Escapade (12 page)

A
manda sensed a different atmosphere in the office the next day. It wasn’t something tangible, but there was a strained, almost forced reserve between Ward and Dora. In fact, they seemed to have trouble not looking at each other.

When they went out to lunch, Amanda pretended not to notice that they got into the same car, but immediately she figured everything out. She didn’t approve, and she knew Josh wouldn’t. But she could hardly tell him something that was only a suspicion. After the way they’d parted, perhaps he wouldn’t even speak to her. She couldn’t remember ever having a serious argument with Josh before. She didn’t like being at odds with him.

She stared at the computer screen, determined to concentrate on the matter at hand. She noted with an accountant’s keen accuracy the changes Ward had made in the sheets he’d faxed to Josh. These reflected a wholesale percentage rise in classified ad prices and display ad prices, and even job press prices, in increments that were barely noticeable unless someone saw the books on a daily basis and recognized the bulk rates for the ads and various printing jobs. But she did. She glared at the spreadsheet, wondering if Ward Johnson really expected to pull off the deception.

If he planned to raise those prices to correspond with his figures, he might actually manage it.

The price increase had been Amanda’s idea, but Ward had made Josh think it was his own. She wanted to throw
things and scream. Ward had outfoxed her. She could go running to Josh yelling foul, but that wasn’t her way.

She’d have a better chance if she slowly initiated other changes to improve revenues at the
Gazette.
And Josh would believe her when she finally told him whose idea it had been. He knew, if nothing else, that she never lied.

Amanda wished she’d never known what it was like to kiss him, to be held by him, wanted by him. Her nights were tormented, and her days were hill of thoughts of what their nights could be like. But she couldn’t continue to brood, or her mother’s family’s newspaper enterprise would go down the tube. There was no way Amanda would let her inheritance slip by her as easily as Josh had. At least the newspaper held the promise of a secure future.

She went to the back, where Tim Wilson was running the big Heidelberg press, its hydraulic action sounding like a jazz rhythm as it lifted each printed sheet into a neat pile. They used the offset press for most jobs, but there were still some that demanded the accuracy and precision of the Heidelberg.

“I want to talk to you about something,” she said, perching herself on a stool beside him.

“Sure,” he said, grinning. He was in his thirties, tall and slightly balding, an
d happily married with a brand-
new son. Everyone liked him. “What is it?”

“When you set up a job, it’s before we’ve had the customer come in and read the proofs, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes,” he confessed. “I don’t like it, but Mr. Johnson says we’ve done it that way for fifteen years and he doesn’t want to make anybody mad.”

“The way we’re doing this isn’t cost-effective,” she
said. “The cost of setting up the job
is offset by having to do it al
l over again because it wasn’t proofread first. The same thing is happening with jobs we do on the offset press. Negatives and plates are expensive to make. We’re throwing away money.”

“That we are.”

“I want the customers to read proofs before we print jobs from now on. You or I can call and ask them to come in and look over the proofs and sign a paper attesting to that.”

Tim whistled softly. “Ward won’t like it.”

She lifted her eyebrows.
“
Ward doesn’t have to know, if we’re careful,” she told him. “He’s always out of the office on Thursdays, and sometimes on Fridays. He involves himself with the newspaper, yes, but he leaves most of the printing decisions to you.”

“That’s true.” Tim smiled apologetically. “Stings, doesn’t it?” he asked g
ently. “This whole operation be
longs to your family, and you don’t have any say in how it’s run.”

“That’s going to change,” she assured him. “If I have to fight Ward and Josh Lawson both.”

He chuckled. “You’re like your dad, aren’t you?”

“I never thought so before. Maybe I am, a bit. Will you do it?”

“If I get fired
…”
he began slowly.

“I know. You have a family to support. Tim, I can always appeal to Josh if I have to. Believe me, you won’t lose your job, even if I do.”

She looked and sounded sincere. He knew already that she never made promises she couldn’t keep. “Okay,” he said finally. “We’ll give it a try.”

“I want to do an inventory, too,” she added. He groaned, and she smiled. “Don’t panic. I’ll make sure we have help. But it’s overdue. I want to see what we have. Then we can decide what we need.”

“You’re actually planning to run this business to do more than break even, aren’t you?” he asked
with pure delighted sarcasm. “
Damn. There go my four-hour coffee breaks.”

She laughed. “There’s a first time for everything.”

“So they say. I’ll do my part. But it’s your funeral.”

“Then I’ll take my chances.”

As it happened, the implementing of the new system was done pretty much with Ward’s nebulous approval. Amanda caught him one day just after a very long lunch with a radiant Dora, and he agreed without any argument to Amanda’s casual suggestion that clients proof job work before it was printed. His involvement with Dora, which was becoming pretty obvious to his co-workers, might very well work to her advantage, Amanda mused. While Ward was indulging his libido, she had the time and opportunity to indulge her business sense and get the press back on its financial feet.

It would take a little stealth, but she was more than capable of that. Besides, she thought wistfully, it would keep her from brooding over Josh. He hadn’t called or written. Brad, however, was back in town, and he had called her. Neither of them had mentioned Josh, although he sounded belligerent. Amanda wondered if he’d argued again with his brother. They hardly did anything else lately, he said. She’d accepted Brad’s offer of lunch because she needed to hear about Josh, even if it was secondhand. She was dying to know if Terri had shown
up, if Josh was falling into Terri’s arms again. She had no pride when it came to that question. She
had
to know.

T
hey went out to lunch that Friday. He was less animated than usual, something she noticed immediately.

“Josh is in town, isn’t he?” she asked, trying to sound nonchalant. They’d just finished their salads and were waiting for the main course to be served.

“Does it show?” he mused.

“I’m afraid so. You look absolutely driven.”

“I am driven.” He propped his head on his hands and stared at her across the table. “You might as well know that I’m in debt up to my neck because I went a little overboard one night in a Las Vegas casino. The owner wants his money yesterday, but I can’t raise it.”

“Did you tell Josh?”

“Yes,” he said tersely. “I told Josh. He said that if he bailed me out again, I’d never stop gambling.”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

“But you agree with him, don’t you?”

“It isn’t what I think that matters,” she replied. Her green eyes were compassionate. “What will you do?”

“I don’t know. I can’t raise twenty thousand dollars on my own within a month’s time. I certainly can’t borrow that much, considering how far I’m overdrawn. I can’t even mortgage my house—I’m still paying off the interest on the loan.” He smiled at her with a whimsical expression on his handsome face. “I don’t suppose you’d like to shoot me? That would solve my problems. Then at least I won’t get dropped in some river with lead shoes on.”

She chuckled. “I wouldn’t call getting shot solving a
problem. I wish I could l
oan you th
e money,” she said, smiling at him gently. “I’d do it in a minute if Ward Johnson wasn’t in the picture. But, if I staked you, I’d stand to lose the paper. That’s what I’m fighting for right now.”

“I know.” It touched him that she was willing even to think about such a strategy. They had a long history, and she cared about him, even if it wasn’t with the same passion he knew she felt for his brother. He suddenly hated Josh. He didn’t deserve someone like Amanda. He wasn’t as concerned about her as Brad was. Brad would have loved her and cherished her and treated her like a queen. His eyes na
rr
owed. Hold that thought, he mused, watching her lovely face intently. If he could straighten out his life and pull himself together, mightn’t she turn to him after all? He had overheard their last conversation and knew his brother had rejected her.

“You’re plotting something,” Amanda accused lightly.

“Oh, yes, I am,” he said softly. “I am indeed.”

“Well, stop,” she said. “We have to find a way out of your predicament. Don’t you have any assets that you could liquidate?”

He wasn’t really hearing her. He’d always liked Amanda, and it seeme
d to him that the more she blossomed in that job, the
prettier she got. She was an exciting and interesting woman. Josh was a fool for not seeing it.

“Liquidatable assets?” she prompted.

“Oh. Yes.” He thought for a moment. “Nothing except som
e old stocks packed away at my l
ate great-uncle’s house. I doubt they’re worth the paper they’re printed on. The company they backed went bro
ke. When I saw th
em
in the safe, I didn’t even have them checked out. I recognized the name of the bankrupt agency that issued them.”

“How about your Ferrari?”

He laughed bitterly. “Want to see the coupon book? I’ve only paid on it for two years. And the business belongs to Josh. I just work for it. I have stock in it, sure, but if I sell it, the family will lose control of the company. Josh would never let me sacrifice it to save myself.”

“Josh loves you.”

“He has one hell of a way of showing it,” he said brutally.

“Go home and get some sleep, why don’t you?” she said. “Tomorrow’s Saturday. Sleep late. Maybe you’ll come up with something.”

“I wish I could be that confident.”

“You really do need help, Brad,” she said seriously. “I care about you. You know that. I wouldn’t say it if I weren’t concerned. Gambling is just like alcoholism, they say. You get to a point where
you can’t stop by yourself.”

“I can when I want to.”

He sounded so much like Josh that she smiled wistfully. “All right. Be stubborn. I have to get home.” “I’ll drop you off at your office to pick up your car.” She touched his hand. “It will be all right,” she told him.

“Sure. Let’s go.”

Amanda felt guilty that she couldn’t do anything to help him. The sad fact of it was that he’d yielded to his own weakness, and he was having to pay the price. It wasn’t bad luck, as he thought. It was just the way life was. Brad would learn a hard lesson, but it would ultimately save him some money. Or even his life.

CHAPTER

TEN

M
irri
had been trying all day to work up enough
nerve to approach Nelson Stuart and ask him
to have coffee or a sandwich with her one
evening after work. The situation between them had become so tense and explosive that he bit her head off for asking the simplest question. The other agents were beginning to murmur among themselves. It couldn’t continue. Mirri was going to have to gain his friendship or quit. There wasn’t any other course open now.

Nelson noticed her discomfort. He encouraged it. He was trying to make her leave the agency. His interest in her was becoming disruptive. She was efficient and skilled, but she had to go.

This day, though, she was more disorganized than usual, in a flushed frenzy of nerves. He got tired of asking for the same piece of information twice and having to answer his own telephone because she was too rattled to type and do that at the same time.

He called her into his office and pushed the door shut
with such unusual force that heads turned toward his hard face before the door closed.

“Sit down,” he told her curtly.

She did, almost shaking with uncharacteristic shyness. She looked at him and colored, her fiery hair all disheveled, her blue eyes darker than usual and huge as she averted them from his angry face.

He perched on the edge of his desk, very attractive in a neat gray suit with a spotless white shirt and a neat gray-striped tie. His thick black hair was pulled back from his lean face, emphasizing the rawboned look of it and his high cheekbones. His equally dark eyes narrowed on her face. “What the hell is wrong with you today?” he asked without preamble.

She clenched her small hands in her lap and went for broke. “I’m trying to get up enough nerve to ask you to have coffee with me after work.”

He looked at the door and then at the carpet, to make sure he was awake. He was glad he was sitting down. He stared at her. “I beg your pardon?” he asked slowly.

She looked up at his rigid features. The almost whimsical expression on his face lessened her inhibitions. She sat forward on the chair. “I know you don’t like me,” she
said quickly, “but could we…
I mean, could we have c
offee or something and just…
could we just talk? Away from here,” she added.

He’d never dreamed of seeing her so unsettled that she had to work to make a coherent statement. One dark eyebrow went up. Her nervousness made him calm. He actually smiled. “Where?” he asked, his deep drawl oddly sensuous.

Her eyes brightened with hope. “There’s a cafe down
the street from me,” she
said. “It’s not fancy or anything, but they make the best spaghetti in town.”

“What time?”

Her heart ran wild. She’d never dreamed that he’d actually accept. Her lips parted on a rushed breath, and her face became incredibly radiant.

Nelson, watching her, was amazed at the change, at the softening of her features, the blaze of delight in her eyes. His body stiffened, and he almost laughed out loud at his headlong response to her. Unless he was badly mistaken, she was attracted to him! The thought went to his head and made him dizzy.

“I live on Ivy Street,” she said after a minute. “Number two fourteen. It’s an apartment house.”

“I’ll find it.”

She stood up. “I’m sorry about all the foul-ups today. I’ll do better. Scout’s honor.” She raised four fingers.

“Four
fingers?” he queried.

“Martian scouts, sir,”
sh
e assured him. “I’ll look for you at seven, then.” She hesitated at the door. “It’s a sort of old-fashioned cafe,” she began. “They don’t serve beer or wine
…”

“I don’t drink.”

“Neither do I,” she said, feeling a wave of relief spread through her. If Nelson had wanted even a glass of wine, she would have felt uncomfortable. That had been the one worry in her mind. Mirri had not been able to tolerate alcohol at even the most moderate level for years because of what had been done to her. She had never discussed her fears with anyone but Amanda, and now it seemed the matter wouldn’t even come up with Nelson.

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.

T
he 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 mode
rn
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,” Mi
rr
i 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 l
ess dramatically,” she began earn
es
tl
y, “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 suddenly 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 o
r
dinary-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.