by Tamara Allen
“Yes, of course. I know what you mean.” I wasn’t any good at reassurances, but I couldn’t seem to shut up. “It takes me too long to get used to things changing. It always has. And I can make such a grand mess of everything in the meantime.”
Gladwin reached across the desk for a file and flipped it open listlessly. “Thank God for distractions, right?” His gaze dropped, and his voice. “If I can just be distracted.”
He didn’t realize just how distracted he really was—and I stayed quiet, thinking the workday’s end would give me the opportunity to slip the file back on his desk before he or anyone else discovered it missing. At six-thirty, I had it in my hands when suddenly the office’s quiet was broken by the elevator door. Voices froze me to the spot. Mr. Leach. And Gladwin.
“It’s on my desk, sir. But I haven’t . . .” Gladwin trailed off as he and Mr. Leach came into the room.
“The Burton file?” I held it out to him, but Mr. Leach took it and began a hurried perusal of it. “I thought I’d put the file away for you.”
“Did you?” Less question than realization, judging by Gladwin’s narrowed gaze. “Decent of you.”
I tried to convey a silent apology, but he only watched me warily as Mr. Leach shut the file with a snap. “I’ll need this completed by tomorrow and on my desk before noon.” He turned it over to Gladwin. “Templeton tells me you’re both handling the situation well. Keep it up. Good night, gentlemen.”
“Good night, sir.” Gladwin’s gaze never left me. He said nothing until the elevator door closed. Then he only tilted his head, a curious smile on his lips. “Really?”
“I realized—I mean, I did, yes, but I was just putting it back on your desk when you walked in—”
His laugh cut me off. “Come on. I know I can be as gullible as they come, but that’s a lot to swallow.”
That I’d changed my mind didn’t absolve me, but it bothered me that he wouldn’t believe the truth. I caught up with him at the elevator just as he was drawing shut the gate. “Mr. Gladwin, if you’d allow me a minute to explain.”
A corner of his mouth twisted wryly. “I’ve got an appointment to keep. And a long evening of work ahead. I’d like to get to it.”
“I’m—” The door shut, and I was left standing with the half-finished apology on my lips. Damn it. Why the hell did I care? In the past three months, he’d rarely said more than good morning to me.
And I’d never encouraged him to say more. Even when I’d wanted to.
The rattle of the elevator faded, and in the silence, I fancied I could hear my heart beating. It had been pounding through me a few minutes ago. Now it was slowing down like a windup toy, and I half expected it to slip unresistingly into stillness. My life since the war had been without any kind of direction. My job had been the only solid thing under me, a safe corner from which I watched the world struggle to right itself. But merely watching was a lonely business.
If Casey Gladwin wandered, chatted, and flirted, what was wrong with that? He got his work done. I might’ve wandered, chatted, and flirted, but I’d forgotten how to do those things. Or maybe France had used up my small store of bravery. God knew there was no courage in trying to keep a job by false means.
I wanted to go home, but I was in no mood to face my parents. I needed to be alone, but not at the office with its shadows and vast quiet. Getting my coat, I shut off my desk lamp and started back for the elevator, only to step on something that crumpled underfoot. A tax sheet, I realized, from the Burton file.
I tried to catch Gladwin before he left the building, but there was no sign of him in the lobby or on the street. I realized I didn’t have the first idea where he lived. Back upstairs, I looked through his desk, doubting I’d find anything like an address or telephone number. The day book I came across listed a number of people in the office, and I was debating whether to call Louise Nowell and ask if she knew Gladwin’s address when I inadvertently flipped to the back of the book and found it there.
At least, it appeared to be his address. It was a rather rough neighborhood—one I was hesitant to visit after dark. But I wanted the chance to talk to him. If he was not in a forgiving frame of mind, he might at least know the regret I felt.
Choosing a cab over the subway, I was shortly deposited on the sidewalk in front of an East Side apartment that looked as though it had been standing a hundred years. Despite the fall of night, the street was alive with children racing up and down the pavement, their parents framed in windows or leaning over stoops to talk with neighbors. All down the street, vendors crowded, bulky in coats and aprons, caps pulled low against the crisp night air. The air Dr. Stanley had warned me to avoid until I was entirely well.
Devil take it, I was well. I ran up the steps and slipped into an alcove with cracked tiles and a radiator serving as a coatrack for the boys playing stickball in the road. On the second floor, I located Gladwin’s abode, but two firm knocks drew no one and my heart sank. All I could do was try to slip the tax sheet under the door.
“You looking for Casey?”
Startled, I hastily straightened and took in a tall, stout personage with curly black hair and a grin that made his round face all the rounder. In his shirtsleeves, his dark pants paint-splattered, he leaned against a ladder propped at the hall’s end, smoking a cigar as if he had nothing more important to do. I nodded guardedly. “Do you know Mr. Gladwin?”
“He’s quiet and tries to keep up with his rent. Don’t need to know much more.”
I sensed he did know rather more. “Do you know where he’s gone?”
“To get a bite of supper, I’d expect.” Pushing away from the ladder, he came to the door. “James McGinley. You a friend of Casey’s?”
“Well, not precisely.”
“Keeping company?”
“I beg your pardon?”
McGinley chuckled. “Guess I’m mistaken. What’s your business, then?”
“I work with Mr. Gladwin. He left something behind at the office, and I’ve brought it for him. I suppose he only just left?”
“Five minutes past. And he’s likely to be a while. He said he wasn’t visiting her again so soon, but if you ask me, he’ll be going up till he knows she’s settled in.”
“His mother?”
A guess, and an accurate one, judging by the sympathetic tilt of Mr. McGinley’s curly head. “Only met her the once. Sweet old dove. Pity she ain’t right.”
“She’s ill?”
“Bad ill,” McGinley said, with a tap of a finger against his brow. “Wandered off a time or two. But he found a place uptown, neat as you please. She’ll be all right there.”
Understanding crept in. “Private homes are rather pricey.”
“Damned if they ain’t. That reminds me.” McGinley slipped a key into the lock and opened the door. “Would you just mention to him he’s still owing that last bit for November? He handed over a fair penny up front to get her in, I know, so I ain’t pressing. He can pay it with December’s rent, if he wants. But mention it if you would, seeing as you know him well enough.”
I didn’t, but there seemed no point in saying so. Going inside, I found the front room furnished with only a desk at the window and an armchair at the hearth. Good quality pieces, they were, and I suspected the remainder of the furniture had been sold. The Burton file lay on the desk—and beside it, of all things, an orange.
Perhaps I hadn’t been an altogether bad deskmate. Still, I had something to make up for. I’d intended to leave the tax sheet and go, but that wasn’t enough. Settling myself at the desk, I unearthed scrap paper and a pencil and opened the file.
When I raised my head again, it was to find the hour well past ten. The little room was foreign in the darkness beyond the desk lamp—and chilly, besides. I rose and lit a fire in the hearth, realizing only after that Gladwin might be away for the night. Debating whether to douse the fire and leave, I heard footsteps nearing the door and opened it. It was only a red-haired fellow dressed incongruously
in a heavy overcoat and a straw hat. He looked a little unsteady. And then I noted the bottle in each hand.
Seeing me in the doorway, he broke into a wide grin. “Well, how d’you do? Casey told me he’d be alone, so I thought I’d bring a little good cheer by . . .” He stopped in front of me and squinted inquiringly. “Didn’t occur to me he’d find his own good cheer. Mind if I have a word?” He peered past my shoulder, into the room.
“Casey isn’t here, and I’m not sure when he’s due back.”
“Oh, damn.” The gentleman leaned in close, studying my face rather too intently. “What about you, then? Care for a bit of cheer?” He raised a bottle, then expanded on the definition with a damp kiss on my cheek.
“Jesus, Sam.” It was Gladwin, at the top of the stairs. “Leave him alone.” He came quickly to the door and got Sam by the collar. “Go on home, will you? I’ve got a pile of work tonight.” His glance, tired and guarded, took me in as he spoke.
Sam, even in his cups, seemed to realize something out of the ordinary was going on. He clasped Gladwin’s shoulder briefly—apologetically, I thought—and took off, leaving me to explain my apparently even less welcome presence. But Gladwin didn’t give me the chance.
“Congratulations.” A defeated note made itself heard beneath the surface sarcasm. “You’ve got what you need to get me fired.”
He thought I’d do just that. Of course he didn’t know any better. I grabbed hold of his lapels, pulled him against my chest, and kissed him. It was as rough as every ugly word I’d said to him in the past couple of weeks and as defiant. His lips were lax with shock, and he jerked back, staring at me. I forced out a laugh. “So do you.” More than anger had set my heart pounding, but I couldn’t make sense of it. Too much was hitting me at once.
As I pushed past him, he pushed back, and I was trapped against the door jamb. I was ready to shove him away. I would have, if not for the look on his face. His surprise was gone, and he stared as if he’d been suddenly granted divine power to see straight past my anger and frustration. I had only a fleeting glimpse of his own unearthed emotions before I was pinned to the jamb by hands strong on my shoulders, lips on mine demanding another chance at that kiss. I gave it to him tentatively, not sure what I was doing. I’d come out of a dark room, into sunlight too bright to let me see anything. I was afraid to let its warmth pull me in, at least before I’d figured out just what I was feeling.
Casey’s kiss grew gentle, and his grip loosened, arms sliding around my shoulders as he tipped his head, brow resting against mine. “Foster.”
The rebuke was as gentle, and I knew it was for nothing that had come before. “A complication you don’t need right now.”
He exhaled a laugh. “A goddamned complication.” He leaned against me all the more heavily.
“You did want a distraction.”
“Sam’s a distraction.” He drew back, amusement in his eyes. “You’re a . . .” He seemed stymied.
“An utter fool?”
The amusement deepened, along with curiosity. “You’re here. And I don’t really know why. If it’s to apologize—”
“It is. But you dropped part of the file when you left.” I followed him into the room, closing the door. “And—well, I was waiting for you—”
“And you didn’t have anything else to do.” He was at the desk, paging through the file. At last, he looked up. “Quite an apology,” he said softly.
“I understand you’ve been having a difficult couple of weeks.”
He broke from my gaze. “McGinley tell you that?”
“He said you’d moved your mother to a private home so she could be looked after while you’re at work.”
He let out a breath as if relieved, but his shoulders sagged. “‘ Yes. She’s—a little fragile.”
She didn’t seem to be the only one. I moved toward him, hand extended. “Truce?”
His brows lifted, along with the corners of his mouth. “You’ll settle for a handshake? After that kiss?” He clasped my hand, drawing me closer as he did. “You think I’ll settle for a handshake?”
“Complications,” I reminded him.
He only grinned. “Priorities.”
I could’ve argued that the hour was late and we both had to work tomorrow. I could’ve mentioned we were still battling for the same job and the eventuality of one of us being fired might end anything between us before it was well started. I thought about saying all that and more, but then he crushed his mouth on mine, and I found myself hoping none of those arguments occurred to him. There was no indication of it in the purposeful pulling away of my coat and vest, all the while he kissed me with an abandon that made clear the distraction he wanted. Sam might have served as well, I thought—then wished I hadn’t.
“Casey . . .” He was pulling me toward the closed door on the other side of the sitting room, but a muffled hum against my cheek encouraged me to continue. “Sam—”
“He’s a friend.”
“But I’m—”
“Not even that.” He blew out a laugh. “Three months ago, when we were in that crowded office, waiting on our interviews, and you squeezed past me with that wary look in your eyes—God, my hope winked right out because you looked like such a straight and narrow sort, I figured you as good as had the job.” He stopped inside the doorway of a dim bedroom. “I’d been waiting four hours—oh, I know some of the guys had waited longer—but there wasn’t much chatter. Everyone was anxious. A little grim about it. I was scared to death. My suit was so goddamned shabby, and I needed a haircut. And you fellows were all so polished . . .” His gaze dropped. “But I think you knew I was nervous. You smiled.”
“You remember something like that?”
“I couldn’t forget it. It gave me the spine to go in there and convince Mr. Leach I could do the work.” He met my eyes. “I thought we’d be friends, but you were a straight and narrow sort. You’ve never approved of me. I know.”
“Your work habits drove me mad, to be honest. But I suppose it was partly because I wasn’t able to work the same way.”
“My work habits?”
He was puzzled. I gave in to a laugh. “Well, you always seemed to be in conversation at someone else’s desk.” Everyone’s but mine.
His expression cleared. “I talk too much.”
“You flirt with the ladies—”
“You wanted me to flirt with you?”
“Of course not.”
“No?” Suddenly he was smiling.
I sought refuge in stern reproach. “No.”
“Not even once?” His breath was warm on my face, and I realized he’d had coffee with supper, no doubt expecting to be up late, working.
“I don’t know what I wanted,” I said—too softly, I thought, but then he nodded. “I came back last year, thinking I’d settle in and everything would be okay. But everything was different—or I was different. You know? I’d been picturing my life, but I lost the picture somewhere in France. Then I was sick, and when I came out of that, it seemed enough to be safe and well. And I think I—” I met his eyes. “I resented you for being more than that.”
“You thought I was doing all right.” He grinned, a fleeting one. “I put on a hell of a show, don’t I? ‘ Smile, boys, that’s the style.’” His sigh was silent, but I felt him deflate against me. “I was in bed for weeks. They weren’t too sure I’d live, and they laid bigger odds against me walking again. I showed them . . .” He straightened up, a hard sparkle in his gaze. “My leg gave me hell at first, but it’s been improving. Give it some more time and it’ll be good as new.”
“I can be a dumb son of a bitch.” The real apology wouldn’t come. I felt so foolish already. “You should probably know that, if . . .”
“If?” He was going to make me spill the rest of it.
“If you’re going to flirt with me, too.”
“So you do want me to flirt with you.”
“I want you to . . .” Forgive me. “I’m sorry,” I said qui
etly.
“I’m sorry, too. About the comptometer . . .” He looked sheepish. “I guess I thought you might not really notice. And the thing was driving me wild. I’m so used to whipping through my work—and you’re so damned steady. About everything.” His fingers tangled in my hair, his mouth warming mine with a most expressive kiss. I felt forgiven.
But perhaps I just wanted to feel that way. “Casey—”
He shook his head. “You’re a smart son of a bitch, Foster. So am I. That’s where they messed up, pitting us against each other. We just ended up thinking we had to go after each other till only one was left standing.”
“We nearly did.”
His gaze drank me in with a look I couldn’t quite read—but liked all the same. “We didn’t,” he said. “You didn’t. That fellow in the office who smiled at me, he’s still here.” He dropped one hand to poke me in the chest. “Right here.”
I knew all at once why I liked the look in his eyes. He was seeing me. And no one had seen me in such a long time. I’d only begun to see him clearly, and I wanted more of him, this man who could call himself gullible, yet appear to know me better than I knew myself. This man with his work desk full of toys—old toys he’d probably unearthed while packing his belongings and his mother’s. This man who was so certain his leg would be good as new and forgave me for ever believing otherwise.
After my impulsive pounce in the hallway, I’d allowed him to take the lead, and my blood was still pounding from it. Now, with my lips on his, I lingered, wanting to feel and taste him. We drifted through the dimness to a white counterpane and dropped together, reaching for each other’s buttons. Not far into the undertaking, he pushed me onto my back and reclaimed my mouth with a raw strength that promised to finish me. Though he was still clothed, the heat and muscle of his arms, his chest solid against mine—it took me over, and as much as I wanted him naked against me, I couldn’t stop him. He pushed a leg between mine, rocking, and the rush of sensation as I came bordered on unbearable.
“All right?” He was breathless, too, but I caught the amused, almost affectionate note.
