prim and proper as the old- fashioned stereotype of a town librarian.
He'd thought she looked like a South Sea Islands beauty, but she'd rejected that, so he'd gone to the oppo site extreme. He'd called Bernie, a dealer he'd often worked with in the past, and put in a rush order. Bernie owed him a favor or two, and he'd had the best pieces in his warehouse delivered within hours of Ross's call. He'd thought she'd be pleased.
She looked around again. Two bright spots of color highlighted her cheeks. The room was much too lovely.
"What showroom did you steal this stuff from?" she asked crisply.
His eyes narrowed and his hands went to his hips, rest ing loosely against the belt line. "Don't worry-" he be gan icily.
She cut him off, glaring at him. "The money I gave you couldn't possibly cover this!" A sweep of her hand told him just what she thought of the entire affair.
His face hardened. He'd expected excitement, delight and, most of all, gratitude.
"It's only rented," he assured her. "I've got a friend in the business; don't worry about the cost."
"I want to see receipts." Her voice was that of an em ployer used to telling others what to do.
"Don't worry about it," he replied, and his voice was that of one unused to doing what someone else told him to. "I've got it covered."