"No, I am not married to Miss Bergerac." Zachary was speaking again, though the effort it cost him was visible by the clenching of his hands and the pallor of his face. "Is there anything else you wish to know?"
"Not for the moment," she said composedly and forced herself to look at him directly. "While I can appreciate the benefit you obtain from Miss Bergerac's company, I don't think the rest of us obtain sufficient to warrant Farrell's receiving no profit whatever on an expenditure of some five thousand pounds per annum."
"You little—" The rest of the words were bitten back but his look spoke volumes.
Samantha held her ground and stared at him more defiantly, thinking of his earlier rudeness to her and the way he had sided with his girl friend over the white dress.
"Samantha is right," Larry said, as if knowing it was time for him to speak. "If you want to take care of Marie, that's your personal business. Not Farrell's. Naturally she can have a discount on all future purchases, and we won't expect you to make up the loss on the past year."
"I don't need your largesse," Zachary said tersely. "Work out how much you'd have got and I'll write you a check."
"Or you could get married," Larry added. "Then Marie would qualify for things at cost!"
"Which might be too high a cost for me to pay," Zachary replied. "But you've made your point. In future I will pay for everything Marie takes."
"There's no need to go the whole hog," Larry protested. "The other Directors get forty percent and so can she."
Ignoring his cousin, Zachary Farrell looked at Samantha. "Will that satisfy you, Miss Byers? Or do you wish me to pay the full cost on Miss Bergerac's purchases?"
"I'm quite happy with Larry's suggestion." She hesitated. "And while we're on the subject, I'd like to make it clear that I don't consider myself family and will not avail myself of—"
"Spare me the sacrifice," he said roughly. "You are part of our little triumvirate and needn't pretend otherwise. I can assure you I won't throw hysterics if your bills run into five figures."
Before she could reply, he strode out and banged the door behind him. Dismayed, she resisted the urge to follow and apologize. He was angry and she could appreciate why. Yet she was not sorry for what she had said, only sorry that she had been forced into saying it. It had been stupid of him to put himself in such a vulnerable position.
"It's a pity he isn't married to Miss Bergerac," she said flatly. "Then the whole thing would never have arisen."
"Can you see him being happy with her?" Larry asked.
"I don't know either of them well enough."
"You know Zachary. He's never any different from the way he is now. Serious, bossy, single- minded."
"Hasn't he any good qualities?" she asked with sudden irritability.
"He's great at sport and he's very patient." The words came out without thought and Larry looked surprised at himself. "Exceptionally patient," he repeated. "He was great to me when I was a kid. I'll go after him and have a drink with him. I'm sure he's got a bit of a sore head."
"Don't talk about me behind my back," she said as he went to the door.
"What makes you think I would?" He spun round to look at her.
"Two men together talking about an interfering newcomer," she said dryly.
"That's not fair." He returned to her side and pulled her close. "I know I didn't have the guts to mention Marie myself, but I did back you up as I promised."
"Yes, you did," she said contritely. "I'm sorry."
"You should always kiss someone when you apologize." He bent his head and touched his lips to hers. His kiss was firm and she waited, half hoping to feel some emotion. But there was nothing.
"Samantha," he breathed.
"Forgive me for interrupting."
A deep voice drew them apart, and she saw Zachary on the threshold. He ignored her completely and looked at Larry. "Frank Goddard is waiting to see us." He was referring to the banker. "Have you forgotten?"
" 'Fraid so," Larry said easily, not one whit embarrassed. "I had more important things on my mind."
Samantha's face flamed, for Larry made it sound as if they had stayed deliberately behind in order to kiss.
"Do you want me to tell him you'll be along soon," Zachary asked, "or have you finished?"
"As a matter of fact, old chap, we've hardly begun!"
In normal circumstances Samantha would have laughed but there was something about Zachary that made her feel uncomfortable. Again she wished that her first argument with him had not been of such a personal nature.
"Do go, Larry," she said hurriedly and went to the door. "I'm going home, anyway."
"I'll pick you up at eight," he said, and she knew he had spoken deliberately to acquaint his cousin with the fact, almost as if he was showing off his friendship with her.
"Fine," she smiled and walked down the corridor, leaving the two cousins alone and wishing, the way Larry had once done, that she could be a fly on the wall.
CHAPTER SIX
Surprisingly, Samantha had a thoroughly enjoy- able weekend. She spent Friday evening and Sunday with Larry and went out on Saturday with Peter who, calling around to the flat to collect some of his records, had been sufficiently smitten with Samantha's looks to ask her out.
A weekend of masculine adulation did wonders for her ego, and on Monday morning she returned to Farrell's with a feeling of pleasure, quite forgetting Zachary's icy disdain of her. But she remembered it the instant she received a telephone call from his secretary, telling her, almost with a note of apology, that she should present herself at the Packing Department.
It required no appreciation of the way a store was run to know that the Packing Department was one sphere with which she had no need to concern herself.
"Are you sure there hasn't been some mistake?" Samantha asked, knowing full well there was not, and knowing also whom to blame for being moved.
"No, Miss Byers, there has been no mistake," the secretary said. "There was a note on my desk about it this morning."
Hiding her anger, Samantha went to the basement where all goods to be delivered or posted were stored. There were only two girls employed on the actual packing—herself and another one—though there were a few others in the postal department. Luckily there was no heavy lifting to do and their time was spent mainly packing fragile articles and clothes which, though they were supposed to come down from the Dress Department ready for delivery, always had to be rechecked to make sure there was sufficient tissue paper between the folds and that the boxes fitted the garments as exactly as possible. No initiative was required and the work was tedious, particularly for Samantha who did not feel inclined to flirt with the cheery young messenger boys who whistled their way in and out. But her companion obviously delighted in her job and had been there for more than a year; sporting a miniscule solitaire diamond on her finger as proof of her success.
"My Bertie is in Shoes," she said.
"That's better than going barefoot," quipped Samantha, a remark which was met with a stony stare of incomprehension.
After a week of working in the basement which, though air-conditioned, afforded her no view of the sky, Samantha was more than glad when the weekend arrived. On Saturday she went with Peter to the country. It meant refusing an invitation to go out with Larry but she was glad of the excuse, for she did not wish him to commandeer her whole time. Peter was fun to be with and there was the added advantage of knowing he had no ulterior motive in wishing to be with her. Whereas with Larry she was not completely sure. Any guilt she might have had at going out with the man her friend loved was nullified by the knowledge that when he was with her, he was unlikely to be falling in love with anyone else. To this end she chattered frequently about Jackie and what a marvelous time she was having in New Zealand.
Returning to Farrell's on Monday, she waited hopefully for a call from Mrs. Fielding, directing her to another department. But none came and mutinously she went back to Packing.
If Zacha
ry was waiting for her to complain to him, he would have a long wait indeed. She was prepared to stay down there forever before she gave him the satisfaction of doing that. Still, even he would not be so ill-advised to let this happen, since the whole purpose of her being here was to work her way through the entire store. Surely a week in Packaging was sufficient punishment for having had the temerity to criticize him?
The thought reminded her of Marie Bergerac and to her anger against Zachary she added astonishment that a man of such cold calculation should be enthralled by such a hard-faced little creature as the French girl.
Was it Marie's intelligence that attracted him? She had no way of knowing, for the girl had shown none toward her. Indeed, had she been intelligent, she would have behaved in a more civilized manner over the white dress. In which case, the events that followed would never have occurred.
By the middle of her second week in the basement Samantha was almost ready to go up and demand she be moved to another department. She knew she would have been quite within her rights to do so but obstinacy still kept her where she was, though several of the parcels suffered at her angry hands.
"Mind how you wrap this one, Miss Byers." The caution came from Jock, the senior man in charge, as he deposited a fragile Venetian bowl in front of her. "You'd better pack it round with fiberglass and cotton padding."
Samantha admired the glowing colors of the bowl and wondered if it was going to be used for fruit or flowers or left to stand on its own as an example of beauty. Normally she did not like glass, preferring the robustness of ceramics, but this piece was exquisite enough to appeal to anyone with artistic taste. Carefully she packed it in the appropriate box and wedged it into position with padding. It was a priority delivery by hand, which meant she had to take it up to the commissionaire and wait at the entrance while he obtained a taxi. Sometimes this would be a lengthy business for many drivers did not like delivering parcels, though usually the name of Farrell's was enough to get them to do so.
"Take it up as soon as it's ready," Jock called across the room, and Samantha nodded.
The movement sent a sharp pain across her eyes and she closed them briefly. Despite good ventilation in the packing room, she had had a headache for two days and knew it was caused by the fluorescent lighting—to which she was unaccustomed—and the blaring of a transistor radio which her colleague kept beside her on the bench.
Making sure the address was clearly written on the cover, Samantha picked up the parcel and took it out of the department. Though the bowl was small, the bulky wadding made the package large and she was unable to see over the top of it as she carried it in front of her. She had to walk the length of the corridor before she came to the steps leading up to the Ground Floor, but she knew her way blindfolded and she moved along at a brisk pace.
The suddenness with which she hit an immovable object took her by surprise. She side-stepped quickly but it appeared the object was not immovable and did the same. This still left them barring each other's way and again she sidestepped. Once more whoever was on the other side of her followed suit.
"Do stand still," she said crossly, "unless you want the next dance!"
She raised the parcel high in the air and though this did not give her a view of the person blocking her way, it enabled her to see a pair of immaculately creased dark trousers and black shoes polished to perfection. Only one man would have shoes of such pristine brilliance, Samantha felt sure and, raising the parcel right above her head, stared into Zachary Farrell's rigid features. The long nose seemed longer and the wide mouth wider, as it curved back in a sarcastic smile.
"Are you entering a weight-lifting contest?" he enquired.
"How else do you expect me to see?"
"Wouldn't it have been better to have put string all round it and carried it with a handle?"
It was an obvious thing to have done, and she was furious for not realizing it.
"I didn't think of it," she admitted.
"That, I imagine, is a failing of yours."
"I thought very carefully before I spoke at the meeting," she came back at him, knowing what was in his mind.
His look was derisive. "What makes you so sure I was thinking of the meeting?"
"Why else would you dislike me? You are annoyed with me for not letting your girl friend walk all over me in the Dress Department, and you are angrier still because I—"
"Do you think it's only your behavior with Marie that makes me dislike you?" he interrupted. "Don't you know what your position here means to the running of Farrell's?"
"I know what it would mean if I wasn't here. If you and Larry were equal shareholders nothing would get done!"
"I don't happen to agree with you; My cousin is capable of assessing whether something is right or not, and in all the years we've worked together, we have always ended up in agreement."
"Because your uncle was here to see that you did. But he obviously didn't think it would happen once he was dead. Believe me, Mr. Farrell, I hate my position here as much as you do, and no matter what you think to the contrary, I knew nothing of Uncle John's intentions until the will was read."
Because she was speaking with passionate conviction her voice rose. There was a ring of truth in it, as there was in the fearless look-sparkling from her large gray eyes, and no man of sensibility could have denied it.
"If you are telling the truth," he said grudgingly, "I hope you will have the sense to vote with me over the annex."
"I thought you had shelved that idea for the moment?"
"Is that what Larry told you?" Zachary's voice was deep as a cello and she felt the throb of it in her body.
"He d-did mention it," she stammered, hoping she had not given anything away.
"I wish I knew why he was against it," Zachary said grimly. "If we want to stay in business and compete with our rivals, we have no option but to expand. If we don't, we will end up as a small, specialist-type shop with a diminishing clientele."
He straightened his shoulders, making her conscious of their width and the broadness of his chest. Because her present work meant her standing a great deal, she was wearing flat-heeled shoes, and it made him some inches taller than she. This may have been the reason why she suddenly had a heightened sense of his physical strength. It was odd that he had used the words "weight lifting" a moment ago, for that was exactly what she felt he could have done as a hobby. His biceps were hidden by his faultlessly cut suit but their strength was evident, as was that of his large, well-shaped hands which, though they showed no sign of physical work, looked as if they could span her waist and break her in two. As if conscious of her eyes on them, his fingers twitched slightly, almost as if he longed to get them round her neck. The idea made her smile.
"I am sorry if what I have said has amused you, Miss Byers," he continued, "but it happens to be important to Farrell's future."
"I wasn't smiling at what you said but at—at the way we always fight when we meet. I wish you could realize that I also want what's best for Farrell's."
"How can you know what's best when you are so inexperienced?"
"Intelligence can often compensate for experience," she said sharply. "That might not be the case where technical or scientific knowledge is required, but with something like a department store—or any type of business catering to people on a day-to-day basis—then understanding of human nature and some comprehension of the political and social scene, is as important a factor as a minute knowledge of the ways a store is run. Sometimes, Mr. Farrell," she concluded, "being too close to something and knowing too much about it, blinds you to other considerations."
For a half moment he regarded her. "I appreciate your intelligence but I would still prefer that you had actual knowledge. You are an emotional young woman and—"
"My head isn't turned by flattery," she cut in swiftly. "If I have to make a casting vote I would talk to the other directors before doing so." She frowned. "It seems so peculiar to have a Board of Directors and yet o
nly allow three of them to control the company."
"My cousin and I—and yourself—do not control the company. We only control the daily running of it. Any big change in policy requires money, and the Board as a whole have to give their approval before that is forthcoming."
"But you still manage to get your own way, don't you?"
"That is my aim in life." There was no humor in his face to soften this remark. "My aims are often thwarted by lack of money, but I still regard myself and my cousin as the two people best qualified to make decisions. Farrell's has always been a family concern and should be controlled by the family."
"You sound like a member of the Mafia!"
His full lip jutted forward. "No doubt you think of me that way."
The conversation seemed to be deteriorating and she knew that if she stayed here talking it could end up in another argument. Picking up the package and holding it in upraised arms—so that this time she could see where she was going —she started to mount the narrow flight of steps that led to a side entrance on the Ground Floor.
Whether it was self-consciousness at the belief that Zachary Farrell was still watching her, or because her upraised arms set her off balance, Samantha did not know, but she was half way up when her foot slipped. In the normal course of events, she would have gripped the railing to steady herself, but both hands were holding the parcel and she fell on to her knees. The steps were concrete and the sharp edge of one of them dug into her shin bone. With a gasp of pain she set the parcel in front of her. A red mist floated across her eyes and a wave of heat enveloped her. Almost at once firm hands were lifting her up and, though tears blurred her vision, she recognized the broad, dark figure close to her.
Roberta Leigh - Love in Store Page 7