The Uneven Score (3 page)

“I can’t stand up slowly,” Whitney said. “I mean, if I do I’ll hit my head on the closet pole and mess up your suits and—”

‘‘Up.”

She shook off the jacket, tucked her horn under one arm, and leaned forward, at the same time pulling her feet under her so she could get up slowly, without losing her balance. She had a mad urge to catapult herself out of the corner, but stifled it. The individual giving orders looked very much as though he would shoot her given sufficient provocation. Or insufficient provocation.

“What in hell’s name have you got—”

He broke off with a growl and grabbed Whitney by the wrist. She screamed something about lunatics and all this being a mistake as she and her horn went flying out of the closet. They landed in a heap on the fringe of an Oriental carpet. Her horn ended up on the bottom.

“You idiot!” Whitney yelled, prudence gone where her horn was concerned. “You made me bend my bell!”

But Graham wasn’t listening. He pounced on her, pinning her to the floor, and yanked the horn out from under her. There was a flash of muscled thighs straining against creased gray linen, and then she was free.

“You maniac!” she groaned into the carpet and rolled over, sitting up. No wonder Paddie thought him capable of kidnapping poor Harry!

She shut up at once, regretting her rash comments as she took in exactly what kind of man she was dealing with. Clearly he was not an idiot or a maniac. He stood before her, flourishing her horn in one hand, holding his gun steadily in the other; tall, intrepid, and solid, just the sort of aggressive and physical man Whitney had expected from her search of his office. There was nothing kindly or gentlemanly about the way he was glaring at her, nothing restrained and businesslike about his dark, wild hair, nothing that indicated he was a corporate vice president. His features were angular, striking, but not pampered, and their ruggedness suggested he didn’t spend all his time behind a desk. Instead of a suit, he wore casual pants and a gray gabardine safari shirt. The sleeves were rolled up, revealing tanned and finely muscled forearms. And yet there wasn’t a single doubt in Whitney’s mind that this was the man whose office she had invaded. This was Daniel Graham.

“What’s this?” he demanded, raising her black-encased instrument.

Elbows straightened, palms flat on the wool carpet behind her, Whitney stared up at him. His gun was leveled calmly at her. This isn’t happening to me, she thought; it really isn’t. If she told him he was brandishing a French horn, he would assume she was connected somehow with the Central Florida Symphony Orchestra, which she was. But he wasn’t supposed to know that. If she didn’t tell him it was a French horn, he would assume the worst. Once, on a New York subway, a dangerous-looking man had tried to buy her “machine gun” for an ungodly sum. She had finally had to take out her horn and belt out a hunting call before he’d believe it really wasn’t a weapon.

“It’s nothing,” she said lamely. “Just a— No! Don’t throw it! Please. I think you’ve already bent my bell. I mean— Oh, blast it all.”

The gun didn’t move a fraction of an inch; neither did his eyes. They were, Whitney observed in spite of herself, an engaging shade of sea green. She wished his expression was engaging, too, but it wasn’t. It was grim and suspicious and not at all reassuring. Paddie had said he was “terribly handsome,” hadn’t she? Handsome and chivalrous. Only Whitney had yet to see any indication of chivalry.

“All right, all right,” she said. “If you must know, it’s a bomb. It’s set to go off in ten minutes, but you’ve probably tripped the timer. Why don’t we make our exit? You take the stairs; I’ll take the elevator.”

He gave her an incredulous look, the sea-green eyes narrowing, and turned the case over. On the other side were frayed Tanglewood and Saratoga Performing Arts Center stickers—dead giveaways. “You’re a musician,” he said. “All right, what’s going on? What is this—a horn?”

“Oboe.”

“I’ve seen an oboe case before. This is a French horn.”

“Is it?” Whitney shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. It’s not mine.”

“You did say I’d bent your bell, didn’t you?” His voice was curiously mild, almost as if he were enjoying himself.

“I don’t know, did I? I was in hysterics. Look, I’m unarmed, so would you mind putting your gun away? It’s making me nervous.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

Nevertheless, he laid the gun and her horn on the edge of his desk and folded his arms across his broad chest. With a growing sense of doom, she realized he looked every bit as threatening without his gun as with.

“Well, what are you doing here?” he demanded,

“Visiting. My sister works two floors down. I got lost.” She tried not to wince at her own lie. But who would visit her sister in downtown Orlando dressed in sweat pants and pink ballet slippers? Maybe she should have kept on her raw silk suit.

“I see. And you just happen to play French horn and I just happen to be chairman of the CFSO.”

Whitney blinked. “Of the what?”

He heaved a sigh and rolled his tongue along the inside of his cheek. If he meant to indicate a certain impatience, he had succeeded, she thought. She could just see him dragging Harry off. “The Central Florida Symphony Orchestra. I suppose you’re going to tell me you’ve never heard of it.”

“No, of course I’ve heard of it. But I had no idea you were the—what?”

“Chairman of the board of directors.”

“Are you really? My, what a coincidence.” Paddie’s going to kill me, Whitney thought, unless I kill her first or unless Daniel Graham gets us both. “Look, Mr.—um—”

“Graham,” he said, indulging her, but not patiently or with any amusement “Daniel Graham.”

“Oh, well, I guess that stands to reason, this being the offices of Graham Citrus and all.” She smiled and went on in her most convincing tone, despite the gnawing uneasiness in the pit of her stomach. “My sister said I could use the ladies’ room up here. I guess I lost my way. I’m sorry if I caused you any alarm.”

Graham, however, did not appear to be convinced.

“Anyway, Mr. Graham, suppose I just take my horn and go and don’t come back?”

He leaned against his desk. “You’re not a particularly convincing liar,” he said.

I’m not a particularly convincing burglar, either, she thought. “You have a suspicious mind, Mr. Graham.”

“Only when I find strange women in my closet. What’s your name?”

“Jones. Sara Jones.”

“I see. With an h?”

“No.”

He smiled. “You’re improving.”

“But you still don’t believe me.”

“Hardly. How did you get in?”

“Into your closet?” She shrugged, purposely obtuse. She knew what he meant. “I just crawled in. I was mindful of the tennis rackets, don’t worry.”

The muscles in his forearms tightened impressively. “Into my office—how did you get into my office?”

She tried to look both innocuous and reasonable, an elusive combination at best, but, under Graham’s intense scrutiny, nearly impossible. “I came through the door,” she said. “I thought—I made a wrong turn, Mr. Graham. This is all just a silly mistake.”

“Your sister on the nineteenth floor?”

The understated incredulity, the small, wry-smile, and the quiet sarcasm did not bolster Whitney’s courage, but they were playing on her nerves. Obviously she couldn’t tell him the truth, but now she didn’t want to. He was enjoying himself far too much. And if he was the kind of man who accosted harmless burglars with a gun, why wouldn’t he be the kind of man to kidnap Harry? What if Paddie had been right all along!

“As a matter of fact, yes,” she said coolly. “I stumbled into your office while hunting up the ladies’ room, and when I heard you coming, I panicked and ducked into the closet. It’s as simple as that. Honestly. Just a case of countering one mistake with another. Remember Watergate? Now, if it’s all right with you, I’ll just apologize and be on my way.”

He pushed one foot out in front of the other, bending his knee, his casual, confident stance augmenting his overall air of menacing arrogance. “It’s not all right with me,” he said blandly.

Whitney pulled her lower lip up over her bottom teeth and bit down hard. She had been afraid it wouldn’t be.

“As you know perfectly well,” he went on in that quiet, menacing drawl, “my office door was locked.”

“Yes,” she said, “you’re right.”

He dropped his hands to his sides and gripped the edge of the desk, the muscles in his powerful arms and legs tensing visibly. The change was small, but perceptible. Daniel Graham was losing patience. “Then how did you get in?” he asked shortly.

“I used a key.”

If possible, his look became more threatening.

“You see,” she went on blithely, trying to ignore her growing nervousness, “I’m the new custodian.”

Graham clenched his teeth and exhaled at the ceiling. “Miss Jones, if you were a cat you’d be well into your ninth life.” He dropped his gaze back to her. It was steady now, his eyes a cool and probing green. “And I’m only calling you Miss Jones for the sake of argument. Your name isn’t Sara Jones and you’re not a custodian. A custodian,” he went on more emphatically, “doesn’t hide in closets with a damned French horn!”

She had forgotten her horn—momentarily. “It’s my dinner break. I practice on my breaks—in an empty office”

“You have an answer for everything, don’t you?”

She smiled. “I’m just trying to sort this out—”

“—to your advantage.”

“Self-preservation runs high and strong in my bones,” she said cheerfully. “May I go now?”

“Miss Jones,” he said, sitting on the edge of the desk, “the building custodians do not have the key to this office.”

“They don’t?”

She looked him straight in the eye and said, “Then how did I get in?”

“A key,” he said, “which you will give me before we leave—along with an explanation of where you got it and what you’re doing here. I have a feeling I’m not going to like what I hear, but I’ll be damned if— What do you think you’re doing?”

Whitney didn’t take the time to answer. She was on her feet and gone—through the door, past the reception area, to the elevators. It had been Paddie’s idea to break in after five—Paddie’s ideas, Paddie’s keys, Paddie’s suspicions. Whitney’s hide. She banged the down button, realized there wasn’t time to wait, and hunted for the stairs.

She saw the red exit sign down the hall and ran.

Chapter Two

Daniel Graham intercepted her at the door, blocking her escape with his big body. “We’re not finished,” he said calmly.

“I have nothing more to say,” Whitney declared, gulping for air. Her gasping had more to do with terror than aerobic fitness. “Call the police, if you insist!”

“All right.”

That took the wind right out of her sails. He was willing to call the police? While she stood there dumbfounded, he caught her by the elbow and escorted her back to his office. He was at least half a foot taller than her five-five. She didn’t know why she noticed, but she did. She didn’t know why her eyes kept wandering up to his face as he marched her along, but they did. There was a sexual magnetism about the man that she found quite impossible to ignore. Perhaps it was adrenaline, or the brush of his thigh on her hip, or just exhaustion. He was an arrogantly masculine man, and ordinarily Whitney wouldn’t have found him the least bit attractive.

Florida, she decided, was doing strange things to her mind and body.

Graham urged her into his office and kicked the door shut behind him. She observed the dark hairs on the wrist clamped around her forearm and the way the muscles tightened as he sat her down in a leather chair. He released her, and she leaned back, unable to suppress a yawn.

“Jesus,” he said.

“It’s been a long day,” Whitney replied.

He pointed a finger at her and told her to stay put. Then he went around and stood behind the desk. “You’re Victoria Paderevsky’s new horn player, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“You’re not supposed to arrive until tomorrow. I had no idea she’d hired a woman, but then one never knows about our Dr. Paderevsky. Do you know her?”

“Victoria Pader—” She fumbled at the last syllables.

“Paderevsky,” Graham supplied.

“We’ve never met.”

“You’re lying, Miss Jones.”

“Why don’t you ask her, then?”

Whitney was confident Paddie would deny her.

“I intend to,” Graham said, lifting the phone. At least Whitney assumed it was a telephone. The contraption looked as though it could run Graham Citrus in the absence of any and all of its many employees. Possibly it did. Suddenly he banged the receiver back down. “She sent you here, didn’t she? I’ll be damned. What does that wretched woman think I’ve done now? I suppose she blames me for Harry Stagliatti cutting out on her?”

“Harry Stagliatti?” Whitney said blankly. It wasn’t a good effort; she’d known Harry far too long. She smiled vapidly, no easy task since she was anything but. “I’m sorry, Mr. Graham, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I didn’t think you would,” he said dryly. “But if you’re a horn player, you’ve heard of Harry Stagliatti and I have a feeling that—” He broke off with a growl. “Curse that woman!” Then he picked up the phone again. “What are you doing?”

“Calling the police.” He punched a button. “Sorry, sweets, but your wide-eyed innocent act hasn’t worked. If you won’t explain to me, you can explain to the police.”

She didn’t realize she had been doing a wide-eyed innocent act. “Suppose we make a deal—”

“No deals.” He punched two more buttons.

“All right.” She licked her lips and considered her plight. The police would come and arrest her for breaking and entering. She would have to tell them she was Whitney McCallie, new principal horn for the CFSO. Paddie would be called. Paddie would claim ignorance. Whitney would go to jail. It was, she thought, an unpleasant scenario. Could she persuade Paddie to go public about the nasty incidents that had occurred the past few days and her own suspicions? It was unlikely. And Graham’s willingness to call in the police might be enough to prove to Paddie he was innocent, in which case Whitney herself wouldn’t want Paddie to go public. They would both come out looking like fools.