by Joan Hohl
“As to that, I have a million questions.” She held up her hand at the frown that drew his brows together. “None of which I’d dare ask. But isn’t there any way you can resolve the situation?”
“Marsha, I fully intend to resolve the situation,” Brett assured her softly. “In my own time, and in my own way.”
‘There are times”—Marsha grinned—”my dear Brett, when you actually give me the shivers.”
“Oh, sure,” Brett said dismissively. Moving restlessly, he strolled to the window. “By the way, are you all settled in?” he asked idly.
“To what? The job or the apartment?”
“Both,” he grinned. “But primarily the job.”
“Fairly well.” She grinned back.”Why do I have this sensation you have a particular reason for asking?”
“Maybe because I have a particular reason for asking,” he retorted dryly. “I’m going to hit the road again on Wednesday,” he explained seriously. “I was wondering if you had any questions before I leave.”
“Where are you off to this time?” Not for a minute did Marsha think the query impertinent, which said much for the closeness that had developed between them in the brief time they’d known each other.
“The Pocono Mountains in Pennsylvania. I’m considering a condo complex there,” Brett explained sketchily.
“For the skiers?”
Brett smiled. Marsha was sharp, but she was not quite as sharp as Jo. Jo had immediately picked up on his motivation. Oddly, knowing Jo was half a step ahead of most pleased him immensely.
“Partly.” He nodded. “But I suspect that, before too long, that area will be booming the way the Jersey coast is now.”
“A hotel casino?” Marsha’s eyes widened. “But there are casinos already in the area.”
“I know.” Brett shrugged. “But I’m not thinking about a hotel-casino. I’m considering condos, for both skiers and the whales.”
“Whales…in the mountains?” she blinked.
He smiled at her blank look. “Whales are high rollers, big time gamblers who are loaded, who just might want a place of their own to stay instead of a hotel room. What the hell,” he grinned. “Columbus took a chance.”
“And he’s dead,” Marsha drawled, straight-faced.
“Yes, well, nobody gets out of this life alive,” Brett out-drawled her. “Well, do you have any questions?”
“None that I can think of offhand,” she assured him.
“In that case, I have an assignment for you.” Choosing his words carefully, Brett continued, “While I’m away I’d like you to use your connection with Casey Delheny to keep abreast of what’s going on up there.” Restless again, he measured the carpet in strides. “Jo has been put in complete charge but—”
“You don’t trust her?” Marsha asked softly.
“I trust her implicitly!” His tone suddenly harsh, Brett stopped pacing to glare at her. “But, should she require assistance, I want you armed with the necessary data.”
“Oh, boy,” Marsha breathed softly. “You do have it bad.” Before he could bite her head off, which he appeared ready to do, she asked, just as softly, “Are we friends, Brett?”
‘‘You know we are,” Brett snapped. “But that does not give you the right to—”
“Brett.” Marsha silenced him with a wave of her hand. “Let me give you a bit of”—she shook her head at his scowling look—”not advice, but information. You know, the grapevine in this building is very alive and very active. I’ve picked up a few interesting bits and pieces since I’ve been here.”
Positive she was going to say Wolf’s name, and equally positive he did not want to hear it, Brett tried to shut her up. “I’m not interested in company gossip, Marsha.”
‘Then you should be,” Marsha insisted, determined to have her say. “I’m told she’s frigid.”
“What!” With the memory of Jo’s eager mouth, the way she melted against him, and her eyes, smokey with desire, teasing his mind, Brett was hard put not to laugh.
“Or afraid of men, or something. At any rate, she appears to have little or nothing to do with them. And they have tried, boy, have they tried! Apparently every eligible, and not so eligible, man in this building has approached her at one time or another. The rebuff is made gently, and very politely, but it is definitely a rebuff.” Marsha shrugged. “I just thought you should know.”
“And now I do,” Brett replied roughly. “And now the subject is closed.” No sane person argued when Brett used that roughly threatening tone of voice. Marsha knew better than to set a precedent.
* * * *
Brett was away from the office for ten days. Ten days during which he was very busy, and strangely lonely, and tormented by thoughts of Jo. Only once did he give thought to his last conversation with Marsha, and then only fleetingly. Incredible as it seemed, apparently no one at the office had an inkling of the affair between Wolf and his assistant. That fact confirmed Brett’s opinion of the two of them: Wolf and Jo were intelligent individuals.
One consideration did occur at regular intervals during those ten days, and that was his stated trust in Jo. Did he trust her? Brett asked himself repeatedly. Always, he answered his question with a question; how could he trust a woman who was involved with a married man? Yet, after days of self-questioning, Brett finally answered his conscience with the truth: He would trust her with his life.
It didn’t make much sense, at least not Brett’s kind of sense, but there it was, like it or not. He trusted her. He loved her.
On the flight back to New York, Brett told himself he was as dead as Columbus!
It was raining when Brett landed at Newark. It was raining when he dashed from the taxi to the doors of the Renninger Building. The cabbie had told Brett the radio newscaster had said there was a possibility of the rain turning to snow. The front desk receptionist informed him the TV newscaster had said there was a chance of snow. Not one of them told him what he wanted to know. After ten days of longing for her, missing her, the only subject of interest to Brett was Jo Lawrence.
On entering his office, Brett’s first act was to ask his secretary to call Jo and request she join him. “And phrase it to her exactly that way,” he instructed.
Beginning to feel a trifle foolish staring fixedly at the woodgrained door, he swung his gaze to the window immediately wishing he hadn’t. The direction of the wind was driving the rain against the pane and, intermingling with the drops striking the glass, Brett could discern the occasional splat of a snowflake.
“Whoever heard of snow a week and a half before Thanksgiving?” he muttered in disgust.
“I beg your pardon?”
“There’s snow mixed with that rain!” Brett growled, swinging around to confront the tormenter of his nights. Jo smiled at his disgruntlement, making him feel more a fool than before. Jesus! She’s all I think about for over a week and, when I finally get back, I complain about snow! You had better nail this woman down pretty soon, Brett advised himself. If you don’t, they’re going to come and cart you away!
“Well, don’t blame me.”Jo actually laughed at him. “I didn’t order it.”
Lost in his own thoughts, Brett stared at her in confusion a moment. Then the dawn broke in his mind. The snow! “Oh, well, I’m not used to the stuff. The South doesn’t get a great deal of it.”
“Do tell,?” Jo gave a fair imitation of a Southern drawl.
Brett was immediately suspicious. Why was she so downright chipper this afternoon? One word sprang into his mind. A name. A name he didn’t even want to think, let alone say aloud. Nonetheless, there it was. Wolf! Had she been in contact with her lover?
“You appear to be in fine spirits today,” he probed carefully.
“And why not?” Jo grinned. “I received the e-mail you sent me three days ago.” Her grin widened into a full, breathtaking smile. “You closed the deal on the property you wanted. I think that’s plenty of reason for high spirits. Don’t you?”
B
rett nodded, grinned, and just sat staring at her. She is so damn beautiful, he thought achingly. Her smile alone brightens the dismal day. In concession to the weather, Jo was dressed in a full, dove-gray wool skirt and a pullover sweater in fuchsia that clung to her figure to the point of making Brett’s hands itch. Her long, slim legs were encased to the knee in black boots of soft, pliant leather. Considering the overall picture she presented, Brett decided she looked terrific. He also decided he’d love to undress her, very, very slowly. The beginnings of a frown marring her face drew him, reluctantly, out of the promise of a delightfully erotic daydream.
“Now the work begins on it,” he said abruptly
“Have you decided on an architect?”
“I was considering Casey Delheny,” Brett said thoughtfully. “I was really impressed with her designs for Vermont. What do you think?” Brett’s question was not rhetorical. He really wanted her opinion, and he let it show in his tone.
“I think Casey’s an excellent choice. Wolf thought so too. He’d inspected several of the buildings she’d designed and was very impressed. He also approved of the work of her interior designers.”
Although Brett was not pleased with her use of Wolf as a reference, he let it slide. “Yes, I’ve seen some of her buildings myself, and I like the work of her interior designers as well. Okay, we’ll go with Casey and let her use her own people.”
“Do you always make decisions this quickly?” Jo laughed in a tone slightly tinged with awe.
“Usually.” Brett shrugged nonchalantly.
“But don’t you have to consult with headquarters?”
“Are you kidding?” Brett grinned. “I consulted with headquarters until I was afraid the phone lines would melt between Pennsylvania and Florida.” His grin widened. “And do you want to know what the final word from the head honcho was?” Of course Jo nodded. “Mama told me, and these are her exact words, ‘You picked up the ball, now run with it.’ “ Brett laughed out loud.
“Incredible!”
“I suppose.” Brett shrugged. “But then, Renninger’s is not run like most companies. In the first place it is entirely family owned and managed. Madam President gives orders, she does not take them.” A gentle smile curved his lips. “In the second place, Mother gave each one of her sons the opportunity to do one complete job on his own. It was my turn. The Pocono project will be my baby.”
“But what if you fail?” Jo blurted.
“No problem,” Brett drawled. “She’ll kill me.”
Jo stared at him aghast for an instant then joined him in laughter. “I think I’d like your mother,” she said, when she could finally speak.
“I know Mother would like you,” he assured her. “In fact, she wants to meet you.”
“Me?” Jo blinked in astonishment. “Why would she want to meet me?” She eyed him warily. “And how would you know?”
“She told me.” Brett met her wary glance with a smile. “While we were burning up the phone lines, she asked me how I was muddling along without the redoubtable Richard Colby. I told her I was indeed not muddling, but skimming, as I had Richard’s double in drag in the New York office.” Jo’s gasp produced a slashing grin from Brett. “Again I quote my revered mother; ‘I have got to meet the woman you admit is as competent as Richard!’ she said quite seriously.”
‘Yes, well, the next time your mother is in New York, perhaps she’ll peek into my office.” Everything about Jo’s attitude told Brett she didn’t believe a word he said. “Now, back to the business at hand. Are you going to have the preliminary specs for the building drawn up by our people, or are you going with a general contractor?”
“What I said to my mother was incorrect.” Brett groaned. “You are not like Richard. You are much, much more of a slave driver.” Jo frowned. Brett got back to the business at hand. “I’ve decided to use Sean Delheny as general contractor. As with Casey, I’ve seen some of his work. I’ve also discussed it with the people he’s worked for. The decision was unanimous: Sean is one damned good ramrod. He’s done some fast-tracking.”
Jo was well aware that the term fast-tracking applied to bonuses earned for a construction job completed ahead of schedule. Jo was also well aware of Sean’s track record. He was very careful. He was very good. He got a job done right, usually ahead of schedule. Brett knew she made it her business to be aware of such things.
“Does Sean know he’s been appointed for yet another Renninger project?” Jo asked dryly.
“Of course.” Brett acted shocked, as if she should have known better than to even ask. “He’s in the mountains now, checking out the local talent for subcontracting. I plan to confer with him again after Thanksgiving.”
“Which reminds me,” Jo sat up straighter in her chair. “I’m going to be out of the office most of Thanksgiving week. I’m going home for the holiday. I still have some vacation time due me.”
“No problem.” Brett shrugged. “Clear it with personnel.”
Long after Jo had gone back to her own office, Brett sat, again contemplating the grain in the wood door. All his hopes of the previous ten days metaphorically laughing at him as they floated out the window. There were four days left to this week, four days in which he had one hell of a lot of work to catch up on. Next week she’d be gone. Come to that, so would he, as he had to fly to Atlanta to brief and be briefed by Richard. Then he was off again to Florida for Thanksgiving. A schedule, Brett decided glumly, that allowed little time for seduction.
Pushing his chair back, Brett shoved his suddenly tired body erect and stalked to the window to glare out at the rain that was rapidly changing to snow. At first he had envisioned taking Jo to his own bed. Then, growing desperate, he’d decided her bed would do just as well. Now, in a state of constant frustration, he’d happily make use of any damned bed or reasonably flat surface!
During the remainder of that week, Brett saw more of Marsha than he did of Jo. A minor crisis had cropped up at a Renninger hotel nearing completion in Massachusetts, and Marsha had come to Brett, mad as hell, because the ramrod of the project flatly refused to deal with a woman. When reason and diplomacy failed to budge the jerk, Brett had resolved the problem by telling the man to “Eat what you’re served, or get the hell away from the table.” If the injection of instant education didn’t exactly cure the man’s ailment, it did treat the existing symptoms; the fool decided he could work with Marsha.
In Atlanta, to Brett’s immense relief, he found that Richard had everything under control, as usual.
“Are you attempting to ingratiate yourself into my office?” Their conference concluded, Brett and Richard were relaxing over a drink in one of Brett’s favorite bars.
“Of course.” Richard nodded. “The way I figure it, at the pace you’ve been working at since you and Sondra separated, you’ll begin to burn out any day now.” His grin was pure Machiavellian. “I intend to be prepared when Madam Pres finds herself in need of a new head man in Atlanta.”
Free of tension for the first time in over a month, Brett leaned back in his chair and raised his glass in salute. “Good luck,” he drawled, a grin lightening the new lines of strain on his handsome face.
Brett could afford the salute and the encouragement, very simply because he knew his assistant had no designs on his position. Richard Colby, small, dapper, urbane to his fingertips, was quite satisfied in his position as first assistant, and Brett knew it. Of course, Richard knew Brett knew it. Richard’s mild threat was as close as he’d come to asking Brett to slow down. Brett, though appreciating Richard’s concern, had no intention of paying heed to it.
Brett was in Florida barely long enough to sit down at the overloaded dinner table with the Renninger clan.
Within the eighteen hours he was at the farm Brett learned that: Wolf was mending, if slowly; Micki was well, and pleased with the way Wolf was mending; their offspring were full of sun and the devil; Eric and his family were happily increasing, as Eric’s wife was pregnant with their third child; his s
ister Di was smugly displaying her son’s ability to perform hack flips, and his mother was, as always, the indestructible head of Renninger Corporation—and all the assorted younger Renningers.
Then Brett was off again, this time to Pennsylvania and his prearranged meeting with Sean Delheny. Not once during Brett’s quick visit to the farm had JoAnne Lawrence’s name been mentioned. Not once had the image of JoAnne Lawrence been far from Brett’s mind. In fact, by the time Brett returned to the New York office in early December, his thoughts of Jo had become so obsessive he was afraid that if he didn’t see her soon he’d begin snarling at everyone around him like a dog with distemper.
Brett began snarling upon arrival at his office the following morning. He had wakened early feeling good with anticipation and had even caught himself whistling while standing under the shower. Walking to the office briskly in the cold December air, he had counted the blocks and then the pavement squares to his building. Entering the outer office, Brett had politely asked Ms. Jenkins to buzz Jo and request her to join him. Ms. Jenkins reply stopped him cold two paces from his office door.
“Jo isn’t in. She flew to Vermont yesterday.”
Later, through Marsha and his second assistant, a young eager beaver named Bob Kempten, Brett learned that Casey Delheny had called about some technical problem and Jo had decided to investigate personally. By the time Jo returned, two days later, most of Brett’s staff were circling him from a distance, as if he were a hungry shark. Determined he’d see her the minute she was back in her office, Brett left a terse note for her on her desk. The message consisted of three words:
Get in here.
“You wanted to see me?”Jo asked as she gently closed the door to Brett’s office.
Brett was standing at the window, trying to stare holes through the low-hanging, dirty-gray clouds. At the sound of his door being opened every muscle and nerve in his body tensed, but when he turned to face her he presented a picture of total relaxation. At the sight of her, her cheeks pink from the cold, her dark hair tousled from the brisk wind, and her lips slick with freshly applied gloss, Brett had to clamp his back teeth together to control the urge to go to her and pull her into his arms.