A Lyon's Share

by Janet Dailey

  Before the sole of her smart leather shoes had become buried in the snow, Brandt was out of the car and around to her side. She glanced at him in surprise, fully expecting him simply to drop her off to make her own way into the building. A gasp of shock was torn from her lips as he reached down and easily swung her into his arms.

  The corners of his mouth turned in a humorless smile at her quick, "Put me down!"

  His long strides were already covering the short distance from the curb to the apartment's entrance. "There isn't any need for you to freeze your feet in the snow."

  "I'm too heavy," Joan protested, but they had already reached the door and Brandt was setting her down at the same time that he swung the wooden door open.

  "You're tall, but you're not heavy," he stated without any emotion as he turned his blank gaze on her.

  Her pulse refused to settle back to its normal pace. Just when Joan had thought she had regained control of her senses, she had been cradled against that rock-hard chest and lost anew. He stood solemnly in front of her, blue eyes unreadable, the staircase to her second floor apartment behind him. She bent her head to conceal the swift rise of confusion.

  "There isn't any need for you to come into the office until noon tomorrow," he told her. An apartment door slammed on the floor above.

  Joan stiffened, tossing her head back. "I don't expect any special favors, Mr. Lyon, simply because I had the misfortune of being stranded at work for most of the weekend," she asserted coldly. "I'll be in the office at eight tomorrow as usual."

  An eyebrow arched into a brown peak of unconcern. "As you wish, Miss Somers. Good day."

  As the outside door closed behind him, too late Joan realized that she had offered not one word of thanks for the ride home. In spite of everything, Brandt was entitled to a measure of courtesy.

  "Lord! Ice nearly dripped from your voice!" Kay's excitedly astonished voice sounded from the stairs. "And after the way he carried you to the door, too!" At Joan's surprised glance at the berobed figure on the steps, Kay answered the questioning gleam in her room-mate's eyes. "I was watching from the window. He was so masterful about it."

  "He did it simply because I didn't have any boots," Joan said tersely, "and the pavements weren't shoveled."

  Her assertion didn't erase the impish smile from Kay's mouth as Joan hurried past her up the steps. There was about to be a deluge of questions and she needed the diversion of movement to collect her wits after those shattering moments in Brandt's arms.

  "Is the coffee on, Kay?" she asked as she pushed the door ajar and entered their apartment. "I haven't had a cup since before the electricity went off Friday night."

  "The electricity went off!" Kay echoed, dashing towards the kitchenette section of the room while Joan pulled off her coat and stepped out of her shoes. "I didn't know the electricity was off! At least, I heard it was off in some sections of the city, but I never guessed you were without it at the office. Heavens! The nights must have been awfully long!"

  In the act of pouring Joan a cup of coffee, Kay spun around, her sparkling brown eyes widening and her mouth opening in surprised excitement.

  "How did you ever keep warm? The furnace can't work without electricity to operate the thermostat. Did you and Mr. Lyon have to huddle together to keep warm? Oh! Wouldn't that be something!" Kay rushed quickly to the couch with the coffee cup. "Is that why you were so cold to him? Did he make a pass at you?"

  Joan rushed involuntarily. "Oh, Kay, really! In the first place, we both had our winter coats to keep us warm," not exactly denying her room-mate's assertion nor explaining that they had jointly wed the coats together, "and secondly … Mr Lyon," she had nearly called him Brandt, "found a space heater in the equipment shed."

  Kay pulled a wry face. "It's resourceful, but hardly romantic," she sighed. "I should have thought you would at least be calling each other by your first names after an entire weekend together."

  Joan's fingers curled around the cup before she quickly sat it on the table in front of the sofa. "I feel absolutely grubby after wearing these clothes for nearly three days. I'm going to take a bath and clean up."

  She rose quickly to her feet, not wanting to confide in her friend and room-mate, nor to have Kay's interrogation go any farther.

  Monday morning brought a return of the strictly business atmosphere between Joan and Brandt. His gaze didn't cut her with freezing contempt, nor was he ill-tempered with anger. He treated her the same indifferently friendly way he always had, which made it easier for Joan to fall into the same pattern, at least, for the most part.

  The main topic of conversation through the entire company was the weekend storm, with everyone trading stories on where and how they had been trapped by the blizzard and the difficulties they had gone through before reaching their homes. Joan was grateful for the insulation of her private office, segregated from the rest of the employees. It saved her from relating her own tale without lying. Kay had mercifully agreed to keep silent about it, knowing full well how viciously the story would be twisted into some lurid account by the office gossips, and as far as Kay was concerned, without foundation.

  It was nearly noon when Brandt ventured from his office to request certain folders from the filing cabinet. Joan had just handed them to him when Lyle Baines walked into her office, a cheery smile creasing his face.

  "Sorry to be so late reporting in, Brandt, but the snowploughs didn't make it to my street until after ten this morning," he explained. "That was really a first-class blizzard. Hope the two of you made it home all right."

  After Brandt had nodded an initial greeting, he had opened the top folder to study its contents. At the conclusion of Lyle Baines's statement, he glanced up briefly, a dark glow of concentration in his eyes as he turned to re-enter his office.

  "As a matter of fact, Miss Somers and I got marooned here until Sunday morning." he replied idly.

  "The devil you did!" Lyle Baines breathed in his astonishment. His rounded, speculating gaze immediately swung to Joan.

  Her dismay that Brandt should absently blurt out what she had been at pains to keep secret was written in her expressive brown eyes. Lyle Baines was not a gossip, but Joan didn't doubt that the word would spread quickly through the grapevine.

  Brandt paused in the doorway. "Come into my office, Lyle. I had a chance to study the blueprints on the Parkwood Mall this weekend, and I want to go over them with you before you start putting the prices together."

  Joan swiftly retreated to her desk, avoiding the questing eyes of Lyle Baines as he slowly obeyed the quiet, authoritative voice of his boss. Only when the connecting door dosed behind both of them did she let her shoulders slump.

  It was not until the following day that Joan was exposed to the results of Brandt's slip. When she entered the canteen with Kay, there was instant silence as all eyes turned to her. Then there were whispers and muffled laughter. With difficulty, Joan maintained an outward air of composure, knowing that to react would give fuel to their speculations.

  Naturally when Kay discovered the rumors, she was quite vocal in defense of her friend. Joan knew that Brandt never heard what was said about them. No one would dare to carry tales to the lion, including herself. She wanted to avoid any further humiliation at his hands.

  During the week, the gossip died from lack of further nourishment to feed on. Joan was glad she had kept a cool silence through it all. Her attitude treated the snide comments with indifference.

  When she was questioned directly by the few bold ones about how she and Brandt had passed the time, she responded that they had worked, and that was true. Her own efficient and professional demeanor added credibility to her statements.

  By Friday afternoon, Joan was congratulating herself for getting through the week. Not that it had been easy, because it hadn't. Some moments had held sheer torment.

  There had been times when Brandt's hand had accidentally brushed hers as they exchanged folders or other documents and she would feel the rush
of warmth at his touch. Or moments when he would be signing letters she had typed and she would be able to study the thick, waving brown hair, the ends curling on the tanned column of his neck, and the strong, assured face that held the hard masculine mouth that had so devastatingly awakened her latent desire and love.

  At a little past four o'clock on Friday afternoon, Joan began the filing and general clearing of the work on her desk in preparation for the weekend. Clearing the 'out' tray was a considerable task by itself. She only smiled absently when the payroll clerk stopped by her office with her weekly pay cheque.

  Preoccupied with the items left to be done, Joan removed her bankbook from her handbag, slit open the envelope containing her cheque and started to slide it into the bankbook and replace both in her bag. The amount of the check seemed to jump out at her, freezing her with a start. It was nearly half as much again as it should have been.

  For a moment she could only blink at it bewilderedly. Then a slow anger began to seethe. She had no doubt that Brandt had authorised it to appease his conscience. Paying her off would release him from the guilt he felt.

  The fingers that gripped the cheque trembled with anger as Joan rose swiftly to her feet and stalked to the connecting door. Her sharp rap was answered immediately by Brandt's 'Come in.' His gaze darted at her for identification before it was returned to the papers in front of him.

  "What is it, Miss Somers?"

  Joan was too angry to speak and his uninterested voice didn't help soothe her growing temper. The squareness of her shoulders and the tilt of her chin were dictated by pride as she walked to his desk and placed the cheque in front of him on the desk top. He glanced at it and pushed it towards her absently, all without looking up.

  "That's your check," he said as if she had brought it for his verification.

  "I know it's made out to me," Joan responded tautly. "But the amount is incorrect. I want you to call the accounts department and have another cheque made out for my usual salary."

  The barely disguised anger in her voice raised his head. There was an aloof, searching sweep of her face that noted the glittering fire in her usually velvet brown eyes.

  "That is the correct amount." His eyes narrowed as the line of her mouth tightened. "However involuntarily, you did work overtime this last weekend."

  "I have no intention of accepting any money for last weekend, no matter what reason you dream up, Mr. Lyon!" Quivers of rage laced the sharpness in her voice.

  Brandt leaned back in his chair. "I did not dream up a reason," he responded evenly, but a polar coldness had crept into his eyes. "The fact is you put in a considerable amount of hours Friday night and Saturday on company business. Had you done nothing, I would have paid you nothing. The additional money is a compensation for your work."

  If it had not been for her indomitable pride, Joan might have accepted his explanation. As it was, she couldn't and wouldn't.

  "I don't believe you, and I won't accept money because you regret —"

  "That will be enough." His command stopped her outburst with the silent swiftness of a rapier.

  Only the slight tightening of the muscles in his jaw indicated that anything akin to anger might be aroused. "If you don't wish to accept my explanation, that is your affair, but the cheque is yours in the amount stated. What you do with it is your business."

  "I'll show you what I'll do with it!" Joan declared stormily.

  With surprising swiftness, she retrieved the cheque from his desk top and tore it into small pieces. Hot tears scalded her eyes as she pivoted sharply around and dashed to the door.

  She was within inches of reaching it when she was caught by the arm and spun around. Uselessly Joan tried to struggle free of the iron grip on her wrist.

  "My God, Joan!" Brandt ground out ominously. "I'm tempted to make you tape that check back together!"

  Her head reared back so he could see the glitter of battle in her eyes. She caught her breath at the sudden clamouring of her senses at his disturbing nearness, intimidated by his height and breadth that so effectively dwarfed her. An angry exasperation was carved in his blatantly masculine features.

  She grasped tightly at her own proud anger. "It wouldn't do you any good. I'd simply tear the cheque up again."

  "I am not going to pretend that I don't realize you think the extra money is some form of appeasement for what happened between us on Saturday night." Brandt watched the quick rise of color in her cheeks. "I've long since discarded the notion that I needed to apologize for what happened. I found you desirable and reacted accordingly. You were as willing as I."

  Joan couldn't meet his gaze. "Then don't make me feel cheap by forcing the additional money on me," she replied in a choked voice.

  "I told you," Brandt responded forcefully, "it is for secretarial services rendered after normal working hours. I am not accustomed to paying for sexual pleasures."

  Her lips pressed tightly together to halt the outcry of shame. The high color that had been in her cheeks was washed swiftly away, leaving her unnaturally pale.

  "That was uncalled for," he sighed. "I apologize for that, Joan."

  "Please." Her hand wavered weakly between them to ward off any more cutting remarks. "C-call the accounts department and have m-my normal cheque made out."

  His grip on her wrist slackened to a less punishing hold, but Brandt didn't release her. Instead he turned back towards his desk, nearly dragging her with him.

  "I will call the accounts department," he agreed smoothly as he stopped by the chair in front of his desk and motioned for Joan to sit down.

  The nearly abrupt withdrawal of his hand drained her strength, her limbs trembling beneath her. Joan sank willingly into the chair, surprised by his unexpected capitulation to her wishes. Brandt Lyon was not a man to give in once he had taken a stand. Conscious of her quick heartbeats, she watched him dial the inter-office numbers of the accounts and wages department.

  His bland gaze flicked over her as if to make sure she was still there before he spoke into the phone. "Connelly? Brandt Lyon here," he said in his quietly authoritative voice. "Miss Somers inadvertently destroyed her salary cheque. Would you draw another for her and bring it in for my signature?"

  There was a pause during which Brandt looked at Joan, who was holding her breath under his pinning gaze. "In exactly the same amount as before," he added firmly.

  Resentment flared immediately as Joan realized he had tricked her into believing he had agreed to her request. She bounded to her feet and raced from the room, flagrantly disobeying his order to come back. She didn't waste any time straightening her desk as she grabbed for her purse and dashed to the stand where her coat was hanging. Her hand was reaching for the doorknob to the outer hallway when Brandt appeared in the inner office doorway.

  "Joan, you get back in here!" he demanded curtly.

  She flashed him a fiery glance. "I'm leaving early today. Don't forget to dock me on next week's pay cheque." With her sarcastic rejoinder ringing in the air, she stepped into the hallway, slamming the door behind her.

  Although secure in the knowledge that Brandt wasn't about to chase her through the hallways, Joan still hurried her steps to the front door. She cast one apprehensive glance behind her as she walked quickly out of the building. Except for the curious receptionist, there was no one about. She arrived at the bus stop just as her bus pulled to the curb and she quickly hopped aboard.

  Kay arrived at their apartment more than an hour and a half later, stopping on her way home to cash her pay-cheque and pick up a trouser suit on which she had left a deposit. Therefore she was not at all surprised to find Joan in the apartment ahead of her.

  "T.G.I.F. — Thank goodness it's Friday," Kay translated as she flung herself and her packages on to the couch. "Although I don't really know why I feel this sensation of relief. John is going to be here in an hour to take me to the movies and I have to be up bright and early in the morning so he and I can pick up Ed at the airport. Are you going with u
s?"

  "I thought I would," Joan admitted, finding she could not summon much enthusiasm for Ed's arrival — she had looked forward to until last weekend. She briskly turned away before Kay could see her hesitation and resumed setting the small dinette table for their evening meal. "The goulash is warming on the stove. We can eat whenever you want."

  "Goulash!" Kay moaned. I wish we could afford steaks. I wish John could afford to take me out for steaks, but he can't, not yet." She sighed and pushed her small frame into an upright position. "Lead me to the goulash. I'll eat and then shower."

  For all her disparaging remarks, Kay did full justice to the goulash and green salad Joan had prepared. Never one to shirk her share of the housework, Kay helped with the clearing away of the dirty dishes, leaving the actual washing to Joan when she insisted she didn't mind.

  After filling the sink with soapy water, Joan put the dishes in to soak while she straightened the front room. Kay was out of the shower and dressing by the time Joan got back to the sink to do the washing up. At the quick rap on the apartment door, Kay bounded from the bedroom.

  "John's here already and I don't even have my hair combed!" she yelped frantically to Joan as she raced to the door.

  "He won't mind waiting a few extra minutes," Joan smiled over her shoulder before rinsing a plate off under the tap and stacking it in the draining rack.

  She heard Kay open the door, but she didn't turn around until she heard her room-mate's breathless "Oh, hello." The door was ajar, but its wooden bulk blocked her view of their visitor, who was obviously not John.

  "Is Miss Somers in?"

  Joan's stomach churned at the sound of Brandt Lyon's voice. A crazy surge of heat rushed up her body, threatening to suffocate her with its warmth. She averted her attention to the bubbling dishwater in the sink as if to pretend that she hadn't heard his voice carrying across the small room.