The Fiancée Fiasco (7 page)

She frowned, considering that. Oddly, the idea held some water. Usually people did end up doing what she wanted.

Winthrop picked up his chopsticks and took them out of their paper wrapping. "The way you are with your copier, that's how I am with people." His gaze fixed on his chopsticks.

Roseanne opened her mouth, but nothing came out. The analogy left her speechless. He couldn't possibly believe it was true. A man couldn't build a multimillion dollar company without having some interpersonal skills. "That is absurd," she said at last.

"Is it?" He turned his eyes in her direction. "You and I haven't exactly hit it off."

"You and I are different." Even as she tried to explain, Roseanne felt like she was losing track of things. Winthrop was the prey and even, in his case, an enemy. It wasn't her job to be reassuring him. "We— Well, we're on opposite sides."

Winthrop's slight smile was wry. "You mean, me being a man, and you a woman."

Hearing it put in those terms didn't sit right. "It's a little more complicated than that."

"How so?" Winthrop leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Look." Roseanne tried to sound reasonable, but his ironic smile disconcerted her. "This discussion is just going to lead us into dangerous territory and we're going to end up fighting again. Let's just agree to disagree, shall we?"

Winthrop's smile grew. "Agree to disagree about what?"

"About why we don't get along."

"Let me get this straight. We're supposed to agree to disagree about why we can't agree." He shook his head, his smile very big now. "It's nice to know you have such a generous capacity for sheer, outright irrationality, Miz Archer."

"I'm not being irrational." She was annoyed because he'd managed to best her, at least this once. "And you ought to call me Roseanne. People are going to find it strange if you don't address your fiancée by her first name."

"Roseanne." Winthrop tested the name. "And are you going to call me Win?" There was a definite twinkle in his eyes.

"Of course."

He picked up the pot of tea left on their table and started to pour. "Tell me... Roseanne. Starting to have second thoughts about your little charade?"

Somehow, coming from his lips, Roseanne's name acquired an intimacy she hadn't known it possessed. She had to force herself to meet his silently laughing eyes. "No second thoughts at all. Don't know why you'd say so."

He laughed out loud. "Maybe the way you're clenching your teeth."

That laugh. Roseanne's annoyance fell away, replaced by surprise. His laugh— It was a rare sound. He'd only done so maybe once since they'd met. And just like the last time, the sound was very pleasant. Heck, she almost laughed, herself.

Instead, she hiccupped, dismayed. No. Oh, no. Surely she wasn't softening toward Winthrop Carruthers. She knew too much about him to do that.

He'd been the one determined on the divorce from his still-loving wife. Roseanne had read the file. All the way along, Sylvia had been requesting a reconciliation instead of a dissolution. Winthrop had been oblivious to her pleas.

And yet, Roseanne had a powerful feeling that it was only since the end of his marriage that laughter had become a rare thing for Winthrop Carruthers.

~~~

Over lunch, Winthrop explained the basics of the contract proposal Carruthers Engineering was preparing for the next day. His technical brilliance was matched by his ability to make the highly specialized scheme comprehensible—even clear—to Roseanne. She was further amazed he managed to accomplish this feat without making her feel stupid about her math/science ignorance.

But as they walked back to his downtown office tower, she discounted this unexpected sensitivity on Winthrop's part and got back to business. She peered about her at the crowd streaming with them toward the building. How many of them, she wondered, were Winthrop's employees, or others who might recognize the star of the Houston aero-engineering world? Would anybody notice he had a woman on his arm—or make the leap to consider the two of them romantically involved? In any event, at least she and Win were creating an evidence trail. It was a start.

"What about dinner?" Roseanne asked, considering what further evidence they might create.

"Hm?" Winthrop looked up from his motion of leaning forward to open the glass door to the lobby.

The faraway expression on his face was becoming familiar to Roseanne. It said he was there in body only, his mind already back in the world of computerized micro-mechanics.

The guy was such a nerd. It made Roseanne smile. "Are we meeting for dinner tonight?" she asked patiently.

"Oh. Dinner." He made a visible effort to return to the third dimension. Roseanne had to consider such effort—coming from Win—a compliment. "I've got to get this proposal finished tonight and ready to ship out first thing tomorrow morning. I don't suppose—?" He stopped and grimaced, as though afraid to finish his sentence.

But Roseanne knew what was coming. With a wry smile, she came to his rescue. "I'm a professional myself, Carruthers— I mean, Win. I know how these things go. Managing a meal on my own is no big hardship."

"Oh, great. Thanks." He looked vastly relieved, as well as surprised. It was apparent that in his experience women were rarely this flexible.

"Just one thing." Roseanne stopped him as he moved toward the lobby door.

"Hm?" He turned back with the distant look again threatening his features.

Roseanne rolled her eyes heavenward. It seemed she was going to have to do all the plotting in this performance of theirs. "How about a friendly kiss goodbye—sweetheart?"

It was a good idea, probably necessary, in fact. People were milling all around them, some of whom must know Winthrop. But Roseanne tensed even as she suggested the public display of affection. She hadn't yet forgotten her odd reaction to his mere touch on her back.

Of course, it had been a ridiculous reaction. She shouldn't be affected in any way whatsoever by a man like this.

"A...kiss?" Win's attention jumped fully back to the present moment. A light pink tinged his face. "Uh, do you really think that's...?" His voice trailed off as he caught her eye. She was giving him the warning glint she'd give an opposing counsel with a bum argument. Win cleared his throat. "Um, okay, then. Let's, uh—"

He leaned forward to brush his lips across her cheek. It happened so quickly she wasn't sure those lips actually made a landing. The next instant he was making good on an escape.

Looking after him, Roseanne couldn't help chuckling. That almost-nothing kiss hadn't been so bad. She'd barely even felt it. And to top it off, she'd gotten the man to cooperate. At the bare minimum possible, true, but it had still been cooperation.

All in all, she was pleased with her accomplishments of the afternoon. She'd gotten Win out in public with her, convinced him to use her first name, and started the process of proposing another woman in his life.

Everything was going according to plan.

~~~

Roseanne's vaunted ability to make do on her own for dinner lasted as long as it took her to open Winthrop's pantry for the second time that day. She winced. No handy convenience foods were in sight. The freezer had yielded no better results.

Eyeing a bag of rice, she considered taking a stab at cooking for herself. But remembering the last time she'd gone down that road made her reject the idea. The result had been two ruined pans, a smoking oven, and food that was perfectly inedible.

Assuring herself that lack of domestic ability did not impair a woman's femininity, Roseanne went to find the keys to Win's second car. With the vintage Cadillac, she could probably find a grocery store, and maybe even the same brand of microwave dinner she usually bought at home. She figured it must be okay with Win for her to use the car, since he hadn't complained she'd already driven it into town to have lunch with him.

Still, she was careful with the fancy car while she found a store and bought a microwave dinner. She brought the food home, nuked it, and sat at the counter separating the kitchen from the dining room. She'd eaten more frozen dinners this way than she could count. Back home, she preferred the opportunity to relax over convenience food to having to stay "on" while entertaining a client at a restaurant. Recently she'd even come to prefer her bachelorette dinners to the occasional social engagement with a man.

But tonight her solitary dinner wasn't much fun. And once she'd finished, she was left with absolutely nothing to do. Normally if left at loose ends, she might have called a friend and gone out for coffee or drinks. Unfortunately, she had no friends here. In fact, the only person she knew in the whole city—in the whole state of Texas, to be accurate—was Winthrop Carruthers.

Not that she would stoop to needing Mr. Carruthers for company, Roseanne scolded herself. Surely not.

She flipped on the handsome television set in the living room. Not for her to mope around because Winthrop was too busy to entertain her. Please. The man wasn't all that entertaining to begin with.

Accordingly, Roseanne lost herself for the next two hours in an old romantic comedy. At the end, she looked at her watch and frowned. Surely Winthrop should have returned home by eleven o'clock. Not even Roseanne—an attorney still working on making partner—worked much later than that.

But then, Roseanne reasoned, perhaps Win had already left the office. He could be en route. The drive home from downtown was rather long.

She flipped the television channel to the news. Airing was footage of a multi-car freeway smash-up. Cars were scrunched like accordions and a massive truck-trailer was jackknifed across the highway. Two people had died, the newscaster informed her, and thirty-five injured. It was one of the worst crashes in Houston history.

Roseanne quickly flipped to another channel. It was another news station. Having already shown their footage of the highway smash, this station was doing an in-depth focus on the problem of street crime in downtown Houston. More and more muggings were becoming violent.

Roseanne flipped through several more channels, then succumbed to the temptation to call Winthrop's office. She was his fiancée, after all. Couldn't she act concerned? In fact, all the better if a co-worker of Win's happened to answer the phone. Her voice would provide more evidence he had a woman in his life.

No one answered, however. No one at all. As Roseanne listened to the canned ring repeat and repeat, a feeling of unease stole over her. Replacing the receiver, she determined to shake the unease with rationality. If nobody answered the telephone at the office, she reasoned, it only meant Winthrop was already on his way home.

But her unease did not depart. On the TV, she turned the channel until she found another movie. She
would
get rid of this concerned sensation. She would
not
worry about Winthrop. That would be too ridiculous.

But an hour passed. Win still hadn't shown up. Assuming he'd left the office right before Roseanne had made her phone call, he should have arrived home by now.

Roseanne's underlying unease grew. She told herself Win couldn't have been involved in the freeway smash-up. Someone would have called her if he had.

Or would anyone have done so?

A very unpleasant chill went through her. No one would think to call her. Why, no one even knew about her, except for Boyd Henderson.

Roseanne got out Winthrop's business card and double-checked the phone number. She tried it again.

No answer.

She let the phone ring and ring, but no one came to pick it up.

CHAPTER FIVE

Roseanne awoke with a start to the sound of a key being fit into a lock. It took her a minute to remember where she was. The TV silently shifted light in front of her—she must have turned the volume down at some point—but the rest of the living room was in a quiet state of semi-darkness since only the lamp by her head was lit.

The front door opened and Winthrop stepped through. He stopped where he was when he saw her lifting to a seat on the sofa.

She brushed the hair out of her eyes and glared at him, though she wasn't sure if she were more furious or relieved.

"Miz Archer," Winthrop exclaimed softly. "What are you doing up?" His silver and tan tie was loosened, but otherwise he was still in the outfit of tan and off-whites with which he'd left the house that morning. He looked exhausted, but satisfied. It was probably the satisfaction that set her off.

"What the hell time is it?" Roseanne's voice had its late night—or was it early morning—huskiness. She wrapped the afghan she'd taken from the top of the sofa more firmly around her shoulders.

Still looking surprised, Winthrop automatically turned his wrist to check his watch. "It's two-forty."

"Two forty," Roseanne repeated ominously. "In the morning."

"I did tell you I'd be working late." Winthrop moved toward her cautiously. Apparently he'd noticed she was ticked off.

"Oh, you've been at the
office
." Roseanne spoke with silky menace.

"That's right. We had to finish a proposal. I told you about that."

"I see. Then there must have been a malfunction this evening with the telephones at your
office
."

Winthrop frowned, halting a few feet from the sofa. "Not that I'm aware of."

Roseanne's smile was chilling. "Then could you kindly explain why no one answered the line when I called?"

"You called?"

"Yes, you lying son of a— I called. And there was no answer. Where the hell have you actually been? There was a smash-up on I-10, you know. Thirty-five people in the hospital. You should've had the decency to call me if you were going to go gallivanting about." Her voice couldn't seem to help rising.

"I didn't gallivant. I was at the office," Winthrop repeated with maddening calm. "What number did you use?"

Roseanne told him the number. She had it memorized by now.

He nodded. "That's my private office line. It doesn't ring the night bell. We were all in the lab. No one would have heard it."