by Diana Palmer
“You’re plotting something,” Amanda accused lightly.
“Oh, yes, I am,” he said softly. “I am indeed.”
“Well, stop,” she said. “We have to find a way out of your predicament. Don’t you have any assets that you could liquidate?”
He wasn’t really hearing her. He’d always liked Amanda, and it seemed to him that the more she blossomed in that job, the prettier she got. She was an exciting and interesting woman. Josh was a fool for not seeing it.
“Liquifiable assets?” she prompted.
“Oh. Yes.” He thought for a moment. “Nothing except some old stocks packed away at my late great-uncle’s house. I doubt they’re worth the paper they’re printed on. The company they backed went broke. When I saw them in the safe, I didn’t even have them checked out. I recognized the name of the bankrupt agency that issued them.”
“How about your Ferrari?”
He laughed bitterly. “Want to see the coupon book? I’ve only paid on it for two years. And the business belongs to Josh. I just work for it. I have stock in it, sure, but if I sell it, the family will lose control of the company. Josh would never let me sacrifice it to save myself.”
“Josh loves you.”
“He has one hell of a way of showing it,” he said brutally.
“Go home and get some sleep, why don’t you?” she said. “Tomorrow’s Saturday. Sleep late. Maybe you’ll come up with something.”
“I wish I could be that confident.”
“You really do need help, Brad,” she said seriously. “I care about you. You know that. I wouldn’t say it if I weren’t concerned. Gambling is just like alcoholism, they say. You get to a point where you can’t stop by yourself.”
“I can when I want to.”
He sounded so much like Josh that she smiled wistfully. “All right. Be stubborn. I have to get home.”
“I’ll drop you off at your office to pick up your car.”
She touched his hand. “It will be all right,” she told him.
“Sure. Let’s go.”
Amanda felt guilty that she couldn’t do anything to help him. The sad fact of it was that he’d yielded to his own weakness, and he was having to pay the price. It wasn’t bad luck, as he thought. It was just the way life was. Brad would learn a hard lesson, but it would ultimately save him some money. Or even his life.
CHAPTER TEN
MIRRI HAD BEEN trying all day to work up enough nerve to approach Nelson Stuart and ask him to have coffee or a sandwich with her one evening after work. The situation between them had become so tense and explosive that he bit her head off for asking the simplest question. The other agents were beginning to murmur among themselves. It couldn’t continue. Mirri was going to have to gain his friendship or quit. There wasn’t any other course open now.
Nelson noticed her discomfort. He encouraged it. He was trying to make her leave the agency. His interest in her was becoming disruptive. She was efficient and skilled, but she had to go.
This day, though, she was more disorganized than usual, in a flushed frenzy of nerves. He got tired of asking for the same piece of information twice and having to answer his own telephone because she was too rattled to type and do that at the same time.
He called her into his office and pushed the door shut with such unusual force that heads turned toward his hard face before the door closed.
“Sit down,” he told her curtly.
She did, almost shaking with uncharacteristic shyness. She looked at him and colored, her fiery hair all disheveled, her blue eyes darker than usual and huge as she averted them from his angry face.
He perched on the edge of his desk, very attractive in a neat gray suit with a spotless white shirt and a neat gray-striped tie. His thick black hair was pulled back from his lean face, emphasizing the rawboned look of it and his high cheekbones. His equally dark eyes narrowed on her face. “What the hell is wrong with you today?” he asked without preamble.
She clenched her small hands in her lap and went for broke. “I’m trying to get up enough nerve to ask you to have coffee with me after work.”
He looked at the door and then at the carpet, to make sure he was awake. He was glad he was sitting down. He stared at her. “I beg your pardon?” he asked slowly.
She looked up at his rigid features. The almost whimsical expression on his face lessened her inhibitions. She sat forward on the chair. “I know you don’t like me,” she said quickly, “but could we... I mean, could we have coffee or something and just...could we just talk? Away from here,” she added.
He’d never dreamed of seeing her so unsettled that she had to work to make a coherent statement. One dark eyebrow went up. Her nervousness made him calm. He actually smiled. “Where?” he asked, his deep drawl oddly sensuous.
Her eyes brightened with hope. “There’s a cafe down the street from me,” she said. “It’s not fancy or anything, but they make the best spaghetti in town.”
“Where?”
Her heart ran wild. She’d never dreamed that he’d actually accept. Her lips parted on a rushed breath, and her face became incredibly radiant.
Nelson, watching her, was amazed at the change, at the softening of her features, the blaze of delight in her eyes. His body stiffened, and he almost laughed out loud at his headlong response to her. Unless he was badly mistaken, she was attracted to him! The thought went to his head and made him dizzy.
“I live on Ivy Street,” she said after a minute. “Number two fourteen. It’s an apartment house.”
“I’ll find it.”
She stood up. “I’m sorry about all the foul-ups today. I’ll do better. Scout’s honor.” She raised four fingers.
“Four fingers?” he queried.
“Martian scouts, sir,” she assured him. “I’ll look for you at seven, then.” She hesitated at the door. “It’s a sort of old-fashioned cafe,” she began. “They don’t serve beer or wine...”
“I don’t drink.”
“Neither do I,” she said, feeling a wave of relief spread through her. If Nelson had wanted even a glass of wine, she would have felt uncomfortable. That had been the one worry in her mind. Mirri had not been able to tolerate alcohol at even the most moderate level for years because of what had been done to her. She had never discussed her fears with anyone but Amanda, and now it seemed the matter wouldn’t even come up with Nelson.
He was even more distracted than before for the rest of the day.
At seven o’clock sharp he pressed the buzzer downstairs in the lobby. She buzzed him in the front door and then stood at her own door waiting, all nerves.
It was the first time in two years that she’d opened her door to a man. Her last date had been a quiet, unassuming young man who’d wanted to talk about bugs. Mr. Stuart might, too, of course. But it would be an electronic one, if he did.
She had on slacks and a brown silk blouse with a pullover cream sweater. She’d purposely underdressed so that she wouldn’t emphasize the flamboyant mode of dress that her boss disliked. Tonight she didn’t want to antagonize him.
He had on slacks and a sports coat. He looked as tense and reluctant about this as she did, but at least he’d shown up.
“Are you ready?” he asked. “I brought the car, unless it’s within walking distance.”
“It is,” she said. “Good exercise, too. It’s a safe neighborhood.”
“Everybody says that,” he murmured cynically. “But it never is. Statistically—”
“Wouldn’t you like to talk about bugs?” she interrupted politely.
He scowled. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’ll just get my purse!”
It’s going to be a disaster, she told herself silently, it’s going to be a disaster, and he’ll fire me sure as the world if he can find an excuse. I must have been out of my mind!
The street was a quiet one, almost like a residential area. Most of the shopkeepers were elderly people who’d been there for decades. There was talk of a complex going up to replace these old shops, and Mirri had hated to hear it. A modern high-rise was no suitable substitute for a tiny grocery store where the proprietor knew your name and your food preferences.
“You’re very quiet for a woman who wanted to talk.” He’d lit a cigarette and was smoking it leisurely as they walked down the sidewalk, a little apart.
“I’m thinking up safe subjects,” she replied, smiling at him.
He laughed faintly. “Are there any?”
“How long have you been with the agency?” she asked curiously.
He shrugged. “Fifteen years.”
She hadn’t known that. He didn’t seem old enough.
He looked down at her, and she looked at him—really looked at him. He was older than she’d realized. There was a sprinkling of gray in the hair at his temples, and his lean, hard face had lines she’d never noticed.
The soft scrutiny made him more aware of her than he’d ever been. He should have followed his survival instincts and stayed home, he thought irritably.
“I’m staring. I’m sorry.” She motioned toward the cafe. “There it is, Mama’s Place.”
“Nice name.”
“She’s like everyone’s mama,” Mirri explained. “Her husband died last year, and she’s managed to keep the doors open with some help from her son. But it’s been hard for her.”
She had a heart. He’d known that she was compassionate, but he tried not to notice it. The way she looked stirred him up enough without the added complication of admirable personality traits to magnify his interest.
Mama Scarlatti was in her fifties, a small buxom woman with a ready smile and an affectionate personality that won over even the icy Mr. Stuart. She seated him with Mirri at a window table and left them with hot coffee and a menu.
Mirri noticed that Nelson Stuart drank his coffee with cream and no sugar. She liked her own black and strong, with nothing added.
“All right,” he said, leaning back in the chair. The action opened his jacket and hinted forcibly at the .45 automatic he carried always, in a holster under his arm. “Spill it.”
“Sir?”
“What do you want to talk to me about that can’t be discussed at the office?”
“That’s not going to be easy.”
“Why?”
She looked at him over her coffee cup. She’d barely touched makeup to her face. Her red hair fell in springy curls down to her shoulders, but it was the only colorful thing about her tonight. She was pale, and her freckles stood out vividly.
“I thought we might manage a compromise,” she said finally.
He just stared at her, without speaking.
“Could we talk honestly?” she asked. She rested her hands around her coffee cup to warm them. “Mr. Stuart, I know you think I’m an unwarranted pest. You don’t like the way I dress or the way I look or the way I act. You’d like to fire me, but you can’t find a reason that would stand up in court. Am I right?”
“Yes,” he said frankly.
The word was painful. She’d suspected that, but she’d wanted him to make at least a pretense of denying it. He wouldn’t. It was like him not to pull his punches.
“I like my job. I enjoy working for you. If I dress a little less dramatically,” she began earnestly, “do you think you might be a little less obvious about your distaste for me?”
He crossed one long leg over the other and pursed his lips to study her. “That’s honest. I’ll be as blunt with you. I think a business office should be run in a businesslike way. We reflect the agency we represent. We should present a suitable image to the public, one that inspires confidence and respect.”
“I’ve never been disrespectful to anyone,” she reminded him.
“That’s true,” he had to admit. “But having you swan around dressed like a rainbow isn’t doing a lot for our reputation or my temper.”
“I noticed.”
“What you’re wearing tonight is perfectly suitable for a working office,” he told her. “Why can’t you dress like that on the job?”
“Because I should have the right to dress in a way that matches my own concept of who I am,” she replied. “I have that right.”
“Not in an office where your manner of dress compromises the integrity of the staff,” he returned.
“What is wrong with a colorful skirt?”
His dark eyes narrowed coldly. “You dress to attract attention. It’s wanton.”
“You don’t understand,” she began.
Mama Scarlatti came back with a tray and interrupted cheerfully as she put plates of spaghetti and garlic bread on the table. She indicated the condiments in their pretty little jars, ignored the set faces of her guests, and went about her business before she could get caught in any crossfire.
“It’s good spaghetti,” she said defiantly. “Of course, if you don’t think so, you can always pull out that cannon you carry around with you and shoot it.”
He muffled a laugh. She was incorrigible even when she was angry. He picked up his fork and sampled the fare, surprised to find that it was the best spaghetti he’d ever had.
They ate in a strained silence. He felt uncomfortable after the heated argument. She did have a right to dress as she pleased, but he had the right to make sure she didn’t turn the atmosphere of the office into a nightclub.
“Look,” he said when he was through with his meal and polishing off his second cup of coffee, “how would people react if I came to work wearing cutoffs and a tank top?”
“Everyone who worked there would faint,” she observed, “and the janitor would stop drinking.”
He glowered at her. “Don’t be sarcastic. You know what I mean.”
“I’ll bet you don’t own cutoffs and a tank top, but I get the message. I’ll buy a funeral suit and a couple of mix-and-match black blouses to wear with it. Will that do, or would you like me to get some black hose, too?”
“Are you always this unreasonable?”
“You ought to know.”
“You’re not a bad typist, and you’re intelligent,” he said. “I admire intelligence in a woman.”
That surprised her into looking up at him.
He searched her quiet eyes for a long, static moment while the sounds around them suddenly disappeared and the world shifted five degrees.
Mirri’s lips parted as she registered the heat and power of that pair of eyes. Her heartbeat set out to break records.
Nelson Stuart felt something similar. His body burned with the sensuality she kindled in him. He’d given up women in recent years, but this one was getting to him. She had a figure that made him dream unspeakable things, and he wanted her. Until now he’d never thought that she might feel that way about someone as ordinary-looking as he was. But that look in her eyes was sultry, and he had a feeling she was pretty experienced about men.
That put him off, but not for long. His hunger, once unleashed, refused to be put back into its compartment. He felt achy all over as he paid the bill, ignoring her protests, and left her to follow him out onto the street.
“See here, I invited you to supper!” she muttered.
“So you did.”
“I was going to treat you.”
He stopped to light a cigarette. He didn’t smoke much, only occasionally. But this was one time when he needed its relaxing effect.
“It wasn’t much of a meal,” he said, towering over her. “I shouldn’t have come down on you so hard,” he admitted. “The job means a lot to me. I forget sometimes that other people might feel differently about it.”
“I like my job,” she protested. “Really, I do, I just hate being told how to dress and act.”
“All right. I’ll stop riding you. But you could play down the bangle bracelets and hanging earrings of Babylon, couldn’t you?”
She smiled. “I guess. If you’ll stop insinuating that I dress like a madam.”
“I’ve never done that,” he shot back. “Look, there’s a hell of a difference between describing the way you dress and the way you live,” he said irritably. He’d let that slip out. He shouldn’t have used the terminology, even if he did think she was promiscuous.
“You’re cursing.”
“Damn it!”
She grinned. He looked really ruffled. It delighted her to do that to him. She didn’t understand why, but she liked seeing him vulnerable. He so rarely was, and never with men or other women. Only with her.
His thin mouth flattened with frustrated anger. She made him want things he’d denied himself for years. She made him vulnerable. He could hate her for that.
If only he could get her out of his system!
He started walking, and she strolled along beside him. Amazing how safe she felt, she thought.
“I’ll try to reform. Really, I will,” she promised.
“That would be nice.”
They were at her apartment house now. She didn’t want him to go. She wanted to find out about him, to get to know him. That was one reason she’d invited him out to eat, but all they’d done was argue.
“Thank you for supper,” she said graciously.
“My pleasure.”
“I can cook,” she added.
He didn’t speak. She was moving from side to side as she stared up at him, her body sensuous in its covering, her eyes flirting with his.
“Can you?” he asked after a minute. His voice sounded strained. It felt that way, too.