by Arlene James
He offered her a long, slender hand. “Cassidy Penno, I presume.”
She slipped her hand into his mechanically. “Yes.”
“Paul Spencer.”
She closed her eyes, grimaced and snatched her hand back, using it to mop up the nasty gray grease covering her face. “I’m sorry, Mr. Spencer,” she said plaintively from behind the towel, her voice muffled accordingly. “I was dressed as Raggedy Ann earlier, and my brother told me you were coming, but I thought I’d have time to remove my makeup, and that rascal Tony probably wanted to embarrass me, blast him! He hates William, and he stays mad at me because I won’t take his passes seriously, and I ought to fire him, I know, but—”
Paul Spencer pulled the towel out of her hands, still grinning. “Uh-huh,” he said, wiping gunk from her face in long, sure strokes. Cassidy stared, mesmerized by the sparkle in his eyes. “You were telling me why you weren’t going to fire, ah, Tony, was it?”
Cassidy mumbled weakly, “It takes a certain kind of individual to work in a place like this.”
“Really?” he said, using the towel to wipe a glob of grease from beneath her eyebrow. “What kind of individual is that?”
She took the towel from his hands and turned to the mirror, leaning forward in order to avoid his gaze as much as to see her own face. Clumps of gray gunk clung to her skin. Quickly she began wiping them away.
“You were telling me what sort of individual works in a place like this,” he reminded her, folding his arms.
“Someone who loves the theater,” she said tersely. “An actor usually. Someone who likes to dress up. Someone creative. Someone who’ll work for minimum wage.” A glance into the side mirror showed that he was grinning again. She rubbed furiously at her cheeks, hoping to disguise the color burning there. William would kill her if he found out about this! Poor William, forever foiled by his own family. Cassidy threw down the towel in disgust and ripped the rubber band from her hair, allowing it to swing about her shoulders in one sleek sheet as she plucked thin tendrils of bangs forward onto her forehead. “I’d appreciate it, Mr. Spencer if you wouldn’t tell William that you caught me like this. William’s a wonderful brother but he’s... well, he’s—”
“Uptight,” Paul Spencer provided helpfully. “Humorless. Staid.”
Cassidy gaped, horrified, at his reflection in the mirror.
Spencer laughed. “Relax, Miss Penno, I think very highly of your brother. He’s a fine executive and an upstanding member of society. He also takes himself and life in general a bit too seriously.” He used his thumb and forefinger to make a zipping motion across his mouth and added, “William won’t hear a word from me about how you greeted me looking like some kind of swamp monster.”
Cassidy spun the chair around. “I did not!”
“No, you didn’t,” he agreed, lips quirking. “I was teasing.”
“Oh.”
The smile working its way across his lips widened to expose strong, white teeth. One on the right side had a tiny chip in it. Suddenly, something of his humor infected her, and she knew, not only that she could trust him, but that he trusted her enough to joke with her. Why did she sense that there were precious few others with whom he could laugh? It didn’t really matter. What mattered was that it was going to be all right. Her spirits soared, and she laughed.
“I’m so sorry. I must have looked a fright.”
He chuckled. “Let’s just say that I’d never have guessed there was such a pretty face beneath all that gray slime.”
She felt a flash of pleasure, then realized that he was teasing again. “Oh, you,” she said, getting to her feet and waving him to his. “Actually, in my business it’s very convenient to have such a plain, featureless face. It’s like having a clean canvas with which to work. If you’ll just come this way, I think—I hope—Tony has put together some possibilities for us.” To her surprise, he hauled her up short with a hand clamped down on her forearm. Heat flashed up her arm to lodge somewhere in her chest, spreading warmth subtly.
“Who told you that you were plain?” he demanded, brows furrowed. “William?”
“What? Oh...no, of course not!”
“Yours is a very delicate, classical beauty,” he insisted, skimming a finger over her wispy brows, down the short—too short, in her opinion—bridge of her nose, across the subtle peaks of her upper lip and over the rounded tip of her chin.
Cassidy was hypnotized. No one had ever told her that she was beautiful before. She almost believed him, he was so good at it! Then he took his finger away, and reality snapped back into place.
She shook her head to clear it and pointed tentatively into the other room. “Shall we?”
He stepped back, dropped his gaze and lifted a hand to indicate that he would follow her. She turned and strode purposefully into the other room, trying not to think how tall he was, not as tall as she had first imagined, because when they had stood close, she had noticed that the top of her head came about to his eyebrows. That meant that he probably wasn’t much taller than six feet, as she stood just about five-nine in these shoes. A perverse little gremlin in the back of her mind whispered that he was just about the perfect height for her, when she knew perfectly well that there was no such thing.
To her relief, the rolling rack that they used for the “possibilities” that customers had not yet tried on, stood in the middle of the third showroom. Cassidy hoped that Tony had used better judgment in choosing costumes than he had used in bringing Paul Spencer back to the makeup station while she was covered in gray glop. She indicated a small barrel, atop which a deep red cushion had been placed. “If you’ll just have a seat, Mr. Spencer, I’ll show you some of our more popular styles for men.”
“Paul,” he said, lowering himself onto the cushion.
Not a good idea, she told herself. He was simply too attractive a man to call by his given name, under the circumstances. She merely smiled and reached for the first hanger on the rack, displaying it for him with a flourish.
“This is our most popular costume at this time of year, for obvious reasons.”
Paul lifted a neat brow. “Dracula seems a bit trite to me.” “Right.” Cassidy moved the costume to the back of the rack and reached for the next one. “The corsair, or pirate, cuts a dashing figure, and it comes complete with earring, saber, and—if you tike—peg leg or parrot.”
His lips quirked. “I don’t think so. I’m not the earring type.”
“Okay.” To the back of the rack went the corsair, and out came the Red Baron. “This is a very romantic figure, the famous World War I fighter pilot. They have those commercials on television, you know, where the women swoon—”
He was shaking his head. “Swooning women embarrass me.”
“Ah.” She stowed the Red Baron. “How about Patton? We could silver your hair and pad your middle a bit and have you looking just like George C. Scott.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Dwight D. Eisenhower?”
“I’m not sure the military thing is for me.”
“Not even the Rebel soldier from the Civil War?”
He lifted both hands helplessly. “Especially not the Rebel soldier. We’re trying to expand beyond the Southern states at Barclay Bakeries, and there will be prospective clients at this party.”
“Politically incorrect, huh?”
“I wouldn’t want to chance it.”
“I guess the Yankee Blue is out of the question, too, then.”
“And the American Indian, I’m afraid.”
“Hmm.” She squinted at his very dark hair and reached for an idea. “I suppose we could try a Chinese emperor. A little makeup around the eyes and a pigtail...”
He merely folded his hands together, clearly underwhelmed.
“Rudolph Valentino as the sheikh?”
He considered that, then shook his head. “Not for this occasion.” He looked around him. “And no gypsies.”
“Prince Albert?”
“Was
n’t he bald?”
“Castro. No forget that.”
“And nix on Joseph Stalin just in case he’s your next inspiration.”
She made a face at him and was rewarded with that quick grin. “Stalin,” she murmured. “Russia. Hmm. Oh, my gosh,” she said, snapping her fingers. “Remember Tony Curtis in that marvelous old movie about the cossacks? Yul Brynner played his father, I think, and they jumped their horses over wider and wider gorges in a test of bravery.”
“Taras Bulba!” he said, coming to his feet. “Didn’t he die at the end?”
She shrugged. “He still got the girl.”
“Oh, yeah.” He folded his arms, one finger tapping his chin. “Yeah. I think I can do that.” The idea seemed to grow on him, and he nodded enthusiastically. “Well, let’s see it.”
Oops. Cassidy grimaced apologetically. “Uh, I don’t exactly have one in stock, but I can make one up for you.”
He stroked his chin. “I suppose it would be an original, just for me.”
Cassidy relaxed and smiled, even though it meant research for which she didn’t have time, not to mention designing, cutting and sewing—and fittings. She reminded herself that this was for William and said resignedly, “Exactly.”
“Excellent!” He rubbed his hands together enthusiastically. “So, how do we begin?”
“With research, actually.”
“Research! Very good. Where should I begin? I mean, what era historically?”
She blinked at him. “You don’t have to do the research yourself. That’s my job.”
“Well, how will I know you’re doing it correctly?” he asked.
She chewed the inside of her cheek. “Good point.”
He laughed. “It’s not that I don’t trust you. I’m just something of a purist, I guess. Anyway, I like to know things, and I don’t want to look like an idiot if someone asks me about my costume.”
“Very well,” she said, oddly touched. “You might want to research the movie, too, then. In fact, it’s more likely you’ll be asked about that than the historical significance of the costume.”
He considered this, nodding. “I see your point. It’s a pity that people always seem to be more interested in the movie than the history. I think we diminish ourselves with our lack of interest in history.”
“You know, I hadn’t thought that,” she said, impressed. He seemed oddly pleased. “Ah. Well. I, um, guess I’m off to do some research. Uh, what comes after that?”
“Oh!” Cassidy realized she hadn’t thought about fitting appointments. “We’ll have to have fittings, of course.”
“But, um, isn’t there something before that? I mean, I will get a chance to approve the overall design beforehand, won’t I? Or is that too—”
“No! No, it’s fine. Really. In fact, it’ll probably save time... really.”
He smiled at her. “Fine. So, um, when do I get to see the designs?”
Oh, jeepers, she had so much to do, deliveries to make, pickups at the dry cleaners, various mending, several alterations. She tried to think, then heard herself saying, “End of the week?”
“How about Thursday?” he suggested. “Friday’s pretty sewed up for me.”
Sewed up was an apt description for Cassidy’s whole week, but she shrugged, anyway. “Thursday, then. How about late in the day, say, after five?”
He put a finger to one temple, thinking. “I wouldn’t want to keep you late. When do you take lunch?”
“I beg your pardon?” Lunch? What was that?
“Before or after good old Tony?”
“Er, after.”
“About one, then?”
She tried to reason out why this was not a good idea, but all she could think was that Tony had morning classes on Thursday. He wouldn’t want to, but he could come in by one. She nodded dumbly.
“Great. Shall we go out, or it would be better if I brought something in?”
He was going to feed her? “Oh, you don’t need to—”
“Nonsense. I have to eat even if you don’t, and frankly, a good meal wouldn’t hurt you any. Not that you’re too thin! Heavens, no! I just meant...” His gaze traveled over her tall, slender form appreciatively. “Well,” he said, absently straightening his tie, “you obviously don’t have a problem with your weight. In fact, I’d bet you’re one of those naturally slender females other women just hate.”
Her mouth was hanging open. She couldn’t help it. Unless she’d lost her mind, which was a distinct possibility, he was actually flirting with her. Her! Cassidy Jane Penno. “Uh, yab, dun, er...”
He just laughed and chucked her under the chin, then abruptly checked his watch. “Gosh, I have to go.” He pointed a finger at her. “Thursday. One o’clock. I’ll take care of lunch. Right?”
“Ah, erp, sure!”
“Great!” He flashed her a wink and backed toward the door, turning, finally, to hurry from the room.
Astonished, Cassidy flung an arm over the rolling rack. Then slowly her face crumpled. “Such a brilliant conversationalist, Miss Penno,” she mocked in a nasal voice. “No wonder your brother doesn’t trust you further than he can throw you backward through a hoop. Holy cow.” She smacked herself in the forehead with the heel of her hand. First the glop and then the ers and duhs. And she had to have designs by Thursday! Thursday lunch!
Lunch with Paul Spencer. Holy cow!
Absently Paul tapped in the code that unlocked the driver’s door of his sleek black Jaguar and slid beneath the wheel. Whatever had possessed him to insist on a luncheon date with Cassidy Penno? She was an engaging young woman, quite lovely even if she didn’t know it—and he rather liked that she didn’t—and fun in a way he hadn’t encountered in a very long time. Her creativity and her wholesomeness were refreshing. None of that changed the fact that he was practically engaged to Betina. Practically but not quite, damn her.
Now, now, he chided himself, as he started up the engine and put the sleek auto in motion, that’s no way to think about your future wife.
He was resolved, as his grandfather must have known he would eventually be, to making his stepcousin his wife. It was the only thing to do, really, considering that the scheming old man had left her thirty percent of Barclay Bakeries, the very same as he’d left Paul himself. Paul, of course, had another ten percent to go with his thirty, leaving thirty percent to be divided among other family members. His uncle Carl and his wife, Jewel, who was Betina’s mother had ten. And so did his uncle John, who had never married, ten percent had gone to his deceased uncle’s wife, Mary, and her daughter Joyce, who was now Joyce Spencer Thomas.
No nonfamily member had ever owned a share of the business, not since Paul’s great-grandfather had founded it. Customarily, the spouses and children of family members shared in that member’s legacy. However, both Paul’s great-grandfather and grandfather had reserved huge majorities for themselves. The majority of the family had declined involvement in the business, content to pull in their financial rewards without bothering with the nasty details of enterprise.
Paul was the exception. He had a fine mind for business and a great desire to use it, and when he had ascended to the position of CEO upon his grandfather’s retirement, he had foolishly assumed that eventually his grandfather’s sixty percent majority would be added to the ten percent he had inherited from his own parents. Family tradition demanded it. The family themselves expected it, knowing that Paul could be trusted to guide the business with the same skill and dedication as his predecessors. Then the old man had thrown him a curve.
In truth, Paul partly blamed himself. He’d known for some time that his grandfather was concerned about his unmarried status. At thirty-eight, Paul was well past the age when most men married for the first time, but it wasn’t for lack of interest. He just hadn’t found the right woman. Perhaps she didn’t really exist, this woman of his dreams—not that he could even assign her specific characteristics. He only knew that none of the many women with whom he’d involved himse
lf had inspired in him the desire to be joined with her for life. Not even Betina.
He should never have allowed himself to be seduced by her. On the other hand, how many healthy, unattached men could resist a beautiful woman who walked into his office unannounced wearing nothing more than a hot pink raincoat belted at the waist, thigh-high stockings and three-inch heels? No, he couldn’t be blamed for submitting to temptation, even if temptation’s body had been surgically enhanced by the best plastic surgeons available. His true mistake had been in assuming that it was all in fun, and that the family at large would not assign significant expectations to what ought to have been private fun and games.
He couldn’t prove that Betina had let the family in on what she had promised would be their secret, but he wouldn’t put it past her. When he had realized that the family was ignoring his often-repeated assertion that his relationship with Betina was “casual,” he had taken steps to put an end to the fun and games as well as the expectations. Privately Betina had expressed her perfect understanding of the situation. Publicly she had spent months dabbing unseen tears from her eyes every time he entered the room where she was or, apparently, his name was even mentioned. Paul found himself in the unpleasant position of having to reveal how the affair had started or enduring and hoping it would all eventually blow over. He’d thought it had blown over.
Oh, he was aware that much discussion had been devoted to the “suitability” of the pairing by the family at large, and on the surface it did seem perfect. Betina had been twelve when her mother had married Uncle Carl. Sixteen years later she was very much a part of the family fabric without actually being a member of the family, especially as Carl and Jewel had had no children of their own. Having her married to a bona fide member of the family must have seemed somehow poetic and his own lack of enthusiasm foolish if not downright mean-spirited. On the surface Betina was the perfect woman—lovely, accomplished, graceful, sophisticated, warm—but only on the surface. Beneath the polished exterior, so far as Paul could tell, was only a vast amount of ambition and a cold sort of intelligence. Unfortunately he could not say as much to anyone else in the family, except perhaps Joyce. But what good would that do? Joyce was happily married to the plant manager of the business, the bakery itself, and busy trying to conceive a much-wanted first child.