A Winning Battle

by Carla Neggers

  “You can pour the milk straight from the carton,” she said in that cool, organized voice. “I don’t mind.”

  “Aha, there’s the scoundrel!”

  He plucked a little white pitcher from the back of the cupboard above the refrigerator, rinsed out the dust, filled it with milk and handed it to her. She added maybe three drops to her coffee. All that effort for a spit of milk. He almost tossed her out right then and there. But he filled his mug and took a seat at the end of the table. If she wanted to dump coffee on his head, she’d have to get up first, and that would give him enough time to scoot out of the way.

  One obviously had to remain alert when in the same room as Page B. Harrington.

  “Well,” he said, “what do you think?”

  She held her mug close to her chest and tilted her head back slightly as she gave him yet another once-over. He felt a bit like a gorilla in a zoo. She certainly looked at him as if she thought he might start beating his chest at any moment. He supposed he did have a reputation, not entirely undeserved, but he generally found people’s preconceptions about him amusing, and even, given his profession, cultivated a certain amount of animosity. Controversy stirred up interest.

  But two wives? What an outrage. He’d only been married once and that, mercifully, a long time ago. He hadn’t seen Allyson in years, thank God. She’d married a wealthy Southern Californian type who could keep her in furs and a yacht since she’d never wanted to go out and earn her own money, despite her excellent education. Allyson had grown up in the same upper-class social circle he had, and they’d both figured that ought to make them more compatible. They’d been stupid and young, he now realized. He’d never shared her zest for consumer goods. While they were still married, he’d done a biting, satirical column on the new consumerism, never thinking Allyson would recognize herself in his description of the modern shopper. But she wasn’t dumb, and she hadn’t been amused. Lots of other people were, however, and that one column had launched his career, if also the end of his and Allyson's marriage. They’d filed for divorce a month later, and Chris had found his Beacon Hill attic. Money had never been one of his problems, but he still had no patience with people who judged themselves and others by what they owned. He just took people as they came.

  Which Page B. Harrington, to be sure, did not. Change was her specialty. She made money changing people.

  Still, he hadn’t seen the need to correct her mistake about his wives. Two sounded sloppier than one.

  “So where do we begin?” he asked when she didn’t answer his first question.

  She set down her mug with a little thump and dusted her palms together, like Dracula getting ready to suck blood. “You mean where do I begin, Mr. Battle,” she said with a maniacal, bloodthirsty look. “You see, I’m here to organize your life for you. Obviously that’s something you are totally incapable of doing for yourself. Therefore, I suggest you leave everything to me. In two days—three days tops—I can have your entire life running smoothly. Your apartment will be in order, your finances will be set up to suit your income and your needs as determined by me, and your time will be managed in ways so efficient you can’t even imagine what they are.”

  He just stared at her, his tongue in one cheek.

  She took a breath and finished. “With me here, Mr. Battle, you no longer have to worry about a thing. You’re absolutely right. I can save you.”

  “You’re getting red in the face, Ms. Harrington.”

  “Good.”

  “How long have you known?”

  “Not long enough.” She grabbed her tidy handbag and jumped to her feet. “How dare you waste my time and insult me with this charade? You can make fun out of what I do in one of your columns all you want. I believe in free speech. But you’ll do it without my help. Thank you for the coffee, and good afternoon.”

  She pounded out into the hall. Chris debated just swallowing his mortification and letting her steam right out the door, she was so hot. He’d been chewed out lots of times, but never for being as big a jackass as he’d just been.

  Hey, he thought, you were just doing your job.

  Well, true. But he didn’t blame her for not liking it.

  He got up and followed her into the entry, where she was picking through a heap of coats and sweaters from the collapsed coat tree. He spotted her umbrella and picked it up. She snatched it out of his hand.

  “How did you know?” he asked nonchalantly.

  Her hair flew into her face—more or less. It was so neat it didn’t have much of a chance. “To do what I do,” she said, her breathing and her anger and everything else about her under control, “I have to be able to read people. And you, Mr. Battle, aren’t the sort of man who’d lose the key to his own front door.”

  “Too obvious?”

  “Much.”

  “But you think you could organize my life for me?”

  “Don’t you ever quit?”

  He grinned. “No.”

  “Mr. Battle, I’ve never met anyone so shameless.”

  “Bad, huh? Call me Chris, okay? What do folks call you?”

  “My friends call me Page.”

  “But I can keep calling you Ms. Harrington, is that it?”

  “That’s it exactly.”

  “You’re turning down the job?”

  “Yes. And for your information, I can’t organize your life for you. What I could do, if I so chose, which, I might add, is beyond the realm of possibility, is to help you organize your own life according to your own needs and priorities—not mine.”

  “For how much?”

  “Not,” she said, tucking her umbrella under her arm, “for anything you could even think to offer me.”

  That sounded curiously like a challenge to Chris, and he watched with new interest as she stormed out of his apartment and, she no doubt assumed, out of his life.

  He went to his alcove window and stood in front of his desk as he watched her trim, color-coordinated figure march across the street into the Public Garden. But her gait slowed, and he spotted her—right there in front of his very eyes—tug off her rain hat, close up her umbrella and look up at the sky as the cold drizzle hit her in the face. A kid on a Big Wheel nearly took her out at the ankles.

  Did she guess he was watching and was purposely defying his stereotype of her? Page B. Harrington catching raindrops on her tongue. It defied belief.

  When her figure faded into the distance, Chris seated himself at his desk. He tilted his chair back and put up his feet, and he thought, Page B., you and I are just getting started.

  * * *

  Chris Battle was on Page’s answering machine again at 4:15 the next afternoon. “I’ll pay you twice your normal rate,’’ his deep, amused voice said, and she noted he hadn’t bothered to identify himself. Thought he was memorable, did he?

  She took great pleasure in erasing him.

  After making a few calls, she finished early and headed to the hotel’s rooftop spa, where she changed into sweats in the elegant dressing room and worked out on the various exercise machines. It felt good to sweat. She could feel some of that strange, unfocused energy that still bothered her channeling itself into pushing her muscles and cardiovascular system to their limits. Better than having it make her do crazy things. She’d bought another pot of daffodils on her way back that afternoon from her office. The ones in her dining room were already beginning to show signs of wilting. What a waste. But still, she enjoyed them.

  She climbed into the pool, suspending herself for a moment to let the cool water soothe her. She’d had a frustrating day. Her present client was a small nonprofit organization dedicated to improving the lot of children. Instead of moving to a larger space, which would cost more in the long run, they’d opted to find ways to use what space they had in their Cambridge offices more efficiently, that is to say hire Get It Together Inc. Though she wasn’t a miracle worker, Page had taken them on as clients because she believed in what they were doing. She’d even cut her rate
s for them.

  Maybe I should take Battle on and charge him triple to make up the difference.

  Spring fever definitely had gotten a tight trip on her faculties. She had to be suffering something to entertain such a notion!

  As nice as they were, her clients did present a challenge, both in terms of the physical layout of their offices and in the way they wanted to work. They were determined to use space and time more efficiently, but without compromising their values. She in turn was determined to help them find ways to do so.

  But they were an exhausting group of people.

  Feeling both refreshed and well exercised, she finished her laps and climbed out of the pool, immediately wrapping herself in her towel. She’d taken out her contact lenses earlier and was fumbling for her glasses when she noticed a blurred figure at one of the tables at the end of the pool. It was obviously male. Aside from an unobtrusive attendant, they were the only ones in the pool area. Page felt a twinge of self consciousness; her body was thoroughly winterized, which meant pale skin with a tendency to be too dry. But who was looking? She dried her face and put on her glasses.

  The blurred figure became crystal clear, and he was definitely looking. Taking a deep breath, Page steadied herself and secured the towel under her arms.

  Chris Battle sipped coffee and looked very relaxed in his skimpy swimming trunks as he watched her. Even through the spots on her lenses she could make out every inch of his taut, nearly naked, utterly masculine figure. There was nothing sloppy about the firm abdomen, the strong shoulders and thick, muscular legs. Her stomach fluttered without her conscious say-so as her mind conjured up the feel of his hairy legs brushing against her smooth ones.

  Control yourself, she thought.

  She marveled at the monumental insolence of the man. Just what did he think he was doing here?

  No, you don’t want to know.

  What she wanted was a larger towel. Hers came to the middle of her own softly muscled, less-than-thick thighs. Even though her swimsuit was a functional tank variety, black and not particularly sexy, in her opinion any suit made after 1920 would have been too skimpy with Chris Battle’s slate eyes on it. On her, to be more precise.

  She decided she would simply have to ignore him.

  Unfortunately, he hadn’t decided to ignore her. “Hello, there,” he called.

  Page acknowledged his presence with a curt nod. There was no way to avoid him. To get to the dressing room she would have to walk directly past him. She was hungry and had had more than enough exercise for one afternoon, but still she considered doing another thirty laps. He might give up and be gone by the time she climbed out of the pool. Then again, he might just sit right where he was, and all she’d be was more tired. Battle didn’t seem the sort of man who’d just give up on something he wanted and go.

  Something he wanted...

  There was that dangerous wording again. She really would have to watch herself.

  She pushed her glasses high up on her nose and marched.

  “Glad to see I was right about one thing,” he said as she started past him. She darted a look at him, not meaning to, and it was just enough to egg him on. “I didn’t think you’d go for bikinis.”

  That stopped her dead. Her skin suddenly felt prickly and sensitive, and she could feel cool water dribble down the back of her neck, like a man’s fingertips. But she didn’t let Battle know what his words, his husky voice, had done to her. She narrowed her eyes at him and pretended she had on a brass-tacks business suit.

  It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t even easy to remind herself she was wearing something, if only a swimsuit and a towel. With those probing, insolent eyes on her she felt entirely naked. She could feel her nipples popping up against the thin material of her swimsuit and was glad, indeed, for the towel. Battle had less on but seemed not the least ill at ease. She envied him his nonchalance and his tan. Naturally he wouldn’t have to tough out an entire New England winter. Where had he gotten his tan— Key West, Jamaica? There’s nothing a New Englander hates more, she thought, than someone who escapes winter for a week and comes back and shows off his tan. She reminded herself that there was no such thing as a healthy tan, anyway.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  “Relaxing. You?”

  “Liar. You’re here because of me.”

  “Am I? My, my, what an ego. Actually, I had no idea you did laps at this hour. Kind of early for you hardworking, organized types, isn’t it? I just felt like a swim.”

  “You have hotel privileges?”

  ‘That’s the general custom when you shell out as much money as I did for a room.”

  “You’re staying here? But you live practically within spitting distance. I can see your building from the window.”

  “No pool in my building.”

  “You’ll do anything for one of your tacky little columns, won’t you?”

  He shrugged, the browned muscles in his shoulders tightening with his slight movement. “I like to get away from my apartment since I both live and work there. Gets isolating.”

  “Hogwash. I’ll bet the paper’s footing your bill.”

  Propping his feet up on another chair, he leaned back and folded his hands on his flat middle. Page averted her eyes from the mat of dark hair on his chest that narrowed and trailed off into his swimsuit.

  “I like you in glasses,” he said. “But I must admit I didn’t expect the pink frames. A touch of whimsy, huh? Still, I’m glad to see you really do have turquoise eyes and they weren’t some trick of colored contact lenses.”

  In there somewhere, she thought, was a compliment…maybe. But she didn’t care if there was. “I wouldn’t spend money on such nonsense. What you see is what you get. Now—”

  “Indeed.”

  It was the wrong thing for her to have said, and she knew it instantly. But there was no taking it back. She tried not to react as he gave her an unreadable half smile and a head-to-toe-and-back-again look, his slate eyes half-open but very, very alert. No matter her resolve, Page felt herself growing hot all over and compounded her mistake by resecuring her towel around her. That only telegraphed to Battle her awkwardness.

  He grinned. “Hard to be businesslike and efficient in just a towel and swimsuit, isn’t it?”

  “You’re insulting, Mr. Battle, and I find your conduct inexcusable.”

  “Hey, I was just commiserating. I’m not exactly dressed, either, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “You know damn well I’ve noticed! No, don’t say a word. I’m leaving. I don’t want to talk to you. I just want you to disappear.”

  Before he could reply, she dashed off to the dressing room. What despicable tactics! Harassment was the only word for what he was doing to her. If he dared make her the butt of one of his satirical columns, she’d be in his boss’s office before he could enjoy his last laugh. She’d expose his methods. She’d threaten to sue. He’d be drummed out of a job and—

  And who did she think she was kidding? He’d just use her outrage as material for another column. Her best tactic—her only sensible tactic—was to refuse to have anything more to do with him. Simply ignore him, like the playground bully.

  Dry and dressed, Page emerged from the dressing room feeling calmer and in more control. Her nemesis had removed himself from his table and was doing laps. She didn’t mean to linger but couldn’t help it. His compact, browned body was something to watch as it slid through the water. The man might be out to get her, but there was no question that he was sexy. She felt that fullness again, the uncontrollable feeling of wanting, wanting, wanting and not knowing what it was she wanted. It was downright odd! She’d always been so goal oriented, knowing precisely what she wanted and how she was going to get it.

  But all she needed was for him to catch her staring. She tore her gaze away and left quickly, glancing back only twice. What was wrong with her? She couldn’t deal with Battle on his terms. It had to be on her own terms.

  Bett
er yet, she thought, don’t deal with him at all.

  * * *

  The swim didn’t help, and neither did the cold shower afterward. Chris knew what would help, but there was no point in even considering that. A few hours in bed with Page B. Harrington? Ms. Organizer herself? She probably had a routine to making love. First you do this, then this, then—

  Don’t torture yourself, he muttered, returning to his elegant room.

  He flipped on a light and collapsed on the bed, contemplating the ceiling. He seemed to have discovered in himself a previously undetected masochistic streak. He’d actually sat there watching the woman do her laps, observing the grace with which her legs moved through the water, the sway of her firm buttocks with each of her strokes, how her steady, controlled movements conserved energy. How her swimsuit clung to her high round breasts and flat stomach and hips. Her well-muscled legs had seemed so long, and as she’d climbed from the pool, Chris had imagined them wrapped around him as she cried out in ecstasy.

  Even when she’d marched over to him, doing her damnedest to ignore him, he’d noted how her glasses drifted down her nose, making her look just a pinch less organized. He’d liked the effect.

  Her cool looks and biting comments he supposed he deserved—had even, he admitted, gone looking for. The woman gave as good as she got. But none of that mattered. Madman that he was, he still couldn’t get out of his mind the possibility of having sex with her. Lots of sex.

  Obviously it was time to cut his losses and make a regal exit.

  But instead, he got up out of bed and put on a dark gray wool suit that was bound to knock the socks off a no-nonsense woman like Page Harrington. He added a red tie; red ties were mean. Hell, he’d slay the woman. Find out what she was made of. That was the point of this column, wasn’t it? What makes people want to organize other people?

  Go find yourself another organizer, my man.