by Day Leclaire
“What did you tell Marco?” she asked.
“Nothing! Not a word, just like I promised. Only . . .”
“Only?”
He yanked at the brim of his hat. “Marco’s my cousin, you see.”
Andrea closed her eyes and counted to ten. It didn’t help. “I’m sorry,” she said carefully. “I realize I’ve put you in an uncomfortable position, but I’d appreciate your continued discretion.”
“Sure thing. It’s just . . .”
“Yes?”
“Watching over a few bananas and apples isn’t no big deal.” He tugged significantly at his belt, his sidearm bouncing against his thigh. “A crazed desperado puts a few bullet holes in a bag of spuds, and you can up and buy some more. But I’d feel real bad if you were to ah . . .” He shrugged. “You know.”
“Become bullet-ridden while in your care?”
“Yeah.” He sighed in relief. “I’d feel real bad if that happened. It would cause big trouble for both of us. Major big trouble. And . . .”
“Yes, Willie?”
He stared at her earnestly, his devoted puppy-dog face beaded with perspiration. “This is temporary, like you promised, isn’t it Ms. Constantine?”
“Of course.” She smiled, positive all her woes would pass before too many more months. “And I’ll do my very best not to get shot. All right?”
“I guess that’ll have to do,” he agreed unhappily. He retreated down the steps. “You’ll remember to bar your door?”
“I’ll remember, Willie.”
He paused at the landing. “And keep that crowbar I gave you real handy. Under your pillow, okay?”
“I will.” She choked on the lie. Not even for Willie’s peace of mind would she sleep on top of a lump of iron.
“And call me if you hear anything peculiar.” He disappeared around the landing, then peeked back at her. “Anything at all.”
“You’ll be the first to know.” He vanished again and she stepped into the loft.
“’Night, Ms. Constantine. Sleep tight.”
“Good night, Willie,” she replied, and started to close her door.
His mournful voice drifted up with a final admonishment. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
A ndrea awoke the next morning to a room flooded with rainbows. Sunshine, streaming in from the skylights above her bed and from the tiny porthole windows along one wall, caught each of the hundreds of prisms and filled her room with the promise of a better tomorrow. At least, she’d always attributed the prisms with such a wondrous ability.
She wrapped her arms around her bent legs, gazing at the sparkling bits of glass suspended amongst the dust motes. So pretty and simple, yet add a little light and look at what they could accomplish. A rainbow and a miracle, all in one.
It also expressed her philosophy about life.
The rainbows gave her hope and reinforced her belief that everything, no matter how impossible it seemed, would work out in the end. It might take a little time and imagination, and it might also take a heck of a lot of effort, but eventually all her problems could be happily resolved. Faith, like sunlight on a prism, was the magical ingredient.
Unfortunately, pragmatism was an ingredient, as well. And a roomful of rainbows meant she’d overslept. Hopping off the bed, she threw on her clothes. With any luck, she could still slip down to her office with no one any the wiser.
Except for Marco, the ten salesmen, and dozen or so dock workers who’d been searching for her all morning.
“You had to be somewhere. Your car’s parked in the lot,” Marco groused the instant she made her appearance. “Where you been hiding?”
“The loft,” she admitted, honest to a fault. “Looking at prisms.”
“You gone daft on me?” Marco demanded. “Can’t work for no daft-minded boss.”
She glared at him, not that it helped. A fair number of the men in her employ had known her since she wore diapers. One or two, she didn’t doubt, had even changed the occasional soggy drawer, which gave her more substitute fathers than she cared to count, each more protective than the last.
“Every marble present and accounted for,” she stated. “What’s the problem?”
“We’ve got a boycott in the making,” he said, not pulling any punches.
Andrea closed her eyes. Hartsworth and his scum-of-the-earth lawyer, Thomas. What she wouldn’t give to lock them both up for a week with some of that worm-ridden, rot-infested corn they’d attempted to pawn off on her. “Go on. I can take it.” Maybe she could take it. She’d try to take it.
“Three phone calls so far. Each from farmers out of eastern Washington, same as Hartsworth, with every last son-of-a-hee-haw yammering on about our history of nonpayment.” He scowled. “They’re all demanding cash in hand before delivery.”
“Right. Then if they deliver, it won’t be fit for pig slop.” Not to mention the fact their current problems stemmed from just that sort of arrangement. The last time Nick paid in advance, the farming co-op he’d fronted went belly-up, adding to their financial hole. A hole fast approaching the size of the Grand Canyon. “Forget it.”
Marco hesitated, his expression reflecting his frustration. “I’m not sure we have a choice,” he admitted. “I wish I could call up every last one of those yahoos and give ’em what for, but we need their produce. Without it . . .” His shrug spoke volumes. “Our inventory won’t last forever.”
“We could buy elsewhere.”
“Not according to the brokers I’ve approached. Seems your friend Hartsworth’s got us wrapped up tighter than a sex-starved boa would its mate.”
She whistled softly. “I assume that’s tight.”
“Count on it.”
She could also count on Constantine’s being in an even tougher position, should she agree to their terms. “Okay, what do we do?”
“You’re the boss. It’s your call.”
“I’ll talk to them personally. Maybe it’ll help. How long can we get by?”
“Two days. Oh, and young Milano stopped by. Said he’d call you later.”
Andrea nodded. She didn’t have time to worry about Joe. Staying in business came first. She headed for her office, aware a solution to her predicament did exist—for the truly desperate. Which she wasn’t. At least, not yet. With luck, not ever.
Six hours later her luck ran out. Not only did she learn the meaning of the word “desperate,” she learned the meaning of the words “pure,” “unadulterated,” and “panic.” She unglued her ear from the phone and, in one furious move, swept her desk clean. Receipts, envelopes, and bills formed a colorful barrier around her desk.
Each of the men she’d spoken to was more stubborn than the most ornery mule, and twice as contrary. If she wanted any more deliveries she either paid for them in advance and in cash, or she scuttled over to Thorsen’s Produce, tail tucked firmly between her legs, and dumped her problems in Thor’s lap. Neither was a prospect she relished.
She thrust her chair aside and stood, stalking to the windows overlooking the warehouse. All her life she’d lived with a man who’d put business first—even, as Thor had so kindly reminded her, before his only child. Not that Nick hadn’t been a loving father. But it hurt, knowing she’d always come second in his life.
When she’d discovered she couldn’t successfully compete with the demands of Constantine’s, she’d tried to work for him and prove her worth that way, share with him on a level he’d understand. Not that it had done much good. Nick didn’t approve of women in business, at least this business, one that occupied all his time and energy. So, long ago she’d decided never to marry a man who felt the same way.
Then she’d met Thor, who promptly blew her decision to hell and gone. Still, she’d hoped. She’d hoped she’d fallen in love with a different type of man than Nick. Hoped Thor loved her even a smidgen more than his business. Hoped, for once, she c
ould be first in someone’s life.
The truth, when it came, had been painful, if not unforeseen. Shortly after their engagement, she’d discovered Thor had proposed only to get the best possible deal from Nick during negotiations for the Milano account. She’d returned his ring.
How ironic she’d come full circle, agreeing to marry a man who chose business over love. How the mighty did fall. She closed her eyes. And how Thor must be laughing.
With an effort, she straightened her shoulders. Maybe she could still have the last laugh. By marrying, she’d save Constantine’s and pay off the bank. She’d succeed where once she’d failed. Even better, she’d play Thor at his own game. And win.
Now to beard the thunder god in his den.
A t nine that night darkness enshrouded the inside of Thorsen’s main store in downtown Seattle. The two floors above the market also appeared deserted, all except for a single light on the upper level shining from the window of a corner office. Thor’s office.
A night watchman let Andrea in, and she climbed to the top floor, struggling to catch her breath. Normally, such a climb wouldn’t leave her winded, not with her lifestyle. Nor would it make her heart pound so erratically. She ran a hand through her short curls, groaning in dismay to discover her fingers shook. Pitiful. Absolutely pitiful.
Okay, so she was scared. Any woman about to throw herself at a man’s feet, prostrate herself before him, and plead for mercy, would be just as scared.
She paused, chewing on her lip. Maybe she wouldn’t have to plead. These things weren’t mandatory, after all. She brightened. She could leave out that part. He’d never miss it. With any luck, she could skip over the prostrating bit, too. And instead of throwing, perhaps she could toss herself at him. Gently.
That resolved, she found the nerve to walk down the long hallway to his office. His door stood open. He sat behind his desk, his tawny head bent over some papers. Her nerve cut and ran. Deciding to follow suit, she reversed engines, determined to beat a hasty retreat. She couldn’t cope with this right now.
“Andrea?”
Too late. “You’re busy. I’ll come another time,” she called, backpedaling down the hall and nearly tripping over her own two feet.
He appeared in the doorway, leaning against the jamb. A lazy grin spread across his broad mouth. “Chicken,” he murmured in a husky voice.
She nodded. “Cluck. Cluck.”
He held out a hand. “Come on, sweetheart. You got this far. You might as well finish it.”
His hand was large and strong, heavy calluses ridging his palm and fingers. She took a deep breath and slowly, tentatively, with utmost caution, returned to his side and fit her hand into his. The soothing warmth of his fingers engulfed her and she relaxed, her resistance fading. Her hand felt at home.
He tugged her closer, so close, in fact, that if she inched forward just a tad, she’d be in his arms. She’d missed those arms about her, their tender power, their warmth and security. She’d also missed the way their bodies fit in such perfect alignment, his height easily topping her extra inches.
“So,” he rumbled close to her ear, laughter evident in his deep tones. “To what do I owe the honor?”
She sighed. Maybe pleading, prostrating, and throwing herself at his feet wouldn’t be so bad, after all. Which, she wondered, would he expect first? Pleading, most likely.
“I’ve come to ple—” She lifted a hand to her throat, choking on the word.
He chuckled. “Ple? Ple what?”
“Ple—” The word refused to leave her tongue. She tried to scrape it off with her teeth and came up empty. Maybe prostrating would work better. “I’ve come to pros—”
“Ple pros?” His mouth twitched. “Is that a new fruit, perhaps? Put me down for five cases.”
She took a steadying breath. The man redefined insufferable! He knew full well why she’d come. Why didn’t he help a little?
“I’ve come . . .” Her chin shot up. The hell with it. “I’ve come for proof.” Yeah, proof. That beat out plead and prostrate any day of the week, not to mention tossing herself at his feet. “You said you could help solve my problems if I marry you. I’ll agree to marriage if you show me some proof first.” She groaned. No question about it. A full quota of pride, all present and accounted.
His smile turned sardonic. “Of course. Ple pros. Proof. I don’t know why I didn’t make the connection right away.” She agonized through a full two minutes of uncomfortable silence. Just when she’d reached the breaking point and was on the verge of caving, he said, “Tell me your problem. I’ll take care of it. My pleasure.”
A grub couldn’t have felt lower than she did at that moment. She crossed to the chair in front of his desk and perched on the edge. In a minimum of words, she filled in the gaps about the situation with Hartsworth, Thomas, and the eastern Washington farmers.
“I realize there isn’t much you can do tonight,” she concluded.
“No?” He flipped through his personal directory and picked up the phone, punching in a series of numbers. “Oh, ye of little faith. Listen and learn.”
He called his own lawyer first. After giving the attorney a specific list of instructions, he phoned Mr. Thomas. She didn’t have the nerve to ask where Thor had gotten the man’s home number, and on such short notice. Or had he anticipated her coming? Considering his ultimatum, her arrival couldn’t have been much of a surprise.
“This is Thor Thorsen,” he announced briskly, listening for a moment before replying, “That’s right. Thorsen’s Produce. I understand there’s some conflict between your client, Mr. Hartsworth, and my fiancée, Andrea Constantine.” He fell silent for several moments more. “That’s an interesting claim, though not quite what the federal produce inspectors state on their report. I’ve instructed my attorney to file suit against Mr. Hartsworth on behalf of Ms. Constantine first thing in the morning.”
He lifted his foot and rested it on the desk, dangling the phone from its cord. He smiled at Andrea. It took five minutes before the voice shrieking through the receiver quieted.
Thor spoke again. “No, you listen to me. This is my one and only offer. Your client will have a truckload of corn sitting on Constantine’s loading dock within twenty-four hours. Once that’s done, a certified check will be messengered to Mr. Hartsworth. What’s your answer?” He smiled. “I thought so. Nice doing business with you.”
“That’s it?” she demanded the instant he hung up. “Thomas agreed?”
“Of course.”
Of course. She sat and stewed. He resolved her problem with such ease. Why did she find that so annoying? She knew why. Because she couldn’t handle it on her own. All her pleading and all her threats hadn’t done a bit of good. And yet, one word from Thor Thorsen and people fell all over themselves to do his bidding. Corn would magically appear on her dock. The farmers would fight to be the first to deliver their apples. Undoubtedly quality would improve a thousandfold. The scenario left a bitter taste in her mouth.
“You don’t seem pleased,” he observed.
“I’m not,” she admitted with blunt honesty. “I’m grateful, but I’m not pleased. It shouldn’t require male interference to take care of Constantine’s problems.”
“No, it shouldn’t. If it bothers you so much, get out of the business.”
Her eyes flashed with anger. “I can’t, remember? If I try to sell Constantine’s, you’ll dump me. The business could fold.”
He shrugged. “The way things are going, it’ll fold, anyway.”
“No, it won’t!”
“Face facts. You can’t win on your own.” He leaned across the desk, his facade of indifference disappearing. “You’ve always loved working the business. Are you going to let a bunch of unscrupulous bastards force you out? They fight by fair means or foul. Take a leaf from their book. If you use their own rules against them, you stand a chance of winning.”
/> She looked away, her spine rigid with defiance. She’d agreed to marry Thor if he solved her problem with Hartsworth. She’d honor her promise just as she honored all her business commitments. First, they’d discuss the terms of surrender.
Her mouth turned down. “All right. I need you. There, I’ve admitted it.”
“That’s big of you,” he said dryly.
“Do you still insist on marriage?”
“I do.”
“Do you object to a prenuptial agreement keeping our two businesses separate?”
“No. I prefer it.”
“Okay. I’ll marry you.” She glanced at him, and froze in her chair. Triumph glowed deep in his eyes, turning the color a brilliant sea blue. So he’d beaten her, after all. He must be very pleased. Foreboding filled her, teasing her with what lay ahead—a marriage based on desire and business, not on love.
“About time,” he muttered in a rough voice. He stood and she followed suit, backing away.
“I want a few marital ground rules set up first,” she spoke hastily.
He smiled and his resemblance to a huge hungry lion grew. “Such as?”
“We divorce in three months.”
He shook his head and came around the side of his desk. “Six. Minimum. It’ll take at least that long to get Constantine’s in shape.”
“Okay, six,” she agreed, edging away. “But I can’t marry you for two more months. Things are too hectic at work right now.”
“We marry in four weeks.”
She put the chair between them. “That’s too soon!”
“Tough.”
He hooked a foot around the chair leg and booted it to one side. “The wedding,” she gasped. “I want it small and intimate.”
“Try large and public and at my church.” He kept coming. “The whole purpose of this ceremony is to broadcast it to as many people as possible, not keep it quiet. I’ll take care of the wedding arrangements. All you have to do is show up. Any more conditions I should know about?”