by Gail Hewitt
"How do you make this damned thing work?"
"It's preprogrammed. It requires a code. Anyway, it feels comfortable to me."
He glared at her and rolled up his sleeves. "So what have you said about me, about us?"
Maggie shook her head. "I haven't been discussing you with anyone, especially Miles. I haven't even had a real conversation with him since I left Lake View, after we ended what is possibly one of the shorter engagements on record. If it's any consolation, he texted me too, after you dropped me off. It wasn't a particularly nice text. I think he must have been tipsy — he looked pretty loose at the party. Which is odd, because he usually drinks very little."
Without being asked, Tom dropped onto the long, leather-clad sofa. "So you've never said anything to him about me?"
"Not exactly . . . well, sort of . . . I mean . . . It's complicated." Maggie searched for the correct explanation as Tom watched her with growing exasperation.
"Well, which is it?" he demanded.
"Look, I can appreciate that you're in a sensitive position," Maggie told him. "And I think Miles has behaved like the rear end of a horse. And you and I have a history. All that taken together is the only reason I'm telling you this, but you have to agree to let me tell it my way. And you have to agree not to go after him in any way or sic your Security people or anyone else on him. Okay?"
He hesitated, and then nodded reluctantly, which she took as a cue to settle into one of the armchairs, her long legs folded beneath her.
"Miles asked me to marry him at Lake View, the day before you reappeared. At first, I said I wouldn't. When he kept pressing me, I told him I had a terrible track record with men. He said I just hadn't been in love. I told him I had but that it had ended badly, that I had been very young, had gotten in over my head in a lot of ways, and had been dumped by the old boy friend, who had walked out of my life and subsequently become famous. Then the next day you showed up, with your twelve-step program or whatever it was that you were working through with Halbrooks, and Miles guessed — evidently from our reaction to each other — that you were the old boy friend even before I told him what it was you'd come to see me about."
"You told him?"
"I was engaged to him," she said patiently. "Anyway, at that point, I didn't think I'd ever see you again. If you recall, you didn't offer me the TTI job until the next day, which was when the trouble started. When I told Miles about your offer and that I was seriously considering it, he drew a line in the sand, I gave him back the ring, and that's the last time I've seen him or talked to him. I don't even know how he got your BlackBerry address. I don't have it myself."
"I expect Miles is a resourceful boy," Tom said thoughtfully. "What I don't understand is why he texted this."
"I guess I left that part out," Maggie conceded. "He thinks that the only reason you offered me the job is because the old flame lingers. I tried to tell him how ludicrous that is and that it's highly unlikely you're sitting around and pining for some girl you knew so long ago when you could have your pick of just about anyone. So why would you want to keep me around so badly that you'd offer me a job affecting something that matters to you? But, in a typical fit of male irrationality, he insisted he was right and I was wrong and he didn't want me to take the job, that it was, in effect, a deal breaker for him. And his saying that was a deal breaker for me."
She looked at her hands for a moment, remembering the way the ring had looked, then grinned somewhat shakily. "And that was that."
"Now I feel like a horse's ass," Tom told her. "I'm sorry. I should have known you'd never be indiscreet."
"There's nothing to be indiscreet about," Maggie said. "Our relationship is totally professional."
"Is it?" Tom asked her. "Don't misunderstand. I'm not trying to hit on you, but Miles — who seems like a bright guy — picked up on something. As for Aunt Martha, she seems to have known immediately that there's something between us. One of the men who came onto the plane at Logan Monday afternoon assumed you were my wife. And last night, sitting in the restaurant together, felt more natural to me than any contact I've had with a woman in a long time," he said. "That's why I wouldn't come upstairs. And you'll never know how hard that was, saying no when I didn't want the evening to end."
"Then why didn't you say yes?" she demanded. "I felt like an idiot. I felt the same way you did. I'd been having a good time, and I didn't want it to end. I wasn't trying to lure you into a den of iniquity. When I said coffee, I meant coffee."
"Well, I wasn't sure that's what I would have meant," he admitted, "if I'd come upstairs I mean."
"I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself," she told him.
He looked at her appraisingly. "You don't look like it. You look about fifteen in that outfit. I wonder if you're as tough as you think you are. And you're vulnerable right now. You're learning a new job and you're still sorting out this business with Brewster."
"I think the Brewster business is pretty much sorted out," she told him. "Did you see the French supermodel?"
"You mean the eye candy? You really think she's in the picture? Well, maybe you're right. I understand there have been a lot of models. Whatever . . . The point is, I have no intention of taking advantage of you. It wouldn't be fair."
Maggie unfolded her legs, slid out of the chair, and began to stride around, so angry she couldn't speak.
"What's wrong?" he wanted to know.
"Take advantage of me? You're as bad as Miles. You seem to think that I'm some fragile little flower who might wilt if the big bad Tom Scott turns the heat of his bright light on me. Is that because I'm your employee? Or someone who once had a thing for you? Or maybe you think your sex appeal is so potent that women swoon at your approach? Well, obviously, a lot of women do, but not all." She paused for breath. "Maybe you think all females are too clueless to be able to make up their minds about what they want unless some man indicates what he wants. Maybe that's it. Maybe you think I'm as dumb as I was when I was seventeen."
"Dumb is the last thing I'd call you, then or now," he protested. "All I meant was . . . "
She stood before him, fists on hips, glaring, then turned and strode toward the bedroom.
"Where are you going?"
"Why should you care?" Actually, all she wanted to do was to change out of the damp clothes, but why share even that much information with him?
He got up and followed. "Just like a woman. Pick an argument, then walk away."
She turned to face him, her face tight with frustration and irritation. "I'm not arguing, Tom. I'm just tired of games and role playing."
"Me too," he said, looking squarely into her eyes and putting his hands on her shoulders. "So I'll level with you." He hesitated.
She suddenly felt that he was about to say something she wouldn't like. "Don't tell me that Miles was right," she said angrily.
Tom quickly shook his head. "Don't be an idiot. I didn't hire you to seduce you. I hired you because I had a job that needed filling, you needed a job, and you had the credentials to handle the job."
"Thank you," she said with relief. "Having said that," Tom continued, "I will admit that it has been highly . . . highly acceptable to have you around. Everything's been a lot more fun since you came aboard. I'll admit further that I do find myself thinking occasionally of when we were together. I think it'd be odd if I didn't. It was a pretty incredible experience. Can you honestly say you never think about it at all?"
She shook her head, reluctantly.
"Haven't you ever wondered, even once, if that crazy connection we had then is still lurking, just below the surface, even now?"
She obstinately refused to meet his eyes.
"Come on, Maggs. Haven't you thought about it at all, all those afternoons in that little room, just us, no one else who knew, just us . . . "
He put a hand under her chin and turned her face up to his. There were tears in the corners of her eyes, and her lips parted as he leaned down to kiss her, at first tentati
vely and then more aggressively. Then, still kissing, he was backing her toward the unmade bed, while she fumbled with the buttons on his shirt.
"Sorry, this takes longer than it used to. I think these days they put more fastenings on clothes, or something," he said, tugging at the double ties on her sweat pants.
"Silly man," she murmured, slipping out of the sweats, now clothed in only the long-sleeved tee, white briefs, and red socks. Then she began to undo the buttons on his shirt, then the buttons and zipper on his pants. He stood by the edge of the bed and allowed her to undress him, and then he pulled the tee over her head so that now there remained only the white briefs and red socks. He reached over and began to work his fingers under the elastic of the briefs before stopping to shift his gaze to her eyes.
"Are you sure about this?" he asked her.
"I remember you said something like that before," she murmured.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" he repeated.
"Yes."
He pulled the briefs down, and she wriggled to the edge of the bed and slipped them completely off. His eyes widened slightly.
"Brazilian wax," she said. "Fashions change."
"Yeah, I know," he told her, rubbing his hand across her pubic area. "It's just different when you do it."
She reached out and ruffled his hair, grinning. She was very aware of an odd excitement that began at the tips of her toes and seemed to electrify the full length of her body. Was Tom right? Was there still some crazy chemistry between them?
He pulled her hair free of the rubber band so that it fell in a damp, curly mop around her bare shoulders. "I always loved your hair. You should wear it down all the time."
She laughed and kissed him on the chin. He moved back in the bed and rolled her toward him until their naked bodies were touching for most of their lengths. His body was hard, but there were scars she didn't remember, scars she could see, scars she could feel. "What happened?" she asked, her fingers stroking one of them.
"Boating accident," he murmured, kissing her neck, letting his lips move upward to hers, then pulling back in order to reach each breast in turn, using a motion that came back to her even as he took her nipple into his mouth and began to use his teeth and tongue in a way that sent the same thrills through her body. Then his lips moved further down her body, his tongue gently tickling her. Then, suddenly, he did something completely unexpected that made her gasp, and his movements became more rapid and assured as his body teased hers, his skin hot, small grunts of pleasure the only way in which they needed to communicate.
Her memory had not exaggerated his speed in donning a condom, or his sexual skill. He was physically adroit, obviously experienced, and more sensitive to her needs than he'd been before. And then he entered her, and they were truly together again, just as they had been. Perhaps as they should always have been?
He climaxed convulsively, withdrew and kissed her very gently. Just as she felt him beginning to harden again, he pulled away, removed the used condom, wiped himself dry on a white handkerchief, put on a new condom and immediately entered her again, this time stopping and starting, stretching the moment, murmuring endearments, until at last he came again, this time in a series of increasingly violent spasms. This, she thought, was a new technique. Some sort of tantric sex thing? He had a lot of technique now, and while some of it was a little on the mechanical side, it definitely worked. Her body moved in perfect harmony with his, as attuned to his rhythms as if she were an extension of him.
When he'd come to final climax and withdrawn, he propped himself up on an elbow and began to trace the curve of her hip and breast. "Is it just me, or was that even better than before?"
"It was great," she assured him with a smile. "Great then, great now. You're terrific in bed, an opinion shared — I'm sure — by many other females, then and now."
"That was a cheap shot," he said. "You were the only one who mattered. And there weren't that many other girls."
"Enough to count," she murmured, stroking the scar on his forearm with the tip of her finger.
"You were the only one who mattered," he repeated. "You remember all those photographs I took of you?"
"Oh, yeah," she told him.
"I used to sit and look at those Polaroids after I went west, even though I was furious with you, even after I got married. I kept them in a hidden compartment in my dressing room, and I'd sneak looks at them while I was dressing. I had them restored and enlarged when they started to fade."
"Really?" she debated whether to mention that she'd seen three of them, decided to save that for another time as his fingers began to manipulate her breasts. He had definitely acquired some advanced techniques, and she shuddered involuntarily. He began to kiss her again, his lips moving against hers, his breath hot upon her face.
"God, you were so beautiful, Maggs," he murmured. "You are so beautiful and so sweet, just like then. We were so good together. If only . . ."
"If only," she agreed, sliding up so that her back was against the headboard, "but we didn't, Tom."
"No, we didn't," he said sadly, removing his hands from her body.
A Loss Of Focus
On Friday, the day after New Year's and Tom's appearance at her condo, Maggie gave Sandra Jacobi specific instructions about booking the first two of the Georgia focus groups and then set to work on the scenario she wanted to use. When she'd done, she called Tom's office. "Hi, Maggie, what can I do for you?"
"Do you have a few minutes? I have the scenario for the Georgia focus groups we discussed, and I thought you might like to review it."
"I'm sure that whatever you want to do will be fine for the purpose. Do you have a schedule in mind? My calendar is full until the week of the twelfth," Tom informed her, "so make it after that."
"Sandra Jacobi is making the arrangements. I'll update her on the time frame."
"Just tell Alysha when you have confirmation, and she'll be in touch about flight times." Tom sounded busy, and she quickly rung off.
Maggie didn't know what she expected from him after what had happened between them the day before, but this impersonal business-as-usual tone wasn't it. Still, truth be told, she felt more at ease herself, so perhaps the encounter had acted as a clearing-the-decks moment that would enable Tom to treat her more as he would any other employee and less as the office pet. She didn't think it would be the prelude to other such episodes; it had felt more like a trip down memory lane than any indicator of ongoing intimacy. She hoped she'd given him whatever reassurance he'd obviously been seeking, and it hadn't been an onerous task. She'd be lying to herself if she denied that she enjoyed it.
Her personal cell rang. It was Ann Longstreet to confirm that the closing had been set for January 14, slightly less than two weeks away, in the downtown-skyscraper offices of one of the city's leading law firms.
"I know it's fast," Ann said, "but the buyer's agent seems eager to get this over with as quickly as possible."
"I've already called the law firm that's handled everything else in relation to my father's estate," Maggie said. "I'm sending them my power of attorney and some instructions the accountant provided. All you have to do is confirm the meeting time and place with them. I'll fax you a copy of what I sent them. They already know to expect to hear from you."
"Terrific," Ann told her. "I have to tell you that I still can't get over how fortuitous this all was. Given how bad the market is right now, it's almost as if a real-estate angel has been hovering over you. Well, let me know if there's anything else I can do to help in regard to closing, or anything at all for that matter. How is your mother by the way?"
"Holding her own," Maggie said, "thanks to Amanda Perry."
After she hung up, she thought for a moment and then called Amanda to wish her Happy New Year. She'd been so busy with everything else that she hadn't been in touch as often as usual this past week. Amanda sounded cheerful, and Maggie felt good when she put down the phone. It was, she thought, amazing how much better she felt
today than a week ago, and she hadn't thought about Miles at all. Perhaps yesterday had been the medicine she needed. But that night she had a different, half-waking version of the dream about Miles, about holding him and losing him. But why? He was already gone, wasn't he? But then why had he texted both her and Tom on New Year's Eve? Since she heard nothing further from him, she was left to conclude that the texts were, as she had told Tom, no more than a byproduct of too much alcohol and a bad mood.
Twelve days later, days full of work and news reports simultaneously full of current gloom and future optimism, Maggie found herself back in the 767 with Tom and Jameson Halbrooks, flying south, with Jack Holt on guard at the exit. Tom, begging work, left her and Halbrooks in the conference area while he took up residence in the chair she'd used on earlier flights and began to talk on his cell.
Maggie rehearsed her scenario with Halbrooks, who proved surprisingly savvy about the approach she preferred. "So you never ask a direct question that has anything to do with what it is that you want to know?"
"That's right," she told him. "Instead you ask a question or introduce a topic that will prompt the participants to begin to discuss what it is you want to know in the natural course of things. You get a more-candid response that way."
Halbrooks looked at her with new respect. "You know, Maggie, I've given considerable thought to what you said about the key to a fast launch being population identification of self-interest with what it is that TTI wants to do. I think you've touched on something I instinctively felt was a missing part of the puzzle. Let me suggest a couple of tweaks you might want to consider."
Maggie listened and made notes. "I think you're right," she said thoughtfully. "Just give me a couple of minutes to incorporate that concept into the scenario." She was beginning to see why Tom was impressed with Halbrooks' acumen. He was a terrific listener, and capable of expanding on what he'd heard with perceptive suggestions.
Tom beckoned Halbrooks to join him, leaving Maggie alone in the conference area. She knew they were talking about her, for they glanced her way from time to time, Halbrooks looking enthusiastic and Tom doubtful. She wished she could figure out exactly what it was that bothered Tom about the research. Had she, as she assumed, touched a nerve, or had Tom enjoyed planning TTI more than he now liked contemplating the reality of an approaching launch? Or was it just that he couldn't accept that she knew what she was talking about? She shrugged to herself and set to work. There was no way she'd be able to second-guess his attitude with any assurance of accuracy, so why try?
