by Janet Dailey
Joan stiffened. "Why would you want to take me? Surely Angela had a prior claim on your company?"
His mouth tightened. "There were some things I thought we should get straightened out. Obviously I was wrong."
"What things?" she asked, desperately needing to know.
Brandt didn't answer as his bland gaze slowly studied her face, lingering for heart-stopping seconds on her parted lips. Her shoulders quivered lightly at the almost physical touch. He averted his gaze sharply, staring down the empty corridor outside the apartment.
"I wasn't going to invite you to my place, if that's what you're thinking." he replied grimly.
"That's not fair," Joan breathed. "I didn't think that at all."
"Didn't you?" he mocked harshly. "Weren't you already questioning my motives, the way you always have?"
"Brandt —" His name was spoken in a beseeching plea for understanding.
She wanted to explain that she couldn't trust him because she cared so deeply and knew he didn't reciprocate the emotion. For her an innocent dinner in his company would be torturing bliss. None of the thoughts was expressed. At that instant an arm draped itself possessively around her shoulder.
"I'm sorry about the noise," Ed was saying to Brandt. "I'm sure Joan explained that we'll keep it down." He saw Brandt's gaze shift with hard amusement to the pinafore apron Ed was wearing. "My brother and I are playing chef tonight and I'm afraid we had a bit of a catastrophe in the kitchen which started most of the laughter."
"Ed," Joan touched his hand, realizing that Brandt's air of authority had caused Ed to mistake him for the manager. "This is my employer. Mr. Lyon."
"I'm sorry," Ed smiled broadly at his own mistake. He took his arm from around Joan's shoulder and extended a hand to Brandt in greeting. "I suppose it was a guilty conscience that made me think you were the manager. I'm Ed Thomas. Joan has told me a great deal about you, Mr. Lyon."
Joan had seen the thorough inspection Brandt had made of the man beside her. At the last statement, his cobalt blue eyes shifted to her, glittering with hard amusement.
"Has she?" he murmured, shaking Ed's hand courteously. "Nothing complimentary, I imagine."
There was a quick flow of color into her face, but Ed only laughed easily. "Hardly. Joan has too strong a sense of loyalty. She has only spoken of you with respect and admiration." His head tilted to the side in an inquiring manner as he glanced from Brandt to Joan. "Was there some emergency problem?"
"There were a couple of questions I had to ask Miss Somers before Monday," Brandt replied smoothly. "I have my answers now, so please accept my apology for intruding on your evening."
"That's quite all right," Ed declared, magnanimously waving the apology aside. "If you don't have another pressing engagement, why don't you join us in a glass of Chianti? The noodles were more ruined than we first thought and dinner has been set back for us. I'm sure Joan would like to have you stay, wouldn't you, Joan?"
There was little else she could do but nod agreement. Brandt hesitated for a moment, then shrugged.
"If Miss Somers has no objection, then I accept."
When the apartment door closed behind the three of them, Kay called out from the kitchen side of the room, "Did you pacify Mr. Grady?" Then she glanced over her shoulder, her mouth opening in astonishment when she saw Brandt. It closed quickly like a trap, at Ed's following statement.
"Joan and I have invited Mr. Lyon to have a glass of Chianti with us," he announced.
Bright flashing brown eyes darted a fiery look at Joan as Kay silently questioned her if she had lost her senses. Kay had never seen the need to hide her feelings and there was open disapproval in her voice and expression when she greeted Brandt. Even John's acknowledgement was stiffly reserved. Only Ed seemed unaware of the undercurrents of extreme tension in the room.
As Joan passed around the glasses of Italian wine that John had poured, she was vibrantly conscious of the indifferently cool blue eyes that followed her every move.
Their apartment was noticeably lacking in casual chairs. Brandt was seated in the rocker and Kay was perched on the footstool drawn over in front of the couch where John sat down. Ed was sitting on the opposite end of the sturdy Mediterranean sofa. The only vacant seat for Joan was the cushion beside Ed, unless she wanted to completely alienate herself from the group by sitting in one of the chrome dinette chairs. That would be an admission that Brandt's presence unnerved her, so she chose the couch.
Ed's arm was resting on the back of the cushions. The suggestion of contemptuous amusement was expressed in the slight curl of Brandt's lip. Joan realized that to Brandt, the arm so near her shoulders indicated a familiar intimacy that was totally untrue. She sensed that Brandt was deriving satisfaction from the taut lines of obvious discomfort around her mouth. She was terrified, that he would deliberately linger over his wine to prolong her strain, but he finished his drink before the rest of them.
The smile pulling up the corners of his mouth looked quite friendly, but Joan had seen his true smile before and knew that this one was a bad imitation of what his genuinely warm smile was like. He thanked them all for their hospitality as he rose to his feet. She had half expected him to single her out to see him to the door when Brandt waved Ed back into his seat.
The only remark he addressed to her was "Goodnight. Miss Somers. I'll see you on Monday morning," delivered with a casualness that implied that, his purpose for seeing her outside the office no longer existed.
The very day that Brandt had torn up her first letter of resignation, Joan had typed another. On Monday morning she was glad she hadn't waited because she found herself strangely reluctant to submit it to him. If she had left the retyping of her resignation until that morning, she probably would have invented reasons to postpone it.
Her resolve that she was doing the right thing hadn't wavered, but Brandt's unexplained visit to her apartment had raised questions of hope that she couldn't entirely shrug aside. Scolding herself for being foolish. Joan kept wishing that Ed hadn't been there when Brandt had come. She would have liked to have known what it was that Brandt had wanted to discuss with her. Now she had the feeling that she never would.
Although she hadn't seen Brandt, Joan knew he was in his office. There had been sounds of paper and footsteps inside the room when she arrived. Following their routine, she picked up the day's appointment book and the mail and a pad for any special notes. At the last minute she included the envelope containing her resignation.
"What do I have scheduled this morning?" was Brandt's first utterance when she entered his office. There was no greeting, no alluding comment about the weekend or his visit.
In near record time, Brandt dictated what immediate replies were necessary from the morning's correspondence. His brusque manner invited no comment or query. That extreme air of remoteness made it difficult for Joan to find the words to bring up her resignation. In the end her courage deserted her and she rose to leave at his dismissal without submitting it. She was nearly to the door when Brandt halted her.
"Miss Somers," he said curtly, not glancing up when she turned around. "I'm prepared to accept your resignation whenever you have it typed. Contact our usual employment agency and have them submit a list of applicants and their references."
"Yes, sir," Joan murmured numbly. Her spirits sank as she realized she had been secretly hoping Brandt would try to persuade her to stay. Blindly she reached for the doorknob.
"And Miss Somers …" The sword-sharp gaze pinned her against the door. "Please make it clear that this time I want someone older, preferably in her late thirties and married. Someone I can rely on not to be carried away by ridiculous flights of fanciful imagination."
"Is that all?" she asked tightly, blinking back the tears.
"As soon as you've compiled a likely list of candidates from the applications, you can arrange interviews, hopefully for Thursday."
"Yes, Mr. Lyon." The agreement had to be forced through the constricted muscles in
her throat.
A brow arched in cold question at her tone. "You are giving notice today, aren't you?" Brandt demanded smoothly.
Her trembling fingers sifted through the papers in her hand for the letter. As she withdrew it from the rest, her head lifted proudly. "I hadn't changed my mind. I have my resignation right here."
Brandt didn't glance at it when she placed it on his desk, but kept his studying gaze on her controlled expression. "I know I can trust you to find an adequate replacement," he said finally in dismissal.
Joan murmured a bitter thanks and fled the room, fighting back the waves of misery that threatened to engulf her. She had once told herself that Brandt would be glad to see her go, but, she hadn't truly believed it until today.
After surviving that day, she felt she could survive anything, even the day when she would ultimately walk out of the office for the last time. That dubious triumph gave her the strength to return the next day, determined to carry out her duties without succumbing to the misery that dominated her heart.
Her mask of efficient practicality seemed to be firmly in place and unshakable. Her voice hadn't trembled at all when the employment agency had called today for more specific information on their requirements.
She glanced at her watch. It was nearly eleven-thirty. Kay would be calling soon to go to lunch with her. Joan arched her back, stretching her tensed muscles as she drew the letter out of the typewriter and read it quickly over for errors she might have missed. The door to her office opened from the hall and she absently glanced up. She wasn't prepared for the vision of rose pink that floated into the room.
"They told me I could find Brandt here." The china-perfect features curved into a charming smile.
From somewhere Joan found the ability to use her tongue. "This is Mr. Lyon's office," she confirmed thickly. "I'm his secretary."
"Then you must be the one I talked to on the telephone a week or so ago." The petite blonde glided softly to her desk. "I'm Angela Farr. Brandt is supposed to lunch with me today." Baby blue eyes glanced down at the diamond watch around her slender wrist. "I'm early, but I hoped I could persuade him to leave now so we could have a longer time together."
"There's someone with him at the moment," Joan murmured, enviously noting the slender fingers and long, perfectly manicured nails that a typist couldn't possess. "But I can let him know you're here."
A conspiratorial smile flashed quickly, revealing pearl-white teeth. "Maybe it will hurry up the appointment," Angela suggested.
Joan's throat constricted painfully and she could only nod that it probably would be so. She pushed the intercom buzzer to Brandt's office, her palms perspiring with nervous agitation.
"What is it, Miss Somers?" a trace of impatience in the crisp voice that responded to her summons.
"Miss Farr is here to see you, Mr. Lyon." Her voice took on a frigidly cold tone in spite of her desire to sound indifferent.
There was the slightest pause before Brandt replied. "Ask her to wait. I … shouldn't be long." His voice was distinctively warmer and it hurt.
As the connection between the two offices was broken, Joan glanced at the petitely perfect blonde. "Would you like to take a seat, Miss Farr?"
"Thank you." Angela sank gracefully into the straight chair beside Joan's desk. "You're really very nice, Miss Somers. The way Brandt talks about you sometimes, I had the feeling you were much older."
Joan was not sure that it was a compliment, but she decided it was only prejudice rearing its ugly head that made her want to read something else into the statement, if only to find fault with the woman. She would have preferred Angela to be a catty bitch instead of so openly friendly.
"Secretaries tend to be taken for granted," was the only casual, noncommittal reply that came to her mind.
"Have you worked for Brandt long?"
Still unnecessarily shuffling papers on her desk, Joan smiled tightly, unwilling to tell this obvious paramour of Brandt's that she had handed in her notice.
"For three years," she answered.
"You must know him fairly well," Angela sighed, a whispering sound that sent the flowery fragrance delicately scenting her skin to fill Joan's nose.
"Not really, Miss Farr." Joan denied, discovering she hated flowers, and most especially delicate pink rosebuds.
"Surely you travel with Brandt when he visits those noisy construction sites?" Rounded blue eyes looked at her, their largeness emphasized by naturally long curling lashes.
"Whatever gave you that idea, Miss Farr?" Joan laughed shortly.
"Well," petite shoulders shrugged in confusion, "don't you have to take notes or something when he's at these places?"
"If there are any special notes that Mr. Lyon wants to make, he uses a tape recorder and I transcribe them when he returns," Joan explained.
"I see," Angela nodded. Then she glanced past Joan and smiled broadly. "There you are, darling. I knew you wouldn't keep me waiting long."
Joan's cheeks flamed as she involuntarily turned to the connecting door where Brandt was standing. The man with him, a salesman, nodded politely and left. Brandt's gaze flicked over Joan, then Angela, as if he were comparing the two. Joan knew who came out second best and she tried to convince herself that it didn't matter. But a tear slid down her cheek when the lean jungle lion walked out of the door with the delicate pink rosebud.
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Chapter Nine
THE sandwich Joan had eaten was caught somewhere between her throat and her stomach, a hard lump of bitterness and misery that refused to go away. It was one thing to silently wish for Brandt's happiness and it was another to see him with the girl who was providing it. Only a saint would be immune to the tearing pains of jealousy Joan felt.
Her head pounded unmercifully as she tried not to glance at her watch. Resolutely she kept typing, concentrating on the words Brandt's voice was saying through the earpiece of the Dictaphone, but her heart kept listening to the steady rhythm of his voice. Before she realized it, she had missed an entire sentence.
Frustrated and impatient and all too aware that Brandt's lunch hour was stretching out longer than she had ever known him to take, she replayed the missed part and didn't catch all of it again. With a defeated sigh, she turned the machine off and leaned back in her swivel chair, removing the earpiece and laying it beside the dictaphone. Perhaps if she relaxed for a moment, she would find the strength to hold her thoughts at bay.
The doorknob turned and Joan quickly bent over her typewriter, pretending a concentration on the words typed on the page as if seeking an error. She had heard those firm strides for three years. Unwillingly her gaze darted to her watch, a few minutes before two.
"Are there any messages, Miss Somers?" inquired Brandt.
Her head only half turned, deliberately not bringing him into her vision. "They're on your desk, Mr. Lyon," she replied in a carefully controlled tone of professional indifference.
The footsteps paused somewhere near her desk and waited. The skin along the back of her neck tingled and Joan held her breath, her lashes fluttering down in a silent prayer for Brandt to be gone.
"Was there something else, Mr. Lyon?" she asked coldly. Her mind was hatefully visualizing the reasons why his lunch hour had lasted so long.
"Yes, Miss Somers, there is," Brandt responded grimly. "From now on, you wear your hair down. There isn't any need to keep up your masquerade as a Cinderella girl."
Her pulse accelerated alarmingly as his statement caught her off guard. The desire to do anything to please him was strong, but he already controlled too much of her existence, however unknowingly. More share than a lion was entitled to. Her trembling fingers closed over a rubber and she began needlessly erasing a correctly spelled word.
"It is not a masquerade," Joan retorted. "I wear my hair this way because it's practical and I shall continue to do so."
A gasping cry of surprise was ripped from her throat as her chair was spun sharply around. Hands grip
ped each side of the chair, holding her prisoner in its seat as Brandt glowered threateningly above her.
"That was not a request!" he snapped. "That was an order!"
The thick lenses of her glasses brought his face sharply into focus. She was stunned by the blazing anger hashing in every feature. Never once had she seen Brandt angry, not truly angry like this.
"No." she murmured, uncertain whether it was a protest at his order or surprise that he was capable of such fury.
The tortoiseshell glasses were stripped from her face and tossed carelessly on the desk top before she could attempt to stop him. When she reached out to retrieve them, her shoulders were seized and she was hauled roughly to her feet. The lion was aroused and reacting with primitive violence.
"You will wear it down," Brandt growled. "And so help me, if you don't take it down, I will!"
Her fingers were trembling against his chest, placed there in case he tried to crush her against him. There was a wild ache in her stomach to disobey, to feel his fingers tearing through her hair and maybe even the savage punishment of his mouth on hers. But there would be too great a risk that she might betray her need to respond to his caress.
Hesitantly she raised her hands to the pins holding her hair in its neat, severe coil. Within seconds it was tumbling down her back and curling over the fingers digging into her arms. Bravely she lifted her gaze to Brandt's face.
The fury of his temper had subsided to a smoldering fire in the dark blue of his eyes. "Are you satisfied?" she breathed tautly.
His mouth thinned. "No."
Her heart stopped as she sensed that the admission had been unwillingly given. His hands slid around her back, one moving to the back of her neck and the other to the back of her waist as he pulled her against him. With bruising possession, his mouth closed over hers. Joan quivered in resistance for an instant, then surrendered to her own hunger.
The door to her office opened and Brandt roughly pushed her an arm's length away. Lyle Baines was standing in the doorway, staring at them in open-mouthed surprise. Joan twisted her head sharply away, coloring in shame. Without uttering a word, Lyle Baines stepped back into the corridor and closed the door.
