by Janet Dailey
That Boston Man
Janet Dailey
An [ e - reads ] Book
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, scanning or any information storage retrieval system, without explicit permission in writing from the Author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locals or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 1979 by Janet Dailey
First e-reads publication 1999
www.e-reads.com
ISBN 0-7592-0172-2
Author Biography
Janet Dailey was born Janet Haradon in 1944 in Storm Lake, Iowa. She attended secretarial school in Omaha, Nebraska before meeting her husband, Bill. Bill and Janet worked together in construction and land development until they "retired" to travel throughout the United States, inspiring Janet to write the Americana series of romances.
In 1974, Janet Dailey was the first American author to write for Harlequin, her first novel was NO QUARTER ASKED. She has since gone on to write approximately 90 novels, 21 of which have appeared on The New York Times bestseller list. She has won many awards and accolades for her work, appearing widely on Radio and Television. Today, there are over three-hundred million Janet Dailey books in print in 19 different languages, making her one of the most popular novelists in the world.
Other works in Janet Dailey's Americana Series also available in e-reads editions
Dangerous Masquerade
Northern Magic
Sonora Sundown
Valley Of the Vapours
Fire And Ice
After the Storm
Difficult Decision
The Matchmakers
Southern Nights
Night Of The Cotillion
Kona Winds
The Travelling Kind
A Lyon's Share
The Indy Man
The Homeplace
The Mating Season
Bluegrass King
The Bride Of The Delta Queen
Summer Mahogany
Bed Of Grass
Enemy In Camp
Giant Of Mesabi
A Tradition Of Pride
Show Me
Big Sky Country
Reilly's Woman
Boss Man From Ogallala
Heart Of Stone
One Of The Boys
Land Of Enchantment
Beware Of The Stranger
That Carolina Summer
Lord Of the High Lonesome
The Widow And The Wastrel
Six White Horses
To Tell The Truth
The Thawing Of Mara
Strange Bedfellow
Low Country Liar
Dakota Dreamin'
Sentimental Journey
Savage Land
A Land Called Deseret
Green Mountain Man
Tidewater Lover
For Mike's Sake
Wild And Wonderful
With A Little Luck
Darling Jenny
Preface
When I first started writing back in the Seventies, my husband Bill and I were retired and traveling all over the States with our home—a 34' travel trailer—in tow. That's when Bill came up with the great idea of my writing a romance novel set in each one of our fifty states. It was an idea I ultimately accomplished before switching to mainstream fiction and hitting all the international bestseller lists.
As we were preparing to reissue these early titles, I initially planned to update them all—modernize them, so to speak, and bring them into the new high-tech age. Then I realized I couldn't do that successfully any more than I could take a dress from the Seventies and redesign it into one that would look as if it were made yesterday. That's when I saw that the true charm of these novels is their look back on another time and another age. Over the years, they have become historical novels, however recent the history. When you read them yourself, I know you will feel the same.
So, enjoy, and happy reading to all!
Introduction
Introducing Janet Dailey's AMERICANA. Every novel in this collection is your passport to a romantic tour of the United States through time-honored favorites by America's First Lady of romance fiction. Each of the fifty novels is set in a different state, researched by Janet and her husband, Bill. For the Daileys it was an odyssey of discovery. For you, it's the journey of a lifetime.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
That Boston Man
Chapter One
THE DIN OF THE NEWSPAPER OFFICE was steady; telephones ringing, the clatter of typewriters and voices, an unceasing hum of activity. Sitting on the edge of a desk in an area partitioned away from the rest of the staff workers in the room, Lexie Templeton was impervious to the background noises. A paper cup of black coffee was in one hand and a half-finished Danish pastry in the other.
Her attention was on her co-worker Ginger Franksen, who was also her roommate and friend. Lexie veiled the amusement that glittered in her blue eyes as she thought, not for the first time, that Ginger seemed the epitome of the fresh, innocent Midwestern type, which she was. Two years older than Ginger's twenty-two, Lexie felt at times like Ginger's mother instead of a friend, and at other times simply irritated by Ginger's traditional outlook.
She studied the slim, blue-jeaned figure of her roommate pacing about the alcove, long and beautiful corn-silk hair flowing past her shoulders. There was little makeup to detract from Ginger's wholesomely attractive features, that all-American look of pure honey that gathered men like bees. Ginger rattled on in a troubled and despairing voice with a quaint Midwestern accent, but it was her words that were making Lexie lose her taste for the pastry in her hand.
A sideways glance caught the amused but tolerant look of the third member of the impromptu gathering. Shari Sullivan, whose desk Lexie was sitting on, was considerably older than both of the others, but she was hardly the mother figure of the group. Sophisticated, chic, always dressed to the teeth, Shari was a blonde, too, thanks to the expert skill of Boston's best and most sought-after hairdresser.
Despite all Shari's worldly airs and hard-bitten glamor, Lexie often felt sorry for the woman. She so obviously clung to the image of youth while seeking status and prestige with greedy hands.
They were definitely an incongruous threesome. Lexie had often wondered what inner needs the three of them fulfilled in each other. Obviously there was something; they congregated each day at Shari's private desk for morning coffee, Ginger coming from her lowly position in the sports department and Lexie from her fast, riding post in political news. Shari had the society and gossip column in Boston.
"…and Bob was so angry because I wasn't in when he called last night." Ginger continued her lament that had been going on for the past several minutes.
Lexie wrapped a paper napkin around the rest of her Danish pastry and tossed it into the wastebasket beside the desk. "I suppose you apologized for going out to do your laundry," she commented dryly.
"Well, I was sorry that I wasn't there when he called," Ginger defended.
"Honestly, Ginger—" exasperation riddled Lexie's response "—how can you let yourself become a doormat for that man?"
"I am not a doormat," came the protest. "He wanted to talk to me and I wanted to talk to him. We just didn't make the con
nection, that's all. But that has nothing to do with my problem. What Bob is really upset about is this weekend. I can't make up my mind whether I should go with him to Cape Cod or not, and I'm afraid if I don't go, he'll ask somebody else."
"Let him," Lexie declared in disgust. "Bob Jeffers is a sexist and you'd be well rid of him. He wants you at his beck and call—never vice versa."
"I think you hate men, Lexie," Shari observed in a husky, cultured voice she had cultivated to perfection over the years.
"I like men well enough," Lexie said, denying the allegation, "if I can find any that will really treat me like an equal. You should have been with me yesterday when I interviewed that new candidate for Congress and heard him explain why he didn't have any women holding the responsible positions in his campaign. He gave that old song and dance about the difficulties of a single woman traveling in the company of so many men and problems of a married woman leaving her husband and family behind while she's on the campaign trail." Lexie stared angrily at the black liquid in her cup. "Why is it that a man is never asked how he manages to combine marriage and a career successfully, but a woman always gets that question thrown at her?"
"Excellent point," the older woman agreed with a throaty laugh.
"And speaking of careers—" Lexie warmed to her subject with a vengeance "—stop and think about the way men have taken over. Women always did the cooking until men discovered they could make money at it. Voilà! Now they're chefs. The same is true with sewing and clothes. Men found out there was money in that and now our fashion designers are almost exclusively male. The same holds true with hairdressers. It used to be a woman's job, but men are making a fortune at it now. The list just goes on and on and on."
"It's a pity we can't convince them they can make money having babies," Shari offered in a dryly amused voice.
"Isn't it, though?" Lexie murmured, impatiently brushing a lock of titian hair from her forehead. "No matter what men say, secretly they want a woman to assume the traditional role of wife and mother and helpmate."
"I don't think that's true," Ginger inserted.
"Believe me, it is." Lexie's head bobbed with positive certainty. "A man may tell you that he feels a woman should work if she wants to, but what he really means is some other woman—not his wife. Men are such shallow creatures. They want women to soothe their furrowed brows, to pander to their insatiable male egos, to tell them what great lovers they are, and the women's reward is the so-called pleasure of their company." Her gaze strayed to the tear sheet on Shari's desk top, a photograph of a man dominating the page. "And he's the worst of the lot," Lexie accused.
"Rome Lockwood!" Shari exclaimed in disbelief, false eyelashes intensifying her round-eyed look.
The grainy newspaper photograph didn't do the man justice, but Lexie had seen him too many times in person to be deceived by the picture. She had never met him personally, only observed him at political functions. That had been enough to form her opinion.
Lean, dark features were molded into a stunningly handsome male face. Jet black hair grew with rakish carelessness above the wide intelligent forehead. Equally dark eyes glittered from the paper, a knowing light in their depths as if he knew the power of his attraction. And that mouth caught by the photograph in a disarming smile…More than once Lexie had seen it work its charm, smoothly and subtly and successfully.
"Yes, Rome Lockwood," she repeated. "God, that name sounds like something Hollywood would make up!"
"He isn't a politician," Shari remarked, "So how did you come to meet him?"
"Political functions often become social functions," Lexie answered, again with a trace of contempt. "And, as you know, no social function is considered a success unless Rome Lockwood attends. Have you ever seen him with the same woman twice in a row?"
Shari thought for a moment. "I can't say that I have—not twice in a row. No one has even come close to hooking him yet, although a lot have tried—desperately. Which is probably why his black book has so many names. He probably finds safety in numbers."
"If I were Rome Lockwood, I'd be worried," Lexie observed.
"Why?" Ginger walked to the desk to look at the photograph claiming the others' attention. A glimpse of the man in the picture made her add, "With looks like that, he'll never have to worry about the supply running out."
"He should worry that some of his many women might get together and compare notes. I'm sure he finds safety in numbers because it conceals the fact that he isn't man enough to keep one woman satisfied."
Her caustic statement was initially greeted by silence, then Shari released a short, stunned laugh and reached for a scratch pad and pencil. "That's priceless, Lexie!" she declared. "May I quote that in my column?"
Lexie hesitated, then shrugged diffidently. "I don't care."
Shari hurriedly wrote it down, rings cluttering her fingers and long nails polished in a fashionably gaudy purple red. "The whole town will be buzzing when they read this. Everybody will be talking about my column," she murmured aloud, smiling with feline satisfaction when she read what she had written.
"I think that's a horrible thing for you to say," Ginger accused. "You're probably just jealous, Lexie, because you aren't one of the girls he takes out."
"You're way off base." Lexie gave a pitying look to her roommate. "I'm not the least bit jealous. All his good looks and charm can't change the kind of man he is. And I know his type. There'll never be just one woman in his life. He's always going to have to prove what a man he is by stringing out a long line of conquests. The disgusting thing is that all the other men look up to him, envy him. They refer to him as a man's man. It's what they would all like to be."
"A lot of women agree," Shari pointed out.
"A lot of women are fools," Lexie replied. "They cherish fantasies that they'll be the one to catch him."
"And why not?" Shari argued. "He's tall, dark and handsome, not to mention wealthy."
"And he's a born Casanova." Lexie drained her coffee and tossed the cup in the wastebasket with an air of finality.
"And you're a born cynic," Shari smiled.
"I prefer it to being a born innocent," she retorted, straightening from the desk and glancing at her wristwatch. "I'd better be getting back to my desk. Stan is bound to be wanting me by now," she said, referring to her editor.
"I'd better go, too," Ginger stated. "See you later, Shari." She followed Lexie as she left the thinly partitioned alcove. "Neither one of you said what you thought I should do about this weekend. Should I go with Bob?"
"I can't tell you whether or not you should go," Lexie frowned. "It's your decision, Ginger, not mine."
"I don't feel right about going," the girl sighed, flicking her long, straight blonde hair away from her collar.
"Then don't go."
"But if I don't, Bob won't ask me out anymore."
"If that's the kind of guy he is, then you're better off without him."
"That's easy for you to say, but I don't want to get the reputation of being a prude."
Meaning that Lexie had. But it didn't bother Lexie at all. The ones who called her that were the ones she wouldn't have dated if they were the last men on earth. They were the ones who fell into the general category headed by the likes of Rome Lockwood.
With the striking combination of copper red hair and startling blue eyes, Lexie didn't lack for invitations to go out. Thus, she had her choice of companions, and she chose those whose company she would enjoy and not have to fight off. A few times her choice had proved to be wrong, with her idea of a good time and her date's idea clashing.
"With an attitude like that, Ginger," Lexie offered as they reached the hallway where they would separate to go to their different departments, "you could wind up with the reputation of being easy. And that can lead to a lot more heartbreak than being called a prude."
Ginger looked skeptical, but didn't argue. "I'm meeting Bob after work, so I'll see you later on tonight at the apartment."
"Wha
t about supper?"
"Don't get anything for me."
Lexie's desk was barely distinguishable from the rows of others just like it. The typewriter, files and clutter of papers on top of it half-covered the standard black telephone. The file cabinet, desk and typewriter table fenced in her chair. As Lexie squeezed through the gap between the typewriter and the short file cabinet, the man at the desk facing hers glanced up. Ralph Polasky was a staff reporter twenty years her senior, and inclined to laziness.
"You're back," he observed. "Mike was here a minute ago looking for you."
Lexie had expected her absence from the desk to be noted. Very little escaped Mike Farragut's attention. The little wheels on her chair legs squeaked as she pulled it away from the desk.
"What did he want?"
Her co-worker shrugged. "Just asked where you were. I told him I thought you'd gone for some coffee."
"I can imagine his reaction to that," she murmured dryly.
Ralph Polasky smiled. "You know Mike. He went off grumbling about women, coffee and gossip."
"And, of course, you agreed with him," Lexie accused him jokingly.
"Of course," her fellow reporter grinned.
"Chauvinist," she taunted and drew the expected laugh.
The phone rang at his desk. He answered it, then cupped a hand over the mouthpiece. "I forgot. I think Mike left something on your desk," he said, then resumed his conversation with the telephone caller.
Sitting down, Lexie quickly skimmed through the papers scattered haphazardly over her desk top. One practically leaped from among the others, demanding her attention. It was the story she had just written and turned in to Mike not more than an hour ago. She sighed when she saw what was left of it after Mike's ruthless pencil had gone over it. She leaned back in her chair and began reading through the changes and corrections.
After reworking the story, she submitted it to her editor again. Mike read it through and nodded his approval. Words of praise were the last things Lexie expected from him, and she didn't receive any. But the announcement that he was giving her a by-line on the story was ample reward.