by Barbara Daly
"Let me up, woman, and I'll show you fun." The words buzzed in her ears.
"Never." She paused for breath. "You are my prisoner and I intend to have my way with you."
She felt the strength in his arms, the energy in his muscles. He could release himself without the slightest effort, but instead, he bucked and fought beneath her, driving the flames higher and higher.
She licked little kisses across his face, pressed her aching breasts into his chest, the nipples tight against the velvet of her dress. It was going out of control, this game. It was missing—his hands, yes, the feel of his hands on her, and at last she let him go, feeling those hands go instinctively to her buttocks to tug her more tightly against him. They closed on bare skin, and a growl came from deep inside him.
"You temptress," he muttered, running his fingertips in circles over her, darting them beneath her, driving her to near insanity. "You little seductress, you shameless tart."
"Sticks and stones," she said, barely able to speak. Sitting back on his hands, she reached toward the end table, and in seconds, with the efficiency she had applied to every aspect of her life, all her life, she had smoothed a condom over him, feeling him throb beneath her fingers. Still holding him gently, she guided him into herself with one, swift, impatient, less than gentle thrust.
They moaned together as he drove deep inside her. With impatient fingertips he skimmed her dress up and over her head, crushing her naked breasts against his chest when he'd freed them. She buried her face in his shoulder and let the storm begin, the deep, thunderous roll, the flash of lightning, the funnel cloud picking her up and whirling her, whirling, whirling—
She screamed as spasms racked her body, at last whirling her beyond reality and into air so thin she could hardly hear the roar that came from him as he exploded inside her.
Exhausted, panting, they lay collapsed against the sofa cushions. He held her tight, rocking her against him, their sweat-slicked bodies sliding against each other, as the waves of sensation rippled through her one after the other, finally slowing, leaving her in a state of peaceful satiation.
Gently he eased both of them down until they were locked side by side the full length of the sofa. He breathed a long, deep sigh into her hair.
"Want to start on your fingernails?" he said at last, sounding as though he'd just gotten back his voice.
She felt the laughter of pure joy deep inside her. "No."
"Put that stuff on your hair that turns it brown?"
"No."
They lay in silence. Thinking about bed, she felt too tired to go to the trouble of getting there. Her eyes were closing all by themselves. All she could see were the twinkling lights from the Christmas tree making the tinsel glitter, the flickering candles.
"What was this all about, Sam?" she said sleepily, stretching out a little against him. "The tree and the eggnog and the Christmas carols?"
It took him so long to answer she was afraid she might have awakened him. "What was on my mind, I guess," he finally murmured, "was that if we couldn't have everything, at least we could have part of it."
"It was a good idea," Hope said, and tilted her head up for one last kiss.
* * *
Chapter 9
« ^ »
Sam went home at dawn. His apartment seemed even more cheerless than usual as he showered and shaved, then opened the doors of his jumbled closet to select one of several expensively tailored suits that hung so incongruously there.
Keep up a good front. Spend what you had to on limousines, trendy restaurants, orchestra seats at Broadway plays, a single good watch, Italian shoes, carefully planned charitable donations. That case of wine from www.burgundy.com—he'd stick the bottles into silver foil bags and hand them out to Phil, to Cap, to ten more of his colleagues. Blow it all out when it matters. Save in ways nobody will notice. That was his mantra.
By renting this apartment instead of a classy condo, by claiming he was too busy for weekends in Paris, skiing in Gstaad or renting summer places in the Hamptons, by cooking for himself when he wasn't on an expense account, in the six years he'd been at Brinkley Meyers he'd finally paid off his college debts and established college funds for his four nephews. When he made partner, he'd be on top of the world.
Alone, there on top of the world.
His message light was blinking, and he pushed the play button to listen while he fastened cuff links into his shirt.
"Hi, baby." It was his mother. "Haven't heard from you in a while. We'll see you for Christmas, right? Give us a call and let Dad know when to pick you up at the airport."
Sam cursed softly. He still hadn't bought his ticket.
Hope was going home for Christmas. He knew she'd come from Chicago, had two sisters and her mother did Christmas up big. That was about it. There was so much he didn't know about her.
And would probably never learn. He had to get a lid on Hope, fasten it down with strapping tape and hide the Exacto knife until… Maybe forever, unless she…
Yeah, better use strapping tape. Next he realized he was wondering what she might like for Christmas. He gave his tie a vicious wrench.
An hour later he was at the office facing a stack of boxes labeled "Stockwell Plumbing Contractors vs. Palmer Pipe, Inc." Documentation on the case informally known as "Magnolia Heights."
"This is almost all of them," said the clerk who'd brought in one load after another on a dolly. He was a kid still in undergraduate school who undoubtedly aspired to be just like Sam Sharkey. Sam supposed now wasn't the time to warn him against it.
"Almost," Sam murmured.
"Just a couple more loads." He wheeled the dolly around and almost wiped out Cap Waldstrum, who was on his way into Sam's office.
"Congratulations," Cap said, neatly sidestepping. "I hear you got the big case."
"Seems like it. Either that, or I've been fired to make room to store the case documents."
"Not bloody likely." Cap's laugh sounded forced. "You're the crown prince around here these days."
"Because I got this case?"
"Because you're in the right place at the right time to take this case. I tried to reach you this weekend," Cap went on before Sam could say anything. "Didn't leave a message. Guess you were out and about."
"Yes," Sam said. "Out and about."
Cap hesitated. "Still seeing Hope Sumner?"
"As often as possible."
"Quite a coincidence she's at Palmer."
"Yes." Sam wished he knew where the conversation was heading. Most of all he wished Cap would get out of his office and let him start digging into the case.
"Who'd you say fixed the two of you up?"
Sam dropped all his plans to get to work and stared hard at Cap. "Mutual friends," he said, while trying to transmit the message, "and it's none of your damned business anyway."
Cap's eyes shifted away. "Small world, huh? Her being at Palmer and you getting the case."
Sam stood up. He wasn't all that much taller and sure wasn't any broader than Cap, but he noticed that Cap flinched. "Are you suggesting I'm seeing Hope in order to get this case?" He decided to put it all out on the table. "That I've been seeing Hope to get to Benton so he'd ask the firm to put me on the case?"
One thing he could say for Cap, he had finesse. "Hell, no, man," Cap said with an air of utter disbelief. "In fact, the reason I was trying to get in touch was to tell you I'd like to carry over from Corporate Division to the litigation team you're setting up. I was pretty involved in the settlement attempt. I'd like to see the thing through."
It caught him off guard, and Sam felt stunned. Cap was offering to follow Sam's orders? Be a member of Sam's team instead of leading a team of his own? "Well, thanks, Cap," he said. "I'll know in a day or two what kind of support I need. It'd be good to have somebody who knows the facts from the inside out. I'll give you a call." He paused for what he hoped was just the right amount of time. "How's Muffy?" he said. "And the kids? All fired up for Christmas? You staying
home, or going to Muffy's folks in Connecticut?"
Something in the way his mind was working right now—half on target, half back in bed with Hope—made him dial the airline as soon as Cap retreated. He made a reservation for Omaha on December twenty-third. For two. Just in case.
* * *
She was wearing one of Hope Sumner's dress-for-success suits, in Hope Sumner's office, sitting at Hope Sumner's desk, so why couldn't she summon up Hope Sumner, Corporate Woman? All she could summon up were feelings from parts of her body that didn't have the faintest interest in pipe, that kept reminding her of the joys of the real thing.
Sam. Sam was the real thing.
But Sam was another stopgap measure. He wasn't part of the life she'd chosen, her real life. She'd promised herself she'd regain her focus or die trying.
The time had come. Focus or die.
Just the right time for the phone to ring. "Slidell!" Hope couldn't keep the surprise out of her voice. She hadn't supposed Slidell or any of his henchpersons knew how to use anything as arcane as a telephone.
"How's the loaner doing?"
"It's okay. Hasn't let me down yet." Giving me more than I asked for. Benton's e-mail was still arriving on her laptop. "When will I get my laptop back?"
"You missed the memorial service for your laptop," Slidell said. "I ordered you a new one. It'll be a few days. Want the optional two-hundred-twenty-five dollar padded case?"
"Two hundred twenty-five?" Hope gasped. "The price went up? Did they add twenty-five dollars worth of padding?"
"No. So do you want it or not?"
"No. If it didn't work when it cost two hundred dollars it's not going to work at two twenty-five either. The computer I hired it to protect is, well, dead." Rest in peace.
It was time for Slidell to hang up, but he didn't. "Just wanted to be sure the loaner was taking up the slack," he said.
"As I said, it's doing just fine."
The silence hung between them. "So, thank you," Hope prompted him. He'd made the call. It was up to him to end it. But Slidell couldn't be expected to know the fine points of telephone etiquette.
When he finally broke the silence, he said, "Okey-dokey. It's yours for the duration. Make the most of it." With that surprising declaration, he hung up.
Make the most of it. Hope stared at the monitor screen. A tiny, high-pitched chord sounded from the computer and an e-mail message popped up on the screen. Hers? No, Benton's.
Make the most of it. Open Benton's messages.
She couldn't safely open the ones he hadn't read, but she could open the ones he had read and he'd never know. Her fingers froze on the keys. She couldn't invade Benton's privacy. It was considerably more than impolite, unprofessional and dishonest. It was illegal.
It was also the only way to find out if the frantic exchange of messages meant there was something wrong with the plumbing pipe in Magnolia Heights. Still she hesitated.
A low buzz and a flashing light indicated an interoffice phone call. "Mr. Quayle would like to see you when you have a minute," Benton's secretary said.
"I'm flexible for the next half hour," Hope said. "Shall I come in now?" Get it over with, whatever it was?
First she closed the screen without reading Benton's message, then stepped briskly down the hall to his office, shoulders straight, head high. As for how she really felt, certain technical problems made it difficult for her to walk in carrying her own head on a silver platter, but if she could've, she would've.
* * *
"Hope," Benton said in his welcoming voice when she'd settled herself into a chair across from him.
She nodded, smiled a brief greeting, then dropped the smile. "I'm afraid the news is out. We're going to court in the Magnolia Heights case. I know this is a worry for you."
Closing in on the age of sixty, Benton was beginning to develop jowls, and when he nodded, he looked a lot like a bull terrier. "It is a worry, yes, indeed," he said.
"One thing we know we can count on," Hope said, "is Number 12867. It simply can't be the problem."
He managed a slight smile. "That's one of the reasons I asked to see you," he said. "I appreciate your loyalty to the company. I know I can count on you."
"Why, thank you, Benton," Hope said, guilty thoughts of his e-mail strumming hard against her temples. "You know how I feel about Palmer. It's like my family."
"Yes, yes." He contemplated her from under a furrowed brow. "And your loyalty will be rewarded, Hope, you can depend on that."
Her breath caught in her throat. Did he mean she'd be the next vice president for Marketing? "Palmer has always rewarded its people generously for their work," she said, and meant it. Her raises had come swiftly and consistently. She was making more money now than she knew what to do with.
"So I can continue to count on you, whatever happens?"
Something in his tone put her on the alert. "Why, yes, but what could possibly happen? We're in for a bad stretch here," she went on, "but we know the pipe's not at fault."
Benton looked grim. "Of course not, of course not," he said, "but I'm afraid we have someone here at Palmer without your kind of loyalty. Not naming any names, not making any definite accusations, but, well, some things have happened."
Somebody deleted one of your e-mail messages and you missed an important, hush-hush meeting? Hope could feel the tips of her ears turning red and was grateful that her hair covered them. "I'm sorry to hear that."
Benton's jowls quivered again, then he brightened a little. "Your nice young man will be arguing our case. You and he are still, ah, seeing each other?"
"Yes. I mean, it's not a serious thing yet, but we like each other's company. We're both so busy, you know."
He hardly seemed to hear what she was saying. "He's moving up at Brinkley Meyers same way you are at Palmer. This case could make his reputation. And with you there to remind him that what's good for Palmer's good for him…"
Her alarm increased. It occurred to her that Benton had used the word "loyalty" repeatedly in this strange conversation so full of euphemism, so fraught with hidden meanings. Loyalty implied more than hard work toward a common set of goals. Loyalty implied that you'd defend your liege whether he was right or wrong.
Was she prepared to defend Palmer right or wrong? Did she want the vice presidency that much?
What about Sam? Did he want the partnership that much?
She suddenly knew, without a doubt, that something was wrong in the Magnolia Heights case. But surely it had nothing to do with her. She wasn't a private investigator. She was merely a loyal employee. It wasn't up to her to find out what was wrong, or to act on it.
And Sam's job was to defend his client. Period.
"Benton," she said, hiding her fear and confusion, "my positive feelings in this case go deeper than my loyalty to Palmer. They have to do with my absolute faith in the quality of this pipe. If you're telling me there's something wrong with the pipe…"
Benton looked her straight in the eyes. "There's nothing wrong with the pipe."
"Good, then, because the worst thing you can do in a legal battle is not be completely up front with your lawyer. His job is to defend you, but he has to know what he's defending you against or he can't—"
Benton half-stood. "I know how lawyers work."
She'd already gone too far. She needed to mollify him and then leave as quickly as possible. "Of course you do." She smiled at him as she got to her feet, feeling dismissed. "I have absolute faith in the pipe—and in you."
"If you hear any rumors, anything I ought to know about, you will come straight to me about it, won't you?"
"Of course," Hope murmured.
If she thought he ought to know about it.
Her conviction that she'd just been offered the vice presidency increased when, later in the day, she saw St. Paul the Perfect emerge from Benton's office, grim-faced, a red flush high on his cheekbones. It didn't give her any satisfaction. It made her feel as though she'd somehow…
Cheated. By connecting herself to Sam? Ridiculous.
She went home early that evening, exhausted physically and emotionally, wanting Sam but not quite secure enough to call him and say, "Come over. Make it happen for me again, the warmth, the coziness, the passion. I want it all."
The sound she heard when she walked into her apartment made even her thoughts of Sam fade away, chilling her to the very marrow of her bones. The sound of water dripping.
"Leak!" she screamed. "Water leak!"
Thinking warped floors, streaked walls, melted wallpaper, wet rugs that would mildew before they dried, she darted into the kitchen, the powder room, the bathroom. She stepped out of the bathroom more slowly, puzzled by the absence of any sort of visible problem.
Drifting back into the living room, she moved toward the sofa. The sound increased. She thought of the game she and her sisters played on rainy days—"warmer, colder, warmer," until the blindfolded "It" eventually tagged her quarry. As she at down on the sofa, the sound added a saucy gurgle to its music. Her head swiveled.
Maybelle had brought over something new. On a long narrow table she'd placed behind the sofa was a fountain, a large stone bowl into which water poured down a mini-waterfall beneath a tiny, perfect, bonsai tree.
Hope wiped her forehead, then sank it against the sofa cushions. A fountain. She'd thought broken pipes and it was just a fountain, another soothing influence for the frazzled working woman.
She'd thought broken pipes. She remembered the other things she'd thought about—the destruction of her possessions, the unpleasant moldy smell that would follow the soaking of the rugs and floors. The ugliness of the streaks and stains.
The residents of Magnolia Heights had been living in those conditions for months. No wonder they were angry. No wonder they wanted restitution.
That settled it. Tomorrow she would go to Magnolia Heights and see those conditions for herself.
But in the meantime…
She picked up the phone that sat on one of the new end tables and dialed Faith, reached her and then patched in to Charity. They pounced on her at once. "Who was there last night? Sam? That's great! Anything you'd like to tell us? Will you bring him home for Christmas?"—and on and on and on, blah, blah, blah, until Hope put the whole instrument on the new sofa table and turned on the speaker phone.