by Adrianne Lee
TIA GAZED UNCOMFORTABLY around her bedroom. It was as sparsely decorated as the living room. Only the essential bed and dresser. The closet had mirrored doors and there was access into the lone bathroom. She’d stayed with the same color scheme here as in the living room. Nice and bland. Nothing jarring. Nothing personal. She liked it that way.
No reminders of her past. Grant had once said all she needed was a Bible in the top drawer of the night-stand to finish the feeling that you were in a motel room in Anywhere, USA. He hadn’t understood. Even after she’d explained it to him.
She glanced at her answering machine. Five calls. The knot in her stomach wound tighter. She could count on one hand those who knew her phone number. And today there was one less. Steeling herself, she sank onto the bed and pushed the button.
A woman’s voice sliced the weighted silence. “Tia, dear, it’s Molly. Are you coming for Christmas Day? Please let me know.”
Tia stopped the recorder. Molly Bowen, her foster mother. The invitation hardly inspired Tia’s holiday spirit. Oh, Molly meant well, but while the woman who’d raised her had been kind and gentle, she’d been emotionally distant. Cool. Not exactly a nurturing soul. Tia realized now Molly wouldn’t allow herself to get close or attached to any of her foster kids because they didn’t stay around long. She was always afraid of loving, then losing them. And she had. All but Tia—the child no one wanted.
Tia hugged herself against the old pain and pushed the recorder again. “Hi, babe. I know you’re out of town, but in case you called your machine, well, er, ah, I think we need to have a long talk when you get back.”
Grant. Her heart twisted with pain and that damnable guilt.
She fast-forwarded the tape to the next message. “Hi, babe. Me again. Thought I should tell you that I’m investigating something for Mac. He’s staying at my place and I’m pretending to be him. It’s kind of hairy. Some of his people have been giving me the old evil eye as though they suspect I’m not Mac. I haven’t had this much fun since junior high.”
Her body felt like a lump of cold rock. The fourth message began. “Hi, babe. The investigation has me running in circles. I don’t want Mac to know, but if I don’t vent to someone, I’ll break down and tell him. I’ve started a background check on his department heads. Seems he handpicked these people on their say-so and his own gut instinct. He’d be surprised and appalled at some of the information my operatives have unearthed about these ‘trustworthy’ employees. The data is compiled in my office computer. No sense upsetting Mac with details he never wanted, unless it becomes necessary. See you soon.”
Tia’s limbs had gone leaden. She stared dumbfounded at the machine for a whole ten seconds, then rewound the fourth message and listened to it again. “Mac, come in here.”
He appeared in the doorway, shirttails hanging out of his slacks, a slice of pizza in one hand, the very picture of a man unwinding after a tough time of it. When had the pizza arrived? She hadn’t heard the doorbell ring.
Mac glanced around the room and surprise registered on his face. Then his gaze fell on her and he seemed to flinch, all at once losing the casual air. If anything he seemed ill at ease. Worse than he’d been at the plant.
“You have to hear this.” Tia patted the bed beside her. Mac just stared at the spot for several seconds before moving hesitantly toward her. He sat down on the very edge of the mattress, perching as though he might leap up at any moment. She covered his hand with her own, anchoring him. She felt him tense and squeezed harder. “It’s Grant.”
Mac looked down at her, shock swirling beneath his querulous, unspoken glance. The slice of pizza dangled from his hand, forgotten. She wanted to spare him Grant’s comments on his employees, on his selection of them. But she could think of no way to do that. Her chest hurt. She rewound the tape and played the message again.
Her eyes locked with Mac’s and she felt as if the room receded, leaving only the two of them in this time, this space, linked by their grief. Her hand tightened on his; the warmth was the one real thing in this illusory moment.
Mac seemed to listen intently. His eyes narrowed, the lids shutting completely as though he’d suffered a physical blow when Grant claimed he’d be surprised and appalled to learn the truth about his employees. That had to cut to the very quick, slice through his self-image. Her heart ached for Mac. She wanted to do more than hold his hand. She wanted to hold him, comfort him. Love him. Prove to him he was wiser than his brother proclaimed.
Tia stopped the tape at the end of the message.
The pain on Mac’s face tore at her soul. She yearned to touch his cheek, absorb his distress, carry it away. But she feared he’d misinterpret it as pity and so did nothing, except struggle to keep the pressure of her hand steady.
“Play it again.” The words choked from Mac. He listened this time with his eyes open. Not one flinch. Steely determination and acceptance controlled his expression. When the tape ended, he let out a huge breath. He rolled to his feet, a man in need of expelling excess frustration. Unspoken devils. “I hadn’t thought to look for information at Quell, and Grant’s secretary didn’t mention anything about the case when I called this morning. She was too busy offering me condolences.”
“We’ll have to go there. Get into his computer.”
“Yes.”
“But there’s one more message.” She frowned at him and rose from the bed. “Maybe that’s from Grant, too.”
Mac tensed as though braced for another mental jolt.
With a trembling hand she reached for the button and played the last message. “Hi, Tia. Just calling to see how you are. How Grant is doing. Call me when you get time. I really need to talk to you about something.”
Tia gave Mac a relieved glance. “That was my friend, Ginny. Bud Gibson’s sister. She was with me when we heard about ‘your’ death. I’ll call her later.”
Tia wanted to call her now. To find out why she hadn’t told her about Buddy’s working for Mac. Was that what Ginny wanted to discuss, too? “I’m sure you want to go directly to Quell.”
“No. As much as I’d like that information before returning to the plant, we’ll have to go to Quell after hours. It was bad enough passing as him over the phone. I don’t dare risk a face-to-face encounter with Grant’s associates—not while I’m impersonating Grant.”
She nodded. “I understand. You’ve got enough on your hands with your own people.”
“My own people…” A bitter laugh spilled from him. He glanced at the limp slice of pizza as though it was a dead rat. “Where’s your garbage?”
THE FIRST PLACE they headed when they returned to the plant was Mac’s office. A pile of telephone-message slips occupied a large section on his desk. Awed, he scanned the messages. “I had no idea so many people cared whether I lived or—”
Nancy Rice poked her head through the doorway. Mac bit off his statement, his heart leaping. He’d forgotten himself and spoken as though he was Mac, not Grant. He felt his shirt getting damp again. He had to be more careful. Dear God, had she heard? He studied her pretty face, her wide brown eyes, but saw nothing more worrisome than concern for him.
She ignored Tia completely and started toward him, batting her eyelashes at him of all things. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“No,” he said hoarsely in response to his blunder. But he could see she thought he was reacting to her. He lowered his voice. “What do you need?”
“I wasn’t sure what to do with those.” She gave a shake of her blond head and pointed to the messages. “Mostly they’re inquiries about the funeral. Is a date set yet?”
Mac’s gut tensed. “No.
He wasn’t sure when the police would release the body, but he didn’t want to say that.
“What should I tell people when they ask?” Nancy frowned, looking like a fluttery airhead incapable of making a decision on her own. What kind of game was she playing and why? Ice layered his gut at the possibilities. Nancy managed this office like a boat c
aptain running an ocean liner. So why was she acting like a naive ingenue? A flirt? Coming on to Grant—with no respect for his being engaged?
She repeated, “What should I tell people when they ask?”
Mac ran his hand across his hair. “Say the arrangements are being made and we’ll run an announcement in the paper as soon as everything is settled.”
“Okay.” As Nancy walked out the door, he met Tia’s gaze. She gave him a sympathetic smile. He shook his head, then turned back to all the messages, touching the stack absently. He felt like George Bailey in It’s a Wonderful Life discovering he had a wealth of friends. That his life had touched others in ways he’d never expected made a difference. There were names of people he hadn’t spoken to in years. Mac’s heart swelled with such emotion he couldn’t deal with it. Couldn’t deal with these messages, either.
He pulled open the top drawer of his desk and swept them inside. As he did, a strip of red foil peeked from beneath the messages. His gaze narrowed. Amid the messages there was a small gift-wrapped box. Mac froze. The attached tag read, “To Grant, from Santa.” His pulse kicked. He shouted, “Nancy!”
“What is it?” Tia rushed to his side and fell silent as she spotted the gift.
Nancy reappeared in the doorway. “Is something wrong?”
Mac knew he’d better not make too much of this. Not raise her suspicions. Somehow he managed to keep his voice calm, his hand from trembling as he held the small package up for her to see. “Did you notice who left this on my desk?”
She came unnecessarily close to him and studied the box, then shrugged, shaking her head. “It wasn’t there when I left the messages.”
His control of his patience faltered. “Who was in this office while we were gone?”
She shrugged again. “Gee, I’ve been so busy with the phones, I couldn’t say I noticed anyone.”
“Oh, Grant.” Tia sidled up to Mac and snaked her arm through his as though warning Nancy off her territory. “Now you’ve gone and spoiled my surprise.”
Mac blushed, and Nancy seethed prettily, glaring at Tia. “Guess that solves the mystery, boss.” She left in a snit.
Laughing softly, Mac shut the door behind her. “Quick thinking, Ms. Larken. Thank you.”
Tia’s eyes were as round as tree ornaments. “Just open it.”
Mac ripped off the wrapping. Another Lei Industries box. He set it on the table between them, lifted the lid slowly. Inside were a matchstick—the type Fred favored—a mitten like Holly Beary’s and a folded piece of paper.
“It’s a typewritten note.” He held the paper in a hand trembling with rage. “It says, Hold the lighted match to the mitten. Mac did as instructed. To his horror the mitten began burning. He dropped it into the water pitcher on the table and swore. “It’s not flame-retardant. If this gets into the hands of even one child…”
“Can’t we warn stores about this? Call some media-news magazines?”
“And offer what proof? We don’t have Lei’s product here. All we have is a piece of charred fabric that could have come from anywhere.” Mac felt sick.
Chapter Seven
“Mac, we’ll get the real Holly Beary released before that piece of junk imitation can leave Lei’s warehouse.” Tia spoke softly but with fierce determination. Her emerald eyes, alight with confidence, as brilliant as Christmas stars against a winter sky, made him almost believe.
But she knew the odds were stacked against them, knew they weren’t just fighting the enemy in Taiwan, but the enemy within. He rubbed his jaw in frustration and recalled again Tia’s concern about the factory in Mexico. His tie felt like a garrote. “What were you going to tell me in the elevator before Bijou interrupted us?”
Tia blew out a wobbly breath and squared her shoulders as though he’d turned the tables and poked her in the back. Her hands began moving, gesturing for him to stay calm. Like being told not to get upset, it heightened his anxiety.
“Really, it’s probably nothing,” she said. “I just wondered whether or not Suzanne had inspected the factory to be certain it wasn’t a sweatshop. Look at what happened to Kathie Lee Gifford and her clothing line. Innocent people are often duped by factory owners. Call me overly careful. Or a worrier. I just think it’s better to err on the side of caution than to find out in the morning news that Coy Toys’ top seller is manufactured by ten-year-olds in some Mexican village.”
Mac’s office door opened.
He didn’t notice. He stared at Tia. Disbelief shredded what remained of his composure. His shirt clung to his body like a wetsuit without talcum powder. “A sweatshop?”
“Oh, how aptly put. My opinion exactly.” A skinny man with hair the artificial gold of a sequined gown waltzed into the room, interrupting the conversation as though this was not his boss’s office, not the boss and his fiancée he was barging in on. “This is the most demanding job I’ve ever had. I’m so glad you concur. Your brother never would admit it. But then, you probably knew what a workaholic that man was. Morning, noon and nighttime, too. Like he hadn’t heard of the nine-to-five workday.”
Tia and Mac gaped at the intruder. He seemed to finally notice.
“Oh, how rude of me. I don’t suppose either of you remember me from this morning’s meeting.” He stretched his hand toward Mac. “Will Holden. Head of publicity.”
Mac ignored the proffered hand. “Yes. I think Ms. Larken and I both remember you, Mr. Holden.”
“Oh, please, couldn’t we make it Will and Grant? My salary doesn’t deserve the prestige of formalities.”
Mac eyed Will with barely concealed disdain. He was used to Will’s “too much work for too little pay” diatribe. Not a month went by that he didn’t ask for an increase in his take-home.
“I do have a rather…er, delicate request, Grant. I mean, now that the launch has been moved up and I’ll be doing twice as much as normal, well, I was wondering about a raise.”
Mac pressed his lips together, stifling a moan. Could this man have chosen a more inappropriate time? What was his problem? He earned a fair wage for the work he did. Better than fair. Until now Mac hadn’t thought to wonder why it wasn’t enough. But now suspicions flew through his head like a flurry of snowflakes. “I don’t think you’ve been asked to do anymore than anyone else. Why should you deserve special compensation?”
“Well, Grant, the thing is…” Will moved closer as though he were about to reveal a secret. “Mac, he, ah…promised it to me…before…you know…”
Like hell I did! Anger gathered in Mac, a churning, boiling rage, a volcano ready to spew lava on this unsuspecting man. Dammit. Another bald-faced liar. It was a bloody epidemic. He wanted to grab Will by his scrawny neck and toss him out of the office.
“See, the thing is,” Will continued, oblivious to how close he stood to a mass of roiling fury, “Mac said if the toy is as big a hit as he expected it to be, the raise would be forthcoming.”
Mac curled his hands into fists. He’d said no such thing. It was, however, an unspoken promise. Whatever success the toy generated would be shared by all those who’d made it possible. Why, then, was Will seeking his money before the launch? An ugly thought punched his gut. Did Will know “Grant” would fail? “Why don’t you show us what you’ve arranged for publicity?”
“Well, sure, but I’d rather you waited until tomorrow, Grant. I mean, this morning wasn’t much notice and I’m not ready yet.” He waved his hands like twin fans. “Tomorrow, okay? Now…about my money?”
“There won’t be any bonuses until Holly Beary begins generating some income.” Mac choked down his anger. Reaching for his missing glasses, he caught himself, quickly running his forefinger down his nose as though that was what he’d meant to do. Sweat beaded his upper lip. “All extra funds are being funneled into the launch.”
Will sighed and plopped his hand on his hip. “Oh, well, you can’t blame a guy for trying.” He headed to the door, turning back at the last second. “Tomorrow I’ll have masterpieces for your
viewing.”
Mac faced Tia. “What did you make of that?”
She looked as though she didn’t know whether to laugh or proclaim Will Holden the killer. “Nervy. Is he always that…brazenly rude?”
“I never paid it much mind. But, yes, I suppose he is.”
“He seems to have an overblown ego.”
“That’s putting in mildly.” Mac grinned wryly. “Will’s a good artist, and he has the necessary media connections, but he’s always hitting me up for more money. I never thought to wonder why until now.”
She frowned at him. “Would he sabotage the company if someone offered him the right monetary incentive?”
“Seems a good possibility. Maybe there’s something in his private life making him desperate for cash.” Maybe Grant had found out what the something was. Mac itched to get a look at Grant’s computer. But that had to wait until tonight. “I’ll tell you one thing—he’s now the fourth liar out of my trusted five.”
He explained the lie to her.
“Six.” Tia brushed her hair behind one ear, a gesture he found distracting, especially when she tipped her head to one side as she was doing now. “You forgot Nancy.”
He tried not to notice how shiny Tia’s hair was in the glinting lights of the Christmas decorations. Tried ignoring the musical lilt in her voice that stirred his blood with improper images. “Yes, well, so far Nancy hasn’t lied. She’s just acting completely out of character.”
“Is she?” Tia gave him a pointed gaze. “Or is this just the first time you’ve seen her around a man who turns her on?”