Escapade

by Susan Kyle

  He was even more distracted than before for the rest of the day.

  At seven o’clock sharp he pressed the buzzer downstairs in the lobby. She buzzed him in the front door and then stood at her own door waiting, all nerves.

  It was the first time in two years that she’d opened her door to a man. Her last date had been a quiet, unassuming young man who’d wanted to talk about bugs. Mr. Stuart might, too, of course. But it would be an electronic one, if he did.

  She had on slacks and a brown silk blouse with a pullover cream sweater. She’d purposely underdressed so that she wouldn’t emphasize the flamboyant mode of dress that her boss disliked. Tonight she didn’t want to antagonize him.

  He had on slacks and a sports coat. He looked as tense and reluctant about this as she did, but at least he’d shown up.

  “Are you ready?” he asked. “I brought the car, unless it’s within walking distance.”

  “It is,” she said. “Good exercise, too. It’s a safe neighborhood.”

  “Everybody says that,” he murmured cynically. “But it never is. Statistically—”

  “Wouldn’t you like to talk about bugs?” she interrupted politely.

  He scowled. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’ll just get my purse!”

  It’s going to be a disaster, she told herself silently, it’s going to be a disaster, and he’ll fire me sure as the world if he can find an excuse. I must have been out of my mind!…

  She grabbed her small shoulder bag and rushed out to join him, pausing to lock her door before they left.

  The street was a quiet one, almost like a residential area. Most of the shopkeepers were elderly people who’d been here for decades. There was talk of a complex going up to replace these old shops, and Mirri had hated to hear it. A modern high rise was no suitable substitute for a tiny grocery store where the proprietor knew your name and your food preferences.

  “You’re very quiet for a woman who wanted to talk.” He’d lit a cigarette and was smoking it leisurely as they walked down the sidewalk, a little apart.

  “I’m thinking up safe subjects,” she replied, smiling at him.

  He laughed faintly. “Are there any?”

  “How long have you been with the agency?” she asked curiously.

  He shrugged. “Fifteen years.”

  She hadn’t known that. He didn’t seem old enough.

  He looked down at her, and she looked at him—really looked at him. He was older than she’d realized. There was a sprinkling of gray in the hair at his temples, and his lean, hard face had lines she’d never noticed.

  The soft scrutiny made him more aware of her than he’d ever been. He should have followed his survival instincts and stayed home, he thought irritably.

  “I’m staring. I’m sorry.” She motioned toward the cafe. “There it is, Mama’s Place.”

  “Nice name.”

  “She’s like everyone’s mama,” Mirri explained. “Her husband died last year, and she’s managed to keep the doors open with some help from her son. But it’s been hard for her.”

  She had a heart. He’d known that she was compassionate, but he tried not to notice it. The way she looked stirred him up enough without the added complication of admirable personality traits to magnify his interest.

  Mama Scarlatti was in her fifties, a small buxom woman with a ready smile and an affectionate personality that won over even the icy Mr. Stuart. She seated him with Mirri at a window table and left them with hot coffee and a menu.

  Mirri noticed that Nelson Stuart drank his coffee with cream and no sugar. She liked her own black and strong, with nothing added.

  “All right,” he said, leaning back in the chair. The action opened his jacket and hinted forcibly at the .45 automatic he carried always, in a holster under his arm. “Spill it.”

  “Sir?”

  “What do you want to talk to me about that can’t be discussed at the office?”

  “That’s not going to be easy.”

  “Why?”

  She looked at him over her coffee cup. She’d barely touched makeup to her face. Her red hair fell in springy curls down to her shoulders, but it was the only colorful thing about her tonight. She was pale, and her freckles stood out vividly.

  “I thought we might manage a compromise,” she said finally.

  He just stared at her, without speaking.

  “Could we talk honestly?” she asked. She rested her hands around her coffee cup to warm them. “Mr. Stuart, I know you think I’m an unwarranted pest. You don’t like the way I dress or the way I look or the way I act. You’d like to fire me, but you can’t find a reason that would stand up in court. Am I right?”

  “Yes,” he said frankly.

  The word was painful. She’d suspected that, but she’d wanted him to make at least a pretense of denying it. He wouldn’t. It was like him not to pull his punches.

  “I like my job. I enjoy working for you. If I dress a little less dramatically,” she began earnestly, “do you think you might be a little less obvious about your distaste for me?”

  He crossed one long leg over the other and pursed his lips to study her. “That’s honest. I’ll be as blunt with you. I think a business office should be run in a businesslike way. We reflect the agency we represent. We should present a suitable image to the public, one that inspires confidence and respect.”

  “I’ve never been disrespectful to anyone,” she reminded him.

  “That’s true,” he had to admit. “But having you swan around dressed like a rainbow isn’t doing a lot for our reputation or my temper.”

  “I noticed.”

  “What you’re wearing tonight is perfectly suitable for a working office,” he told her. “Why can’t you dress like that on the job?”

  “Because I should have the right to dress in a way that matches my own concept of who I am,” she replied. “I have that right.”

  “Not in an office where your manner of dress compromises the integrity of the staff,” he returned.

  “What is wrong with a colorful skirt?”

  His dark eyes narrowed coldly. “You dress to attract attention. It’s wanton.”

  “You don’t understand,” she began.

  Mama Scarlatti came back with a tray and interrupted cheerfully as she put plates of spaghetti and garlic bread on the table. She indicated the condiments in their pretty little jars, ignored the set faces of her guests, and went about her business before she could get caught in any crossfire.

  “It’s good spaghetti,” she said defiantly. “Of course, if you don’t think so, you can always pull out that cannon you carry around with you and shoot it.”

  He muffled a laugh. She was incorrigible even when she was angry. He picked up his fork and sampled the fare, surprised to find that it was the best spaghetti he’d ever had.

  They ate in a strained silence. He felt uncomfortable after the heated argument. She did have a right to dress as she pleased, but he had the right to make sure she didn’t turn the atmosphere of the office into a nightclub.

  “Look,” he said when he was through with his meal and polishing off his second cup of coffee, “how would people react if I came to work wearing cutoffs and a tank top?”

  “Everyone who worked there would faint,” she observed, “and the janitor would stop drinking.”

  He glowered at her. “Don’t be sarcastic. You know what I mean.”

  “I’ll bet you don’t own cutoffs and a tank top, but I get the message. I’ll buy a funeral suit and a couple of mix-and-match black blouses to wear with it. Will that do, or would you like me to get some black hose, too?”

  “Are you always this unreasonable?”

  “You ought to know.”

  “You’re not a bad typist, and you’re intelligent,” he said. “I admire intelligence in a woman.”

  That surprised her into looking up at him.

  He searched her quiet eyes for a long, static moment while the sounds around them sudde
nly disappeared and the world shifted five degrees.

  Mirri’s lips parted as she registered the heat and power of that pair of eyes. Her heartbeat set out to break records.

  Nelson Stuart felt something similar. His body burned with the sensuality she kindled in him. He’d given up women in recent years, but this one was getting to him. She had a figure that made him dream unspeakable things, and he wanted her. Until now he’d never thought that she might feel that way about someone as ordinary-looking as he was. But that look in her eyes was sultry, and he had a feeling she was pretty experienced about men.

  That put him off, but not for long. His hunger, once unleashed, refused to be put back into its compartment. He felt achy all over as he paid the bill, ignoring her protests, and left her to follow him out onto the street.

  “See here, I invited you to supper!” she muttered.

  “So you did.”

  “I was going to treat you.”

  He stopped to light a cigarette. He didn’t smoke much, only occasionally. But this was one time when he needed its relaxing effect.

  “It wasn’t much of a meal,” he said, towering over her. “I shouldn’t have come down on you so hard,” he admitted. “The job means a lot to me. I forget sometimes that other people might feel differently about it.”

  “I like my job,” she protested. “Really, I do, I just hate being told how to dress and act.”

  “All right. I’ll stop riding you. But you could play down the bangle bracelets and hanging earrings of Babylon, couldn’t you?”

  She smiled. “I guess. If you’ll stop insinuating that I dress like a madam.”

  “I’ve never done that,” he shot back. “Look, there’s a hell of a difference between describing the way you dress and the way you live,” he said irritably. He’d let that slip out. He shouldn’t have used the terminology, even if he did think she was promiscuous.

  “You’re cursing.”

  “Damn it!”

  She grinned. He looked really ruffled. It delighted her to do that to him. She didn’t understand why, but she liked seeing him vulnerable. He so rarely was, and never with men or other women. Only with her.

  His thin mouth flattened with frustrated anger. She made him want things he’d denied himself for years. She made him vulnerable. He could hate her for that.

  If only he could get her out of his system!

  He started walking, and she strolled along beside him. Amazing how safe she felt, she thought.

  “I’ll try to reform. Really I will,” she promised.

  “That would be nice.”

  They were at her apartment house now. She didn’t want him to go. She wanted to find out about him, to get to know him. That was one reason she’d invited him out to eat, but all they’d done was argue.

  “Thank you for supper,” she said graciously.

  “My pleasure.”

  “I can cook,” she added.

  He didn’t speak. She was moving from side to side as she stared up at him, her body sensuous in its covering, her eyes flirting with his.

  “Can you?” he asked after a minute. His voice sounded strained. It felt that way, too.

  “You bought my supper tonight. Another time, I could make yours.”

  He knew very little about women. But unless he missed his guess, that was a come-on. Why else would a woman invite him to her apartment alone at night? Sex was probably like an aperitif to her.

  He considered how it would affect the job and decided that it might yet give him a wedge to use to get her out of the agency once and for all. He smiled with faint triumph as he thought about how the evening might end, and his body throbbed with anticipated delight.

  “When?” he asked.

  “Saturday,” she said. “Saturday night, about six. I could make Stroganoff, if you like it.”

  “I like anything with beef,” he replied.

  She felt her heart lift. He had to like her, or he wouldn’t have accepted. She grinned. “Saturday, then.”

  He nodded.

  She hesitated, thinking that he might come closer, he might kiss her. Her heart raced. But he only stood where he was as she started toward the steps, smoking his cigarette as casually as if he had all night.

  “Good night,” she called.

  “Goodnight.”

  He walked back to his car without a backward glance. Mirri drew in a disappointed breath and went up to her apartment. She wondered if he was ever going to let her get close enough to find out anything about him that wasn’t job-related.

  Amanda was on her lunch hour. She’d already spent forty-five minutes of it at her desk, reading the instruction manual for the copying machine. When she finished she called Lisa into her office and shut the door. Everyone else was out to lunch, but she didn’t want any returning part-timers to hear her.

  “Have you ever read this thing?” she asked the girl.

  Lisa shook her head. “There’s no time,” she began. “Ward does everything out of sequence. The correction lines are always messed up because I can’t read his scribbling, and there’s nobody to answer the phone except me.”

  “It will change. Trust me. Suppose we try doing things just a little differently.”

  Lisa’s eyes widened. “How?”

  “First, I want to get Jenny to come in on Tuesdays after her morning classes in college, just to answer the telephone, take subscriptions and job press orders, and refuse ads that come in after the deadline. That will leave you free to write outlines and do correction lines and set copy uninterrupted. I want to teach Tim to use the copier the right way, so that we can start getting back some of those customers who are rushing off to San Antonio to get their printing done.”

  “Does Mr. Johnson know about this?”

  “He will. Ultimately, too, I’d like to send you out a day or two a week to sell ads for the paper and get new customers for the print shop.”

  “But he’ll never agree!”

  “Yes, he will. Trust me. Are you game, if I can convince him?”

  Lisa’s whole face changed. “It’s what I’ve dreamed of doing!” she exclaimed. “Public relations. Sales. I took a couple of college courses in marketing, and I love meeting people. I’m not a very good typist,” she confessed, something Amanda knew but had tactfully not mentioned. “But Mr. Johnson would never let me do anything else, Tim’s so disgusted with the print shop that he’s ready to quit, too.”

  “He can’t. I have plans for him as well,” Amanda mused. “We are going to turn this place around, if I can get some volunteers to work overtime and help me do it.”

  “I’m all for it,” Lisa said. “What can I do?”

  “Leave it to me,” Amanda replied thoughtfully. “It will take a little work, but I think I have a way figured out.”

  She cornered Tim later that afternoon, when Ward had driven off to take the paper to the community press in San Antonio to be printed. The Gazette was set up for small print jobs, but it didn’t have the facilities or equipment to print its own paper. That had always been done elsewhere.

  Amanda explained what she wanted to do, to upgrade the printing enterprise. Tim listened, his eyes growing brighter and bigger as she talked.

  “Give me just a little time to get a plan of attack organized,” she pleaded. “Don’t quit yet. You’re terrific at what you do. I don’t want to lose you.”

  “Johnson said they’re going to close down the print shop.”

  “Josh Lawson hasn’t said we are,” she replied. “Until he does, it’s got a chance. Tim, there’s some gossip about a throwaway being published. The print shop might be our last hope to keep the doors open.”

  “I’m not arguing with that,” he said. “But Mr. Johnson is not going to cooperate, and he has the last word. I’ve tried to steer him toward higher prices and better quality before. He’s only interested in news and newspaper. He’s been trying to kill off the job press ever since I came here five years ago.”

  “He isn’t going to do
it.” She grinned. “There are ways around any obstacle. Next week we’re going for broke, if you’re with me.”

  “How can I refuse?” He chuckled. “I was ready to quit and go to work down at El Mercado selling straw hats. I’ve got nothing to lose.”

  “All right,” she said. “We’ll see what we can do with this place before Mr. Johnson catches us.”

  “Go for it,” he said, chuckling. “He can kill us, but he can’t eat us.”

  Amanda thought the very same thing. She only hoped that she could pull off her implementation while Mr. Johnson’s thoughts were tangled up in his own personal life. If he got wind of her interference too soon, even Josh’s intervention might not save her job.

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  The loud knock on the door surprised Amanda. It wasn’t likely to be Mirri, and she never had other visitors.

  She went to open the door, uncomfortably aware of her stained old jeans, which she wore to do housework, and the short-sleeved blouse with its laced front that really wasn’t appropriate for company. Perhaps it was just a salesman.

  “Yes?” she asked automatically when she pulled the door open. But the word just hung there in midair, like her heart.

  Josh looked worn. There were deep lines in his face, shadows under his dark eyes. He was wearing a charcoal- gray suit with a pristine white shirt and a red tie. He looked much too elegant for a casual visit.

  “Hello,” she said jerkily. Remembering the way they’d parted on Opal Cay didn’t elicit an attitude of good fellowship.

  He had one hand in his pocket. The other was holding a cigar, which he dropped and ground out under his heel.

  “Am I going to be invited inside, or do you want to talk out here?” he asked quietly.

  She could have refused to talk to him. But the past always spared him any continuing grudges on. her part. It was easy to remember how kind he had been to her when her father was still alive. That memory always defeated her when she tried to hate him.

  “Come in,” she said, opening the door for him. “Do you want some coffee?”