No Nice Girl (9 page)

She had no way of knowing how long she sat there before the door opened, and she looked up to see Letty standing there, leaning her slim, elegant back against the closed door, studying Phyllis with a curious, puzzled look.

“Really, Miss Gordon,” she said smoothly, “I don't understand this at all. If you wanted an affair with Kenyon, and couldn't find a better place to stage it than here in his office after hours, why telephone me and ask me to drop in? It sounds like some sort of a trap, though honestly I can't see just what it could be.”

Phyllis was staring at her in shocked amazement.

“
I
telephoned you? Mrs. Lawrence, I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about,” she said at last.

Letty looked more puzzled than ever.

“Well, somebody telephoned me—a woman, with a very pleasant voice,” said Letty a trifle grimly. “And she said that if I dropped in at my fiancé's office about eight o'clock, it might be interesting, and hung up before I could ask any questions. And, well, I wondered if maybe you could have staged the whole thing with some idiotic idea that if I caught Kenyon practically in the act of…shall we say seducing—with her full consent and cooperation—his priceless secretary, I might break the engagement and the secretary get a chance to marry Kenyon? That sounds pretty silly, I admit—and yet what other purpose could you have had?”

“I never dreamed of such a thing—” stammered Phyllis, in abject humiliation.

“No, I don't suppose you would, at that,” Letty observed thoughtfully. “But who in the world could have known that you and Kenyon were—well, planning something like this?”

“There was no plan. I mean it j-j-just happened,” stammered Phyllis.

Letty laughed, a little, tinkling, cynical laugh, and shook her lovely head. The scent of the gardenias that banded that head touched Phyllis so that she felt never again would she smell them without being a little sickened.

“Oh, no, my dear—really, you belittle my intelligence,” through a fog of misery and embarrassment she heard Letty saying gently. “I'm not a child; I'm a woman of the world. I pride myself I'm even a bit sophisticated. I know men. I know Kenyon. He's—well, perhaps he's a bit of a fool where women are concerned, but I rather like that about him. I know that he'd never attempt to seduce a girl in his own office unless the girl gave him the ‘go-ahead' signal. In fact,” she finished almost as though she spoke her thoughts aloud, “there are moments when I could
almost
believe Kenyon a virgin—though that's ridiculous when you remember that he's thirty-six and very rich and there are always women flinging themselves at his head.”

Phyllis said nothing. Her teeth were sunk hard in her lower lip and her hands were clenched tightly to fight back the threat of tears that would have added the final unbearable drop of bitterness to the present moment, a moment that was already worse than anything that had ever happened to her in all her life.

Letty said quietly after a while, “You're in love with Kenyon, aren't you, Miss Gordon?”

Phyllis put her shaking hands over her white face, and Letty studied her for a moment, a curious blend of pity and contempt in her lovely jade-green eyes.

“Too bad,” said Letty. “I'm truly sorry. Being in love with him will make it difficult for you to be satisfied with the sort of husband you will be likely to find in your own walk of life. You're much to—er—tempting to be allowed to shrivel up into a neurotic, bitter old maid. But really, if you yearn to be Kenyon's mistress, do, for pity's sake, be a little more discreet. Kenyon's income would easily manage a nice, quiet apartment, but I insist that you stop using the office.”

Phyllis said through her teeth and behind shaking hands, with complete surrender and abject entreaty in her voice, “Oh,
please
—”

And politely, as though they had discussed nothing more important than the weather, Letty said, “I'm so sorry.”

Phyllis managed to say, “I will resign my job tomorrow.”

Letty asked, wide-eyed, “But for goodness sake, why?”

Phyllis flung up her head and stared at Letty.

“Do you mean you don't want me to?” she gasped.

Letty said, “But why should I? After all, you are thoroughly competent, and I know Ken relies on you a lot, and since you've both had your lesson, I feel quite sure there will never be a repetition of this little episode. So why should you give up a good, well-paid job where you are a valued, trusted employee, just because you—er—made a pass at the boss? I'm sure if every secretary who made a pass at the boss—without completing it—were discharged, there'd be a lot of bosses yelling for experienced help.”

Her voice invited Phyllis to laugh with her, but Phyllis had never been further from laughter in all her life.

A moment later, a hang-dog-looking Kenyon, bitterly embarrassed, almost pathetically humble, said to Letty, “I—er—am ready.”

“Are you, darling? Then we can still make the second act—they say the first one isn't very good, anyway,” said Letty. She slipped her hand through his arm, and said over her shoulder to Phyllis, “Goodnight, Miss Gordon, and
do
forgive me for intruding, won't you? It was tactless of me, and very inconsiderate.”

“Letty, for the Lord's sake—” protested Kenyon miserably, and then they were gone.

Phyllis heard the crisp staccato of Letty's tall heels crossing the office floor, and then the closing of the door, and still she sat on, sick with shame and bitterness.

She had always turned up her pretty nose at silly girls who got entangled in ugly sex affairs; she had always steered clear of them. That was why she had been a virgin when she had first gone into Terry's arms, solacing her burning need for Kenyon with Terry's complete and utter adoration.

The thought of Terry caused her to stiffen a little. Why, damn him, it had been Terry who had suggested that she give herself to Kenyon, to rid herself of the need for him. She knew now that had been twisted reasoning; she did not believe that Terry had really meant it. He had spoken out of the bitterness of wanting her, and the frustration of knowing that though she lay in his arms, it was Kenyon's that she wanted….

The sound of a subdued clatter in the outer office finally roused her to a realization that it was late. She pulled herself up from her desk, and a glimpse of her white face and dark eyes in the mirror above the book
shelf startled her. She looked like a hag, she told herself savagely, and did what she could with powder, lipstick and rouge before she put on her hat and went out into Kenyon's office.

She put away the papers on which they had been working, and flung a cloth over the disordered table. When she saw that the office was in its normal condition, she switched out the lights and walked through the outer office, where the scrubwomen paused in their work to watch her go.

P
HYLLIS HOPED WITH
all her heart that Anice would be in bed and asleep when she got home. But the moment she fitted her key into the lock, her tired heart sank. For Anice called swiftly, “Is that you, Cousin Phyllis? Goodness. I was worried about you. That Mr. Rutledge is just a brute to make you work this late—and gracious me, how tired you look.”

“I'm very tired,” agreed Phyllis.

“But I've got a bit of dinner for you—I knew you wouldn't have time for a decent meal,” said Anice, following Phyllis to the bedroom door.

“No food, thanks, Anice—just sleep,” said Phyllis. Then, goaded by the girl's wide-eyed protest, she said curtly, “I had dinner. Mr. Rutledge had food sent up from the restaurant on the corner. It was very good.”

“Oh,” said Anice, and smiled her relief. “I'm so glad.”

Phyllis turned on her with sudden suspicion, and before she could control the words, she demanded sharply, “Anice, did you telephone Mrs. Lawrence and suggest that if she dropped in at Mr. Rutledge's office about eight, she'd discover something…”

Anice was wide-eyed with shock.

“Mrs. Lawrence? Who is she? Good gracious. Phyllis, why would I do that? What would I want to do
that for? You and Mr. Rutledge were
working
—” she protested, hurt and puzzled.

Phyllis studied her for a long moment.

“Well, someone, a woman with a very pleasant voice, telephoned Mrs. Lawrence—” began Phyllis.

“And Mrs. Lawrence acted on an anonymous call like that?” protested Anice, bewildered. “Goodness, either she isn't very much in love with him or else she must be a very suspicious person. Why, Cousin Phyllis, you've been working late with Mr. Rutledge one or two nights a week for just
ages.
Why should Mrs. Lawrence all of a sudden come all over suspicious and barge in?”

“I suppose she became suspicious because of a telephone call.”

Anice laughed. “Well, she must have felt like a perfect fool when she walked in and found you working your heads off. I'd have enjoyed seeing her face—it must have been a scream!” she caroled lightly, and missed nothing of the slight change in Phyllis' expression. “Of course, you
were
working—” she finished gently.

“Naturally,” Phyllis flashed at her, her tone shaking. “What did you suppose we would be doing?”

Anice grinned impishly. “
You
and Mr. Rutledge—nothing else. But there are a couple of gals in that office who are so crazy about Mr. Rutledge he wouldn't be safe alone with them for five minutes,” she said frankly.

Phyllis looked at her sharply.

“Oh?” she said, and then slowly. “Could one of them have telephoned Mrs. Lawrence?”

“Gosh, I wouldn't know, Cousin Phyllis. It was a rotten thing to do. I'd hate to accuse anyone unless I had some real evidence, and I haven't a speck. I just know the way the girls talk sometimes in what they call ‘the little girls' powder room. Most of them think Mr. Rut
ledge is a sort of god. I think he's a pain in the neck, myself—he's always so stiff and so self-important, as though he went around saying, ‘I'm Kenyon Rutledge, the untouchable, and I'm so important you must always stand up and bow three times when I come in the room.'”

“Oh, he's not really like that at all.” Phyllis could not bite back the protest.

“Well, maybe not, but keep in mind, Cousin Phyllis, that I've never seen him except at a distance, and he scares the living daylights out of me,” said Anice cheerfully. “Sure you won't have a bite to eat?”

“Quite sure, thanks,” said Phyllis briefly.

Anice untied the belt of her tailored robe and slid out of it, yawning as she dropped it over the foot of the bed and crawled into bed. “Gosh, I'm sleepy,” she said cheerfully, and composed herself for slumber.

Phyllis got into bed as quickly as she could, but she lay wide-eyed, staring into the darkness, unable to forget the bitter experience through which she had just gone. She relived it all, every bitter moment from the time Kenyon's arms had gathered her close and his masterful mouth had closed hotly over her own, until the moment when she had heard the brisk tap-tapping of Letty's high heels as she and Kenyon had crossed the outer office and the door had closed behind them.

Sleep had never been so far away or so hard to find. Should she give up her job tomorrow and find something else? It would be easy to find another job. Maybe she would not earn quite so much money as she received now, but she could easily work her way up again to the same salary. She didn't quite see how she was going to be able to face Kenyon, with the ugly little memory between them of that night's episode.

Again and again came the unbidden, unruly thought:
if only Letty had not come in! If only no one had telephoned her! If only she, Phyllis, might have had that golden hour with Kenyon, she could have faced even the bitterness of her present humiliation and her wrecked pride with a degree of composure. But to have had to go through all that, and still to have her aching need for Kenyon…She turned her pillow, pummeled it furiously but soundlessly and tried once more to compose herself for sleep. But the first thin gray light of dawn was peeping beneath the drawn shades before she managed to lose consciousness.

She had never dreaded anything in her life as she dreaded coming face-to-face with Kenyon that morning. But she had to do it; even if she resigned and sought a job elsewhere, she could not go away and leave a lot of loose ends dangling. Even if she gave up her job she must see that everything was in order for her successor before she left—that was a requirement of her job and it did not occur to her for a moment to shirk that responsibility.

She was at her desk, cool and crisp-looking in a pale gray frock, when Kenyon came through the outer office, nodded at her through her open door and said his usual impersonal good morning. She tensed a little, waiting for the signal of his buzzer that would say he was ready for her help in facing the morning's work.

He had been in his office almost an hour before the buzzer signaled. Phyllis braced herself, gathered up her notebook and pencil and walked into Kenyon's office.

She was braced for anything that he might say; she was not prepared to have him behave as though the previous night had never been. Perhaps his tone was a trifle more curt and impersonal than usual, but she couldn't be quite sure even of that.

She was glad to seat herself beside his desk, her
notebook open, her pencil poised, as he picked up the first of the batch of mail she had arranged in readiness before his arrival.

He dictated as usual. Crisp, business-like, pausing now and then to question her on some point on which he was not quite clear, thanking her politely, and going on. On the surface, it was a morning like any other morning. But when he dropped the last letter and said, “I think that's enough for the present,” she did not rise.

Illogically enough, she was angry that he seemed inclined to ignore the previous night's humiliation and frustration. When she had come into the office, she had hoped for nothing more than that he would say nothing, that he would behave as usual. But now that he was—crazy as it seemed—she could not let him get away with it.

“I suppose, Mr. Rutledge,” she said grimly, “you'd like to have my resignation. I can train one of the other girls to take my place.”

Kenyon was deeply annoyed that she was unwilling to follow his lead and just forget the previous night. A slow, dark, brick-red flush mounted his sunburned face, and his eyes were cold.

“I see no reason you should, Miss Gordon,” he said icily. “Unless, of course, you have a better offer somewhere else.”

“Of course I haven't,” she told him with as much frost. “It's just that—well, after last night, I felt sure you would rather I left.”

“I prefer to forget last night,” he told her sharply. “I—well, I lost my head.”

“You?”
For the life of her she could not have kept back the little cynical retort.

He was definitely hostile now, definitely resentful.

“If you are alarmed that there may be a recurrence of last night—” he said, and there was hauteur in his tone.

“Not in the least,” she told him swiftly. “I shall see to it that it doesn't happen again.”

“You will see to it?” He definitely did not like her implication.

“We both know that I was the aggressor,” she told him flatly.

He resented that as a slur on his essential maleness, and protested sharply, “I know nothing of the kind. I only know that due to—er—overexhaustion, and—er—a couple of extremely potent cocktails, I so far forgot myself as to make—er—overtures to an employee in my office, and I assure you I am thoroughly ashamed. I have always held that as an all but unforgivable thing. I have never before stooped to it.”

“Kissing me was stooping?” she demanded.

His color deepened and his eyes flashed.

“Certainly not,” he snapped. “Please do not twist my words into a meaning I did not give them. I merely meant that attempting to make love to an employee is, in my eyes, a contemptible thing.”

Phyllis, suddenly sick of the whole mess, made a little weary gesture.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “You may as well know I deliberately planned the whole affair.”

“I refuse to believe that,” replied Kenyon, feeling deeply wounded in his male pride. “I forgot myself. You are a beautiful and—er—alluring person and, well, I made a fool and a cad of myself, and I apologize. I'm deeply sorry, and now I'd prefer to forget it.”

“And you don't wish me to resign?”

“Certainly not.”

Still she hesitated.

“But Mrs. Lawrence—” she began hesitantly.

Instantly his face went rigid and his eyes were hostile. Obviously he bitterly resented the mention of his fiancée.

“I would prefer to leave Mrs. Lawrence out of this,” he said frostily.

“But how can we? Surely she will not be willing for you to keep me on,” stumbled Phyllis, biting down on the last bit of painful humiliation as one cannot help biting down on a sore tooth.

“Mrs. Lawrence is a wonderful woman,” said Kenyon, and his voice softened and there was wonder in his eyes. “I cannot conceive of a woman so—so sane and broad-minded and so very fair in her judgment. She quite agreed that the fault was mine and was perfectly willing to accept my assurance that it would never happen again. She especially asked that I make no effort to be rid of you. She realizes how I depend on your competence and efficiency, and she does not wish a fellow creature to suffer on her account. Therefore, we shall just forget the most regrettable incident and go on as though it had never happened.”

Phyllis stood up and for a moment she was quite still. And then without a word she turned and went out of the office.

In her own office, she dropped down in the chair at her desk, put her elbows on the desk and hid her face behind her hands. So they were to forget that it had ever happened! So they were to go on as though nothing had changed! As though she had not plotted and schemed and contrived—and almost won—a deeply laid plan for Kenyon's subjugation!
Like hell they would!

She tried hard to tell herself that Terry was right about Kenyon—that Kenyon
was
a stuffed shirt and a pompous ass—but she was still tortured with desire. She
would have given everything she ever hoped to possess for a golden hour in Kenyon's arms—and could have wrung her own neck for acting the fool she thus admitted herself to be.

She had to admit that Letty had been very understanding—far more so than Phyllis herself could have been under similar circumstances. Letty had been more than generous; not one woman in a hundred, in Letty's place, wouldn't have insisted on the removal of her fiancé's stenographer. Letty had been sweet and gay and had dismissed the whole thing as merely an unfortunate slip on Kenyon's part. Phyllis knew that she should have been warmly grateful to Letty—and yet no woman under stress such as Phyllis had endured could be expected to be logical. And Phyllis was illogical enough to feel that she had never hated a woman so completely as she hated Letty.

There was a stinging insult in Letty's willingness that Phyllis go on working with Kenyon. Letty was insolently sure of herself and of her hold on Kenyon, of her power over him. Or—and here was a thought that started Phyllis—was it, in reality, that Letty was not in love with Kenyon, but merely wished to share his large fortune, and found his illicit interlude with his secretary ammunition to be used against him should she herself wish at any time to step out of line?

Phyllis thought that over for a little and finally nodded to herself, convinced that it was so. A thoughtful look touched her face, and some of the burning humiliation passed away. If that was true—if Letty was not really in love with Kenyon—well, in
that
case, Phyllis reasoned, then there was still a chance for
her
to know the delights of Kenyon's secret love. She had the grace to be ashamed of the ignoble thought, but not the strength of will to banish it.