“Good morning, Marie.”
“Don’t you ‘good morning’ me,” Marie said as she offered Charles a withering look then settled a smile on Asa. “Neither of these two had any hand in hiring your new typist. I did.”
“But why her? She obviously has never—”
“Your daddy never questioned my opinions on the business, and it served him well. I’d think you’d do the same.”
Rit held back a sigh. She was right. Smart as his father was, the real power—and brains— behind Baker Shipping was Marie O’Shea, the enigmatic Irishwoman who chose business over marriage and a family.
“Do you have to think about this?” she demanded. “You know I’m just a hired hand around here, so what you say goes.”
He chuckled as he reached down to give the dear old lady a kiss on the cheek. “I’d say quite the opposite is true. However, why this particular woman? Have you joined my mother in trying to get me hitched?”
When he felt Marie chuckle, Rit stepped back so as to watch her carefully. Those brown eyes twinkled but gave nothing away. “Young man, the only thing I joined your mother in is believing your father could wear out his welcome then turn around and make you miss him without even trying.”
“I suppose a woman could claim that about any man,” Charles said. “Most of them do. Regularly.”
“That’s because the description fits,” Marie said evenly. “Some better than others.”
Charles shifted positions, his expression giving no hint of his thoughts. “That reminds me, Miss O’Shea. You’ve missed the last three meetings to discuss your retirement. Perhaps we could do that now?”
Marie leaned toward Rit. “See what I mean?”
Aware of his brothers’ eyes on him, Rit turned his back on the room and drew Marie in close. “As I was saying, I love you both, but neither you nor my mother are going to choose my wife.” He nodded to his brothers. “Nor are they.”
She grasped his hand in hers, and Rit was struck by the frailty of her arms. “You’re the son I never had, but you ought to know by now I am too busy keeping this ship afloat to go bride shopping for you. Now, if a suitable contender arrived on my doorstep, I might see what I could do to help.”
“And the woman in my office, is she a suitable contender?”
“I think she’s just what you need, if that’s what you’re asking.” Marie nodded toward the hall and then slipped out the door with Rit tagging behind. “Do you want those two and your mother to keep trotting brides-to-be through your office, or do you want to get back to the business of running this company?”
“What kind of question is that?”
She paused and fixed him with an I-know-what-you’re-thinking look. “Anyone can run the ranches, Rit. Not everyone can run Baker Shipping. Your father would have—”
“Wanted me to look after things here,” he supplied. “That’s the only reason I’m here.”
“You’re a good son, Rit.” Her expression softened. “Asa will be ready to take over someday. I’ve been helping him along.” She lifted her finger to her lips. “Don’t tell Charles.”
Rit grinned. Yes, someday Asa would be ready. Suddenly a home on Baker Ranch to do what he loved did not seem like it was a lifetime away.
“I hope you’ve got a plan for when Charles finds out.”
“I’ve always got a plan.” She gestured toward Rit’s closed door. “However, as to the young lady down the hall—whose name is Miss Derby, by the way—I believe you will find that she can successfully keep both your mother and your brothers from bothering you with any more prospective Baker brides.”
“And how will Miss Derby do that?”
Marie shook her head. “Do I have to explain everything? Now get back in there and make the best of it, Merritt Baker.”
~
Tavia allowed herself the briefest moment of indecision as she heard the heavy footsteps pause outside the door. There was still time to change her mind. To end the ruse that had begun with the simplest and rarest of disagreements. To turn around and go back home without having had to mislead a man who was, by all accounts, a decent sort.
Then Father’s words echoed: You’ll never manage on your own, Tavia. Let me find a husband for you. Close behind was the warning she’d learned at her mother’s knee: Guard your heart, daughter. Any man who knows you are a Derby before he knows your heart will see nothing but your father’s money.
She would prove her father wrong. As long as Mr. Baker didn’t require a typing test, she would do just fine.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting. Miss Derby, I just have one question. How did you convince Miss O’Shea to. . .” The man and his words halted halfway between Tavia and the door.
Odd, but he looked an awful lot like that handsome taxi driver who’d showed her New Orleans yesterday. Tavia shifted her weight and felt the bruise that reminded her of that adventure.
Surely he couldn’t be. . .
“Octavia?”
He was.
“Merritt. Is that you?” Her breath caught. Oh no. Mr. Baker would not be happy to find she brought a guest with her to her first day on the job. “My new employer will be here any minute. You really must go.”
The interloper ignored her to cross the room as if he owned the place. “Your new employer,” he said with some amusement. “And who might that be?”
“Mr. Baker, of course,” Tavia said as she moved past him toward the door to peer out. Good. No sign of the man at the helm of Baker Shipping. She stepped back inside but left the door open for Merritt’s quick exit.
Instead, the infuriating man made himself comfortable on the edge of the boss’s desk.
“I’ll be fired before I begin if you don’t leave.”
“Do you think so?”
“Yes, I do. I’m already at a disadvantage because I’ve been hired as a typist and I don’t know the first thing about typing. Imagine how it will go when Mr. Baker comes in and finds I’ve brought you along as well.”
He reached behind him to pick up a paperweight in the shape of a sailing ship and then held it up to the light. Then came the infuriating grin. “That boss of yours, what’s he like? A grumpy fellow? Someone who wouldn’t want me playing with his toys?”
“I have no idea, but I’ve heard he’s quite nice. Now put that down.” Tavia snatched the ship out of the taxicab driver’s hands and returned it to the desk then grasped his elbow and led him toward the door.
“Quite nice? Who told you that? Was it that pretty girl in the mailroom? I hope it wasn’t—”
“Go,” she said when they reached the door. “Now!”
“Oh, I see you two are getting along nicely.”
Tavia looked past the irritating taxi driver to see Miss O’Shea standing just down the hallway. Horror rendered her mute. Apparently Merritt felt no such compunction to keep quiet.
“Yes, we are,” he told Bridget’s aunt. “We’re getting along quite nicely. Would you mind fetching Miss Derby a typewriter? I believe she’s due a typing test.”
“Merritt Baker, don’t you start with me. Miss Derby, you’ll do well to learn that this fellow only means about half of what he says.”
Merritt Baker.
Slowly those two words sank in.
Merritt. Baker.
Her boss.
“I mean every word I say,” he protested. “The truth of the matter is she only listens to half.” Merritt fixed his gaze on Tavia. “Confused?”
“A bit,” she managed. “How can you drive a taxicab and run Baker Shipping? That makes no sense.”
Merritt Baker crossed the room with a purposeful stride. “Sit down, Octavia.” Rather than take a seat behind the massive desk, he faced the window behind it, lacing his hands behind him. Abruptly, he turned to face her. “You are obviously not a secretary, and yet you have convinced someone I trust to offer you the position. How is that?”
“And you convinced me to trust you, Merritt. How could you let me think you were a taxicab
driver when you obviously have all of this?” Her gaze scanned the room and then landed back on him. “You should have said something. I certainly never deceived you regarding who I was.”
He looked as if he hadn’t considered that until now. “I suppose that’s true,” he said slowly, “but you did climb into my buggy uninvited.”
“Did I?” She paused to consider this. “I don’t recall. But I suppose it’s possible I might have assumed. . .”
“You did assume,” Merritt corrected, “but I did have a grand time playing tour guide.”
She allowed a smile. “As did I.”
“And not being recognized.” His grin broadened. “I liked that part, too.”
Tavia met his gaze. “As did I.”
Merritt shook his head. “I don’t follow. Should I know you?”
“I don’t suppose so,” she said. “But there are many places where the name Derby does command attention. That’s why I’m here. I’m spending one month not being a Derby.”
“Derby,” he repeated. Slowly recognition grew. “Is your father. . .”
“Samuel Derby of Derby Mining, Ranching, and Railroad Company?” she supplied. “Yes.”
“And you are my typist,” he added.
“Well, of a sort,” Tavia said. “I believe I’ve already mentioned that I do not exactly know my way around a typewriter, but I do have skills that you might find valuable. You see I—”
Merritt held up a hand to silence her. “First I want to know how you managed to convince Miss O’Shea to allow you up here in the first place.”
She straightened a cuff that was not in need of straightening and then regarded him with a polite smile. “Miss O’Shea is a lovely woman. She is also Bridget’s aunt. You might recall that Bridget is, or rather was, my traveling companion.”
“Yes, I suppose.”
“Well, when Father and I had our disagreement about whether I was able to care for myself without his assistance, I confided in Bridget that I wished I could prove myself right. Together we concocted a plan that began with a letter to Miss O’Shea. A plea, really.”
“A plea?”
“For employment for one month’s time. I shall earn my keep and will take a paycheck that will allow me to prove to my father that I am fully capable of taking care of myself.”
“And that you don’t need a husband,” he added.
“You remembered.”
“When a pretty lady tells me she’s not interested in matrimony, I tend to remember, yes. Especially considering how things are around here right now.”
“Oh, you mean the bride brigade?”
His lips twisted into a smile. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”
Tavia lifted one shoulder in reply. “I thought of that myself, but it fits, don’t you think?”
“Sadly, yes.” His expression turned suddenly serious. “How do I know you’re not one of them?” He gave her a sideways look. “What better disguise than to present yourself as a woman with no interest in marrying?”
Tavia laughed out loud at the thought. “Oh, Merritt, you truly do not know me. The last thing I want is to become the final Baker bride. No offense to you, of course.”
“None taken,” he quipped.
“I am hoping to wait for the man God wants for me.” She searched his face. “I know that sounds terribly old fashioned, but that’s just how I feel, and I do not intend to change my mind.”
“Nor do I.” He walked around to stand beside his chair. “I feel the same way.”
“Then it’s settled. We need one another. It’s just that simple.” She paused to allow him a moment to consider her statement. “Would you like me to prove it?”
Merritt sank onto his chair and leaned back just enough to allow his eyes to meet hers. “Yes, please do.”
Tavia rose. “As your secretary—”
“Typist, but do continue.”
“As your typist, I am responsible for seeing that your appointments are handled, am I not?”
“Yes that is one of the duties,” he said as he steepled his hands. “When you are not typing, that is.”
Tavia ignored the barb. “Very well, then.” She made her way to the desk just outside the door and retrieved the appointment list Miss O’Shea had given her when she hired her. Returning to the office, she placed the document in front of her new employer. “It appears you have a busy afternoon.”
He glanced down at the list and then back at her. “Yes, it does.”
Tavia settled back onto her chair with the list. “There are a number of women’s names. Might I inquire as to why?”
“Likely that would be my brothers’ doing. Or my mother’s.” He gestured toward the list. “Do tell me how you might be of service to me today.”
Tavia reached for the fountain pen. “May I?” When Rit nodded, she retrieved the pen. “Are there any appointments on this list that you wish you did not have to attend?”
He shrugged. “All of them.”
She smiled. “I’ll see to it, then.” She drew a line through each name and then rose to return the pen to the desk. “Will there be anything else?”
Mr. Baker shook his head. “That’s your solution to my bride problem? Just mark out the names and cancel the appointments?”
“One of them,” she said sweetly. “Now if there’s nothing else, I’ll deliver your new schedule to the guards downstairs. As you recall, no one gets up to the second floor without an appointment.”
“Yes, I do recall that,” he said.
She had almost reached the door when he called for her to stop. “Wait. Now that my schedule has been cleared, it looks like I’ve got time for gumbo. Pencil that onto the list.”
“Yes sir,” she said in her most efficient voice.
“Oh, and Octavia?”
“Yes?”
There was that dazzling smile. “Pencil your name in next to mine. You’ll be going with me.”
Chapter 4
Tavia set her spoon down. “I absolutely cannot eat another bite.”
Merritt reached for his coffee cup and regarded her across the table. “Are you getting tired of gumbo for lunch? I’ve been told I’m a man of habit.”
She stretched languorously and then dusted her cafe au lait with extra powdered sugar. “I could make an argument for that statement, what with the fact that we’ve not only eaten at this same restaurant for the past four days, but we’ve also sat at the same table.”
Tavia held up her hand then slowly lowered it. The signal for trouble.
Then she cut her eyes to the right to indicate which direction the young lady in question was approaching. On cue, Merritt reached across the table and grasped Tavia’s hand.
“So I was thinking maybe it is time you and I considered a more serious arrangement.”
The blonde, a lovely young woman with a mother who was pushing her forward with a gloved hand to her back, stuttered to a stop next to their table. When she opened her mouth to speak, her mother spoke instead.
“Mr. Baker,” the older woman said. “What a surprise to find you here.” She allowed her gaze to slide past Tavia and then linger on Merritt. “Of course you know my daughter, Violet.” She nudged Violet. “Do say hello to Mr. Baker, Violet, dear.”
The poor girl managed a murmur that might have been a greeting and then edged away from the table. Tavia felt pity for her even as she watched the mother to see if she intended any further conversation.
“You know, Mr. Baker,” Violet’s mama said, “I’m certain you’ve meant no slight by it, but as chairperson of the Summer Nights Gala for the Benefit of the Orphans and Children, I do hope you intend to respond to the invitation you’ve received. When was it? Two weeks ago? Perhaps three?”
“Actually it was just last week,” Tavia said. “And I do have the invitation on the list of responses to send out. I’ve just been quite busy.”
Merritt squeezed her hand and then offered a sweet smile to the society lady. “Indeed she has been b
usy, so I will respond for both of us.” He glanced at Tavia and slid her a wicked wink. “We would be delighted to attend.”
“We?” Tavia and Violet’s mother said in unison.
“Yes, we,” he said for emphasis before nodding toward Tavia. “Have you met Miss Derby? She’s very important to me, and I wouldn’t consider attending the gala without her.”
Violet’s mama looked as if she smelled something unpleasant. “Miss Derby.” She extended a limp hand. “Pleased, I’m sure.”
“Likewise,” Tavia said as she slid Merritt an I-cannot-believe-you-said-that look.
“Well, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to have your typist tag along.” The woman sniffed the air and once again looked as if she found it most unappealing.
“My typist?” Merritt feigned confusion. “Miss Derby, do you type?”
Tavia couldn’t help but laugh. “No, I am afraid I do not.”
He looked back up at the older woman. “She does not type,” Merritt said as he made a show of patting Tavia’s hand. “But she looks lovely in a ball gown. Thank you for the reminder. We look forward to Friday night.”
The rascal.
“Saturday,” Violet’s mother mumbled as she gathered her daughter and strode away.
“That went well,” Tavia said.
“It always does.” Merritt withdrew his hand and grabbed his spoon again. “I have to admit we make a good team, you and I. You might not be able to type, but you sure do know how to chase off the bride brigade.”
“Merritt,” she said firmly. “I do not recall attending galas with you as part of my job description.”
He savored a bite of gumbo then offered that dazzling smile. “Well, darlin’, typing was a part of your job description. Let’s just say I’ve substituted one for the other.”
She shook her head. “You realize by inviting me to an event like this gala, you are telling New Orleans society that you and I are an item.”
“Yes,” he said. “I figure that will buy me a few weeks of peace and quiet.” He paused. “Unless you don’t want to go. I won’t make you.”
“It does make sense,” she said. “And it would be a logical extension of the ruse you’ve been perpetrating on dozens of New Orleans beauties.”
The Final Baker Bride Page 3