No Nice Girl (8 page)

When she came back, Terry was pouring the cocktails, and as he handed hers to her, he said quietly, “Well, I see the big news is out—though you've probably been expecting it. Or had you heard?”

Phyllis tensed a little and then said evenly, “You mean Kenyon's engagement?”

Terry looked relieved.

“I was afraid it might come as a shock.”

“I've watched it developing,” she told him. “She's very beautiful and she has a lot of money of her own,
and Kenyon is terribly afraid of being married for the Rutledge millions.”

Terry relaxed a little.

“When I saw the announcement in the evening papers, I was—well, afraid you might not have known, fool that I am. Being his—well, his office wife, I doubt if there's much about him you don't know.”

“Not much,” admitted Phyllis wearily.

Terry was silent for a moment and then he burst out explosively, “For the Lord's sake, Phyl, why don't you give up the damned job, and go somewhere else where you won't ever set eyes on the guy again?”

“I couldn't, Terry. Oh, I'm ashamed to be so spineless and such an utter damned fool, but just being with him five days a week, working with him, sharing his every business thought—that's the half loaf that is better than no bread at all.”

Terry said grimly, almost furiously, as though so hurt himself that he could only ease his own pain by lashing out at her, “Then why the hell don't you go sleep with him, and get it out of your system that way?”

Phyllis winced and went white. But she met his eyes squarely. “You think that would help?”

“Hell, yes,” exploded Terry sharply. “They say most secretaries are a little bit in love with the boss—unless he's middle-aged and fat and has ulcers and is hag-ridden by a domineering wife. And it's not unusual for a secretary to build up an unreal background around her hero—imagine all sorts of things—when if they could go sleep with the guy a few times, she'd be so disgusted—”

Phyllis was looking at him, startled, with an odd speculative look in her eyes. Terry saw it and the spate of his words dried up and he looked at her, sharply alarmed.

“Oh, for the love of heaven, Phyl. I didn't mean it. I
was only shooting off my mouth. Cripes, forget it, will you? You couldn't possibly do anything like that.” He protested that look in swift alarm.

“I wonder,” said Phyllis softly. “Though of course it might be a bit hard to manage. After all, he has never looked at me as anything but an office machine. I doubt if he is even conscious of the color of my hair or my eyes.”

“Don't talk like a damned little fool,” said Terry sharply. “If the man is human and normal—and he must be reasonably so, or you wouldn't be so steamed up about him—he's entirely aware of you. And not as an office machine, either. You're—well, you're pretty potent, my girl. No man in his right mind could ignore you completely!”

Phyllis was studying him with a curious intentness, her eyes narrowed and thoughtful.

“Do you really think so, Terry?” she asked after a moment.

“
Hell
, yes, I think so,” snapped Terry, and added savagely, “And I'm the damned fool that's sending you off to make a harlot of yourself.”

Phyllis said swiftly, “Terry, don't you see? I've got to get rid of him somehow. I'll go crazy, sitting there watching him, eaten up with longing for him—knowing he's married to Letty, who's pretty potent herself. If I could get him out of my mind—out of my heart—Terry, there isn't anything I wouldn't do. Barring maybe murder. Perhaps I wouldn't even bar murder, if I thought I could get away with it.”

Terry said in alarm, “Hi—have a heart—snap out of it. You're talking like a fool.”

“Terry, don't you suppose I hate the way I feel about him?” she burst out at him, on the edge of hysteria. “It's robbing me of everything any sane woman wants—a
normal life with a man who loves her, a home, children. I've watched private secretaries, secretly in love with their bosses, eat their hearts out in loneliness and grow into embittered old maids, following a dream that was destined never to come true from the time they were born. I don't want to be like that, Terry. I want to rid myself of Kenyon Rutledge. I've
got
to. And if this is the only way—” She broke off, her voice shaking dangerously.

Terry put his arms about her, compassionate rather than passionate, and heaved a sigh and said drearily, “Me and my big mouth!”

T
HE THOUGHT
T
ERRY HAD PUT
into her mind obsessed Phyllis. There were times of moderate sanity when she told herself she and Terry were both fools, and that the one sensible thing for her to do was to give up her job and go to another place—California, or Chicago, or even Mexico—where she would always be able to find work. To cut herself clean away from Kenyon Rutledge and any mention of him. That was the one sensible thing for her to do.

But when, she asked herself bitterly, did a woman caught in the web of a hopeless love ever do anything sensible? The newspapers were always relating stories of women who had screamed, “If I can't have you, no one else shall,” and making with bullets, or poison, or something equally deadly. That, of course, was beyond Phyllis. But if, by yielding herself to Kenyon—a wry humor corrected that to “forcing yourself on him”—she could rid herself of that ghostly, unreal yet burning desire; if she could steal a few hours with him and thus be rid of him in her heart—it was worth it many times over.

The only difficulty was that it wasn't going to be easy to lure Kenyon across the boundary he had very firmly set between himself and any employee in his firm. Whereas some businessmen look upon the female members of his employee force as legitimate stalking prey,
Kenyon considered such men beyond the pale. To him, the very fact that Phyllis was a valuable and trusted employee set her apart from women, to whom he would normally look for pleasure.

In the five years she had worked for him, Phyllis had learned that lesson very well. And now, faced with the thought of removing that barrier between them, she was puzzled and knew her task was going to be a difficult one. That realization only spurred her on, however, and crystallized her determination.

So absorbed was she in her campaign for Kenyon that she almost forgot about Anice and such annoyances as that young lady might offer. Phyllis was thoughtful, abstracted—and she went shopping, subtly altering her clothes for the office. So subtly that probably no one—save Anice—took any note. After all, the summer was very hot, and even though the Rutledge offices were air-conditioned, the fact that Mr. Rutledge's exceedingly efficient secretary took to wearing shortsleeved frocks with low necks and a snug cut across the bosom passed unnoticed. Dark sheer frocks with brief sleeves and a frill of immaculate white outlining the round, youthful necklines were vastly becoming. And if a faint, vague flower scent clung to her, it was one that was light enough not to cling to the memory.

She thought that once in a while Kenyon looked at her with an odd expression, almost as though he really saw her. Her heart leaped a little with hope at such times; but usually before the hope had time to do more than extend tiny frail green tendrils, Letty called or dropped in to take Kenyon to lunch, or in some other way demonstrated her claim upon him, and the tiny hope wilted and died.

Until there came a humid evening in early August,
when Kenyon said apologetically, “I'm afraid we're slated for a couple of hours overtime tonight, Miss Gordon. I'm terribly sorry. I do hope it won't interfere with any of your private plans.”

Phyllis smiled at him radiantly.

“Of course not,” she said eagerly. “And even if it did. I shouldn't mind in the least.”

Kenyon answered her smile pleasantly, his eyes warming a little. Her thin black frock with its brief sleeves revealed the milky whiteness of her throat and shoulders. The under-slip of black was cut fairly low, and as she leaned forward on the desk, there was an enchanting revelation—the warm upper curves of her beautifully shaped breasts and the intriguing little hollow that lay between them.

Kenyon guiltily tore his eyes away from such enchantment and cleared his throat and said brusquely, “Well, thanks a lot, Miss Gordon, I appreciate your—er—devotion to duty.”

Phyllis, who had caught his glance riveted to her soft, satiny-smooth flesh and the flush that had darkened his handsome face, was joyous, but she only said demurely, “Thank you, Mr. Rutledge. I'm deeply interested in my job and I enjoy my work.”

Kenyon nodded, and consulted the little heap of papers on his desk and began dictating and Phyllis bent her head above her notebook and her fingers flew over the page….

At five o'clock there was a great clatter of typewriters being covered, desk drawers being banged shut and voices raised, as the large office staff began to depart. Phyllis waited until the office was empty, then she stopped her flying fingers on the typewriter and telephoned the restaurant downstairs, ordering a very choice little meal to be served upstairs within an hour.

She was seated at Kenyon's desk, and they were working busily, when the waiter arrived with the laden tray.

“What's all this?” protested Kenyon sharply. “I didn't order food.”

Phyllis said apologetically, “I did, Mr. Rutledge. You only had a glass of milk and a sandwich for lunch and you've been working terribly hard all day. I think you'll be able to work more efficiently if we take a little while off and eat a real dinner. I do hope I ordered something you're fond of.”

Kenyon looked at her a trifle uncertainly, but she was busy clearing a table for the waiter and helping him to arrange the dishes, all hot beneath their metal covers or iced according to their nature.

“Well, I must admit that looks tempting,” said Kenyon, and sniffed appreciatively as Phyllis lifted one of the covers and a savory smell drifted forth.

“I'm so glad,” said Phyllis, smiling at him warmly. “I was afraid you'd think I'd been—well, officious in ordering dinner without consulting you. But it worries me when you drive yourself so hard, Mr. Rutledge, and—well, it is part of a good secretary's duties to see that the boss takes care of his health!”

“And you do a very good job of it, I'm sure,” said Kenyon politely, as he unfolded his napkin and looked hungrily at the food.

Phyllis poured the cocktails, and Kenyon sniffed appreciatively as she lifted her glass in a little gay gesture of a toast.

He relaxed a bit, and she saw that he was enjoying himself. Her spirits rose and she began to talk, lightly, gaily, of things that had no connection whatever with the office. Of things that made him notice her, not merely as an office automaton but as a woman with interests of
her own, with pleasures and troubles and problems that were a million miles removed from the office.

When he laughed, she was delighted; when he looked at her with interest warm in his eyes, she knew that she was winning. Oh, it wasn't easy, but it was going to be worth it.

The blood drummed in her veins, and her face took on a soft flushed look, her eyes were dewy. Kenyon studied her curiously, and when her heart leaped because of the look in his eyes, that leaping was reflected in her faintly increased color and in her eyes.

“You know, it's funny,” said Kenyon suddenly. “We've been working together more than five years, and yet I have the curious impression that I've never really seen you until this moment.”

She laughed softly. A laugh that was intimate, almost caressing; a laugh that spoke of the singing of her blood and called to some instinct within him that made him feel younger and gay and somehow very virile.

“That's because from nine until five I'm an extremely efficient employee,” she told him lightly. “But now we're relaxing a little. And maybe it's because I've never looked upon you as merely my employer.”

“No?” asked Kenyon warily, and she cautioned herself that she must go more slowly. “I wonder why. I hope I haven't been unbearable as an employer.”

“Of course not,” she assured him hastily, once more with that warm, almost caressing little smile. “It's just because—well, I've always admired you rather a lot, and working as closely as we have—” She let it lie.

“Hmm!” said Kenyon noncommittally. He scrubbed out the tip of his cigarette and stood up, holding out his hand to her as though he had reached a decision. “Suppose
we continue this—er—highly interesting conversation in slightly more comfortable—er—circumstances.”

Again she gave him that low, intriguing laugh and put her hand in his, and he drew her with him over to the deep-cushioned couch of pale leather and chromium that matched the modernistic chairs and furnishings of the office.

Phyllis sank down in a corner of the couch, drew one knee thoughtfully beneath her, and leaned forward to accept the light he was offering for her cigarette. The gesture brought her very close to him; so close that the faint, flower-like scent she had dared to put on earlier tantalized his senses just as she had planned it. It also brought again that intriguing, tempting display of soft breasts and the little blue-white shadow between. She looked up at him through her lashes—and suddenly the match had burned to Kenyon's fingers and her cigarette was still unlighted. And then Kenyon took the cigarette from between her lips and flung it from him. His arms went about her, drawing her up close and hard against him. The blood sang triumphantly in her veins as she lifted her soft mouth, lips faintly parted, for the hard, eager down-drive of his own….

And a voice from the open doorway said with gentle mirth: “Well, well,
well!
I
do
hope I'm intruding—and in time!”

Kenyon almost flung Phyllis from him as he got to his feet and faced Letty. She stood in the doorway, an inscrutable look in her lovely jade-green eyes. Letty looked—as always—exquisite, in a very sheer summer frock of a dense, deep blue, through which her cream-white skin all but glowed. Her red-gold hair was adorned by a gay little hat that was simply a half-wreath of fresh white flowers that looked like gardenias, the
band that held it in place concealed by narrow green leaves. Her long, soft black gloves were wrinkled beneath her elbows, where inevitably there were dimples. In short, Letty looked like something straight from one of the more exclusive fashion magazines. And nothing could have made Phyllis feel more hot and rumpled and untidy.

Sick with frustration, shaken to the depths with the bitterest humiliation, Phyllis was for the moment powerless to do or say anything. And Kenyon stood awkwardly, flushed and miserable, looking unpleasantly sweaty, his hands opening and closing, for all the world like a rather stupid small boy caught without an alibi in the jam closet.

Letty looked at the table set for two, with the remnants of a meal—the empty cocktail shaker, the two used glasses. And then her eyes, merry and not at all distressed, flickered over Kenyon and then to Phyllis.

“How very cozy!” she said silkily, and the very fact that she was not angry, that she was not hurling bitter accusations at them, that she seemed to find the whole thing merely amusing and faintly distasteful, added the final note of bitterness to Phyllis' discomfort. Caught in the act—like some cheap little strumpet, she told herself furiously. “But, really, Kenyon, this…well, this is something a little beneath you, isn't it? A cheap little office intrigue! I expected something much more subtle of you—and of Miss Gordon!”

“But—but see here, Letty, you don't understand,” stammered Kenyon, and Letty's airy eyebrows arched a little.

“Oh, come now, darling, please don't insult my intelligence,” she said sweetly. “After all, there's really nothing much to understand, is there? Except that you're a male, and quite normal, and Miss Gordon is a more
than ordinarily attractive young woman, and that you were alone here together. Only
really
, Kenyon, your apartment—or hers—wouldn't it have been more…well, more discreet? I mean the door was unlocked. Suppose one of the scrubwomen—” She lifted her lovely shoulders, artfully veiled by the dense blue chiffon of her gown, in a little shrug that told them how distasteful the whole scene was.

“But I tell you, Letty, Miss Gordon and I were working late—” Kenyon tried to bluster, and Phyllis could not bear to look at him.

“Of course, darling, just as you and Miss Gordon have been working late rather frequently, now that I come to think of it,” said Letty gently. “I'm afraid I was stupid enough to accept that at face value. It's rather nice I learned before our marriage, instead of afterwards, isn't it, darling?”

Before he could manage an answer, she turned to Phyllis and said, smiling politely, “I'm afraid you'll have to excuse him now, Miss Gordon. After all, as his fiancée, I
do
have a few rights, and one is demanding that he keep his engagements with me regardless of his…his secret assignations with you.”

There was nothing Phyllis could say. She could only get to her feet, her face burning scarlet, and, unable to look at either of them, to go out of the room and into her own office.

Added to her bitter humiliation at being caught in such a situation by Letty, there was the pain of frustration. She had so nearly won her fight to spend a few golden hours in Kenyon's arms. He had been intrigued; he had wanted her. He would have taken her—and perhaps then she might have been free of this aching need for him. Her emotion had flamed
high and his had been rising to meet it, and to have Letty walk in at such a moment was an almost unbearable indignity.

She rested her elbows on her desk and hid her white, emotion-ravaged face behind her shaking hands. The bitterness of her humiliation was almost more than she could bear, and added to it was the aching misery of a pride that was crumbled into dust.