Man of the Hour

by Diana Palmer

  “What old friend?” Bob asked dryly. “Someone female?”

  Lang glowered at him. “Yes.”

  “And still interested in you?”

  “Lorna gave me up years ago, before I started going with Kirry. She was only thinking that I might like a change,” he said. “It’s nothing romantic.”

  Bob didn’t say anything, but his expression did. “Okay, I’ll quit prying. Where is it that you’re going to work?”

  “A corporation called Lancaster, Inc., in San Antonio. It has several holdings, and I’ll be responsible for overseeing security in all of them.”

  Bob made a sound in his throat.

  “What was that?” Lang asked curiously.

  Bob coughed, choking. “Why, not a thing in this world!” he said. He was grinning. “I hope you like pancakes for dinner, it’s all I can cook, and Connie won’t be in for hours yet. I usually make her an omelet when she gets here.” His hands tightened on the steering wheel. “I hate mechanics!”

  “You knew Connie had this talent when you married her ten years ago,” Lang reminded him.

  “Well, I didn’t know she planned to open her own shop, did I? For the past six months, ever since she went into business, I’ve been living like a single parent! I do everything for Mikey, everything, and she’s never home!”

  Lang’s eyebrows lifted. “Does she have any help?”

  “Can’t afford any, she says,” he muttered darkly, pulling into the driveway of the stately old Victorian house they lived in. Out back was a new metal building, from which loud mechanical noises were emanating.

  The elderly lady next door, working in her flowers, gave Bob an overly sweet smile. “How nice to see you again, Lang,” she said. “I hope you didn’t come home for some peace and quiet, because if you did, you’ll find more peace and quiet in downtown San Antonio than you’ll get here!”

  “You’re screaming, Martha,” Bob said calmly.

  “I have to scream to be heard with that racket going on night and day!” the white-haired little lady said. Her face was turning red. “Can’t you make her quit at a respectable hour?”

  “Be my guest,” Bob invited.

  “Not me,” she mumbled, shifting from one foot to the other. “Tried it once. She flung a wrench at me.” She made a sniffling noise and went back to work in her flowers.

  Lang was trying hard not to laugh. He took his flight bag, and Mikey, out of the back seat.

  “Is that all you have?” Bob asked for the third time since he’d gotten his brother off the plane.

  “I don’t accumulate things,” Lang told him. “It’s not sensible when your assignments take you all over the country and around the world.”

  “I guess so. You don’t accumulate people, either, do you?” he added sadly.

  He clapped a big hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Family’s different.”

  Bob smiled lopsidedly. “Yeah.”

  “I’ll just go out and say hello to Connie.”

  “Uh, Lang…”

  “It’s all right, I’m a trained secret agent,” Lang reminded him dryly.

  “Watch your head. Place is loaded with wrenches….”

  Lang banged on the door and waited for the noise to cease and be replaced with loud mutters.

  The door was thrown open and a slight woman with brown hair wearing stained blue coveralls and an Atlanta Braves cap peered up at him. “Lang? Lang!”

  She hurled herself into his big arms and hugged him warmly. “How are you? When Bob told me you’d given up the Agency to work in San Antonio, I stood up and cheered! Listen, when you get a car, I’ll do all your mechnical work free. You can stay with us—”

  “No, I can’t,” he told her. “I have to be in San Antonio, but I can come and visit often, and I will. I’ll get a nice big apartment and some toys for Mikey to play with when you bring him up to see me.”

  She grimaced. “I don’t have a lot of time, you know. So many jobs and only me to do them. I can’t complain, though, work is booming. We have a new VCR and television set, and Mikey has loads of toys. I even bought Bob a decent four-wheel drive to use in his work.” She beamed. “Not bad, huh?”

  “Not bad at all,” he agreed, wondering if it would be politic to mention that gifts weren’t going to replace the time she spent with her family. He and Bob had scars that Connie might not even know about. God knew, Lang had never been able to share his with Kirry, as close as they’d been.

  “Well, back to work. Bob’s cooking tonight, he’ll feed you. I’ll see you later, Lang. Did you get me the carburetor?”

  He flushed.

  She glowered. “Bob, right? He wouldn’t let you.” She stamped her foot. “I don’t know why in heaven’s name I had to marry a male chauvinist pig! He looked perfectly sane when I said yes.” She turned and went back into the garage, closing the door behind her, still muttering. Lang was certain then that Bob had never shared the past with her.

  “Well, did she scream about the carburetor?” Bob asked hopefully as he dished up black-bottomed pancakes in the kitchen.

  “Yes.”

  “Did she tell you how much stuff she’s bought us all?” he added. “Nice, isn’t it? If we only had her to share it with, it might mean something. Poor old Mikey doesn’t even get a bedtime story anymore because she’s too tired to read him one. I even do that.”

  “Have you tried talking to her?” Lang asked.

  “Sure. She doesn’t listen. She’s too busy redesigning engine systems and important stuff like that.” He put some pancakes down in front of Mikey, who made a face. “Scrape off the burned part,” he instructed his son.

  “There’s a hamburger from yesterday in the refrigerator. Can’t I have that instead?” Mikey asked plaintively.

  “Okay. Heat it up in the microwave,” Bob grumbled.

  “Thanks, Dad! Can I go watch television while I eat?”

  “You might as well. Family unity’s gone to hell around here.”

  Mikey whooped and went to retrieve his hamburger from the refrigerator. He heated it up and vanished into his room.

  “Poor kid. His cholesterol will be as high as a kite and he’ll die of malnutrition.”

  Lang was staring at the black pancakes. “If he doesn’t starve first.”

  “I can’t cook. She didn’t marry me for my cooking skills. She should have found somebody who was a gourmet chef in his spare time.”

  “Why don’t you hire a cook?” Lang suggested.

  Bob brightened. “Say, that’s an idea. We’ve got plenty of money, so why don’t I? I’ll start looking tomorrow.” He stared at the black pancakes on his own plate and pushed them away. “Tell you what, I’ll run down to the corner and get us a couple of Mama Lou’s barbecue sandwiches and some fries, how about that?”

  Lang grinned. “That’s more like it.” He paused. “While you’re at it, you might tell Connie exactly why you don’t like working mothers. If she understood, she might compromise.”

  “Her? Dream on. And I don’t like talking about the past. Go ahead,” he suggested when Lang paused. “Tell me you ever said anything to Kirry.”

  Lang didn’t have a comeback. He shrugged and walked away.

  He spent a lazy two days with Bob and Connie and Mikey, trying not to notice the disharmony. If the couple hadn’t each been so individually stubborn, things might have worked out better. But neither one was going to give an inch or compromise at all.

  Before Lang left for San Antonio to see his new boss the following Monday, Bob had interviewed four women to housekeep and cook for the family. The one he favored was a Mexican-American girl who had beautiful black hair down to her waist and soft brown eyes like velvet. Her voice was seductive and she had a figure that made Lang’s pulse run wild. This was going to mean trouble, he thought, but he couldn’t interfere. His brother had to lead his own life.

  Lancaster, Inc., was owned by a middle-aged man and his wife, a fashion-conscious socialite. Although public shares were i
ssued, it was basically a family-held company, and Lang liked the owners at first sight. They were straightforward about his duties and salary, and they made him feel welcome.

  He was introduced to his immediate staff, a veteran ex-cop and a woman who was ex-military, two very capable individuals who had been running the operation since the previous security chief left because he couldn’t take the pressure.

  “Couldn’t stand the sight of blood,” Edna Riley said with faint contempt. She looked at Lang curiously. “I hear you were CIA.”

  He nodded. “That’s right.”

  “And before that?”

  “I was a street cop on the San Antonio police force.”

  Edna grinned. “Well, well.”

  Tory Madison grinned, too. “Sure, I remember you,” he said. “I retired about the same time you joined. But I couldn’t stay quit. Inactivity was killing me. I can’t keep up with the younger ones, but I know a few things that help keep the greenhorns out of trouble. I’m administrative, but that’s okay. I like my job.”

  Lang smiled at him. “When I’ve had time to look over the operation, I may have some changes in mind. Nothing drastic,” he said when they looked worried, “like sweeping the ranks clean and starting over, so don’t worry about that, okay?”

  They all relaxed. “Okay.”

  “But we do need to keep up with new methods in the business,” he added. “I’m pretty up-to-date on that since I’ve just come back from the front.”

  “We’d love to have coffee with you and hear all about it,” Edna murmured, tongue in cheek.

  “Everything I know is classified,” Lang said. “But I can sure tell you about weapons technology.”

  “Oh, we learned all about that by watching the latest Lethal Weapon movie,” Edna informed him.

  “Not quite.” He glanced at the dilapidated coffee machine. “First thing we’re going to do is replace that.”

  Edna spread-eagled her thin frame in front of it. “Over my dead body!” she exclaimed. “If it goes, I go.”

  Lang peered down at her. “Makes good coffee, does it?”

  “The best,” she assured him.

  “Prove it,” he challenged.

  Her dark eyes sparkled. “My pleasure,” she said, and proceeded to crank up the veteran machine.

  Ten minutes later, Lang had to agree that they couldn’t take a chance on a new coffeemaker being up to those standards. His co-workers chuckled, and decided that the new addition might not be such a pain, after all.

  The next day, dressed in his best gray suit, red-striped tie and neatly pressed cotton shirt, Lang made a tour of the five companies under the Lancaster, Incorporated umbrella.

  The first was Lancaster, Inc., itself, which owned and was located in a huge office complex that served as headquarters for several other San Antonio companies. There were ten security people, five day and five night, who looked after the safety of the various buildings. One did nothing but assure the safety of the parking garage adjacent to it, and inspected the parking permits of the complex’s occupants. The others patrolled in cars and on foot, maintaining a high level of security.

  He interviewed the personnel and found one particular man not at all to his liking. There was something about the security officer that disturbed him, more so when Lang caught him calling out a very personal remark to one of the women who worked in the building. Perhaps they were friends, because the woman smiled wanly and kept walking. But Lang remembered the incident later, when he was talking to the building’s main security officer.

  Two of the headquarters’ offices located in this complex—one a canning concern and the other a meat packer—had been targeted by protestors from various radical groups, Lang was told by the main security officer, a man younger than Lang. Security was responsible for seeing to it that none of the tenants got hurt. Lang asked casually if the man had any problems with his personnel. There was a pregnant pause, and he told Lang that he’d had a complaint or two about one of the men, but he was keeping a close eye on him. Lang didn’t like the sound of that.

  Lang’s second charge was a department store of vintage age, where two stories of fine clothing were under the care of two day-security people and one night guard. The younger of the three was a little cocky until he learned Lang’s background, and then it was amusing to watch him backpedal and try to make amends.

  The third of the businesses was a small garment company that manufactured blue jeans. It had only one security guard for day and one for night. Lang liked the night man, who was a veteran of the Drug Enforcement Administration. He’d have to make a point of stopping by one night to talk over old times with him.

  The fourth company was a licensed warehouse where imported goods were brought and stored until they cleared customs.

  And the fifth company under the umbrella of Lancaster, Inc.’s security network was a new and thriving company called Contacts Unlimited. It boasted six executives and ten employees in the Lancaster, Inc. office complex where Lang had started out investigating his security force that morning.

  Lang spoke to the company president, Mack Dunlap, about any complaints he might have with the company’s security. It was a follow-up to the talk he’d already had with the complex’s main security official, who was under Lang’s authority now.

  “Not me,” Mack, a tall balding man, said brightly. “But one of our vice presidents says that one of the day-security men made a very suggestive remark to her.”

  Lang’s eyes narrowed. “Did he, now?” he asked. “I’d like a word with her. Naturally I’m going to take such complaints very seriously.”

  Mack’s eyebrows went up. “That’s new. Old Baxter, who had the job before you, just laughed. He said women should get used to that sort of talk. She had words with him, let me tell you.”

  “I can’t do anything about Baxter, but I can promise you that a new yardstick will be used to measure our security people from now on.”

  Mack smiled. “Thanks. Uh, right down there, second door to the left. She’s in this afternoon.”

  “I’ll only take a minute of her time,” Lang said with formal politeness.

  He went to the door, not really noticing the nameplate, and knocked.

  “Come in,” came a poised, quietly feminine voice.

  He opened the door and froze in the doorway.

  She was dressed in an off-white linen suit with a pea green blouse that just matched her eyes. Her blond hair was cut short around her face, curling toward high cheekbones and a bow-shaped mouth.

  She was looking down at a spreadsheet, her thin eyebrows drawn into a slight frown as she tried to unravel some figures that had her puzzled.

  “What can I do for you, Mack?” she asked absently, without looking up.

  Lang’s hand tightened on the doorknob. All the memories were rushing back at him from out of the past, stinging his heart, his mind, making him hoarse. Bob’s grinning face flashed in his mind, and now he knew why his brother had reacted so strongly to news that Lang was going to work for Lancaster, Inc.

  “I said…” Kirry looked up, and those green eyes went from shock to fascination to sheer hatred in a split second. She stood up, as slender and pretty as ever, but with a new maturity about her.

  “Hello, Kirry,” Lang said quietly, forcing himself to smile with careless indifference. “Long time no see.”

  “What is the CIA doing here?” she wanted to know.

  Lang looked around. “What CIA?”

  “You!”

  “Oh. I’m not CIA. Well, not anymore,” he replied. “I just went to work for Lancaster, Inc. I’m their new chief of security.” He grinned from ear to ear at her discomfort. “Isn’t it a small world!”

  2

  Kirry sat back down, as gracefully as she could with her heart breaking inside her body. She forced a smile, almost as careless as Lang’s.

  “Yes,” she said, “it is a small world. What can I do for you, Lang?”

  “Your boss says you’v
e had some problems with one of our security people.”

  “Oh.”

  He stuck his hands into his pockets. “Well?”

  So he hadn’t found out where she worked and come just to see her. It was business. That shouldn’t have disappointed her. After all, it was five years ago when he stormed out of her life. But it did disappoint her.

  He wasn’t smoking. In the old days, there had always been a cigarette dangling from his fingers. She wondered why he’d given it up. Perhaps they didn’t let secret agents smoke or practice any other addictions that might put the job at risk.

  “Mr. Erikson seems to find it amusing to make vulgar remarks to me,” she said, easing down into her chair with assumed nonchalance.

  “Tell Mr. Erikson to cut it out.”

  “I have. He can’t understand why I should find it offensive. I am a woman, after all. Women were created, or so he says, for man’s pleasure,” she added meaningfully.

  He pursed his lips. “I see. How old a man are we discussing?”

  “He’s somewhere near fifty, I guess.”

  “He should know better.”

  “I hope you’ll make that clear. I came very close to filing charges against him yesterday.”

  “For what?”

  She didn’t like discussing it with Lang. She hesitated.

  “We were friends once,” he reminded her.

  “He was making remarks about the size of my foundation garments and whether or not I wore black ones. Then he proceeded to say,” she said, taking a breath, “that he’d buy me one if I’d put it on for him.”

  Lang didn’t like that, and it showed. “I’ll have to have a little talk with him. If it happens again, I want to know.”