by Janet Dailey
"I want it, Mr. Wilding," she admitted through her teeth, gritting them until they ached.
"Monday morning. Seven o'clock."
"I'll—" The line was already dead. There was only the hum of the dial tone in her ear.
Deborah glared at the receiver for a frozen instant before slamming it back on its cradle. The newspapers rustled noisily under her feet. There was no need to study the out-of-town classified advertisements. She had work—the position she wanted, but she didn't feel any desire to celebrate.
Bending down, she picked up the newspaper and jammed it in the wastebasket, then walked to her green and blue bedroom to choose her wardrobe for the week ahead. Deborah had no illusions about her new job. Challenging might not be a strong enough word to describe it. And she had no doubt that she would soon find a better word. Z. Wilding would see to that.
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Chapter Two
DEMANDING. AFTER ONE FULL WEEK on the job and part of a second, Deborah had found the adjective. From daylight to dusk she had lived, breathed, and eaten LaCosta Enterprises. She had learned, in short order, that her employer tolerated no excuses, not even ignorance. If she didn't know something, someone or someplace, he expected her to find out. Therefore, besides the long hours she put in on the job, Deborah carried home stockholders' reports, corporate analyses of the various firms under the LaCosta banner, résumés of all the corporate executives to familiarize herself with their names and backgrounds, and projections for expansion.
Her duties were many and varied. From such menial tasks as making coffee in the hidden office alcove or acting as chauffeur, they ranged to taking notes at various meetings and conferences. Depending on the confidentiality of the contents, Deborah typed them or the secretary, Mrs. Haines, in the outer office did.
All inner office and inner corporate communication she was to screen, and place on his desk only the important ones. Financial reports, cost sheets, and project estimates were all required to have her opinion attached to them before they were given to him. Half the time Deborah was working in the dark with only rudimentary knowledge of the company or item discussed. When her ignorance surfaced, her employer was quick to point it out—usually in scathing terms.
One thing Deborah had learned—the Z. stood for Zane. The only person she had ever heard address her employer by his given name was Tom Brookshire. He was a quiet, nondescript man with brown hair and eyes, and approximately the same age as Zane Wilding. If Tom had a title, she hadn't discovered it. She had the feeling the two men were longtime friends, not that Zane Wilding ever acted friendly toward anyone. Tom seemed to be his adviser, consultant and right arm. She had the impression he was an attorney, but she hadn't the vaguest idea where his office was located—in the building or elsewhere. Tom just materialized whenever Zane Wilding had need of him. At times it was uncanny.
The column of figures blurred. Deborah paused to rub her eyes tiredly before attempting to find her place and continue rechecking the number totals with her desk calculator. The door to the inner office where she and her employer had their desks swung open. Deborah glanced up. Only Tom Brookshire entered this private office without being announced or knocking. But it was a petite blonde who walked in. Deborah was too stunned to do more than glance at the dark-haired man behind the large desk.
Zane Wilding, too, had looked up when the door opened, his piercing blue eyes narrowing on the woman who entered. Uncoiling his length from the chair, he stood. Was it her imagination or had she seen a nerve twitch in the hardened line of his jaw? Deborah wondered.
"What are you doing here, Sylvia?"
Nonplussed by the absence of warmth in his greeting, the fragile-looking blonde walked to his desk. There was a haunting delicacy to the profile Deborah viewed. For all the sophistication and elegance of her clothes and hairstyle, the woman had an aura of sensitivity.
"I rode into town with Madelaine and Frank. I thought I would surprise you and give you an opportunity to take your wife to lunch," she announced in a melodic voice.
Wife. That fragile, wandlike creature was his wife. Deborah felt instant pity. Seeing the two of them together with Zane Wilding dominating her with his height and muscled leanness, his rugged countenance so emotionless, it seemed like marrying a child to the devil.
"You should have telephoned to let me know you were coming," he criticized and walked around the desk to loom over her. "I have an important business luncheon today."
Deborah's gray eyes widened at his statement. She had checked his appointment calendar not an hour ago. He had no such engagement. As a matter of fact, he had no meetings until two in the afternoon.
"Oh." The blonde's disappointment was a touching expression. "I suppose it will be one of those long, boring affairs." The wistfulness of her tone hinted that she was saying the words before he did.
"Yes." There wasn't the slightest trace of apology or regret in the cold, bronze features. Strong, male fingers gripped a small-boned elbow to turn the woman from his desk. His intention was obviously to escort her from the room.
But as his wife was turned she saw Deborah seated behind the smaller desk. There was a haunting loveliness to the smile she gave. Deborah was struck by the ivory pallor of the blonde's complexion. She was as pale as if she'd been locked away for several years.
"Is this your new assistant, Zane? You never mentioned that she was so beautiful," she stated without malice or jealousy.
His blue gaze froze for an instant on Deborah's features. "I hadn't noticed." Which was an ego-shattering comment, since Deborah was convinced it was true.
When Zane Wilding showed no inclination to introduce them, Deborah took the initiative. "I'm Deborah Holland."
Limp fingers clasped the hand she extended as the blonde responded with, "I'm Sylvia Wilding." Everything about his wife was so feminine and dainty that Deborah felt like an amazon in comparison.
As the hand was withdrawn, Sylvia Wilding tipped her head sideways to look up to her husband. "You never were attracted to redheads, were you?"
"No, I never have been." There was an underlying tone of impatience in his attitude. Deborah could feel it charging the atmosphere.
His reply was barely out when the door opened and Tom Brookshire walked in. His alert brown gaze quickly took in the situation as he strode forward, a gentle smile spreading across his face. Out of the corner of her eye Deborah saw the hand signal Zane Wilding made behind his wife's back, indicating he wanted Tom to take his wife from the room.
"Sylvia. This is a surprise." Tom Brookshire sounded genuinely glad to see her. With a natural ease he bent to kiss the blonde's rouged cheek. That display of affection was more than she had received from her husband. "When did you arrive?"
"Just this minute. How are you, Tom? It seems an age since I saw you last." There was a faint sadness in her smile.
"I'm afraid it has been," he admitted and held both of her hands in his. "You are looking as lovely as ever. What brings you to the city?"
That was another piece of information Deborah hadn't known—where Zane and his wife lived. Obviously it wasn't here in Hartford. Where? She wondered.
"Nothing special. I thought I'd stop and have lunch with Zane," Sylvia began.
"She didn't know I had a luncheon appointment," Zane inserted and the faint emphasis in his voice seemed to prompt a reply from the other man.
"I'm free for lunch. Since Zane can't take you, why don't we sneak away together?" Tom suggested.
"I … I'd like that," she agreed after a poignant hesitation.
Tom offered her his arm in a show of gallantry. "Shall we?"
Sylvia Wilding curved a hand inside his arm and paused to glance at Deborah. "It was nice meeting you."
"My pleasure, Mrs. Wilding." Deborah was aware that compassion put added warmth in her response.
As the couple walked from the office, her gray eyes sliced an accusing look to her employer. He was a callous brute, and she seethed at the way
he had so coldly palmed off his wife. As if feeling the pricking of the poison darts Deborah was mentally throwing at him, the electric blue of his gaze slid to her.
"If you haven't finished checking those figures, Miss Holland, I suggest you get busy instead of standing around doing nothing."
"Yes, sir," she snapped out the words, venting some of her anger through sarcasm, but it had little effect on him. His skin was much too thick.
The inner office line buzzed on her desk. Returning to her seat in the swivel chair, Deborah punched the lighted button and answered the phone. "Miss Holland's desk."
"This is Mrs. Haines," the secretary in the outer office identified herself. "I'm leaving for lunch now and I wanted you to know that all telephone calls are being switched through your phone."
"Thank you. Have a good lunch."
"Be back in an hour," the older woman promised and hung up.
Only when Mrs. Haines was away from her desk was Deborah responsible for screening the incoming calls for Zane Wilding. The majority of the time she was free from the interruption of a lot of phone calls. Her employer returned calls but rarely accepted any, which necessitated a lot of message taking.
Deborah glanced at the fact sheet she was checking and sighed. It was unlikely she would finish it until after Mrs. Haines returned. Clearing the adding machine, she started the entering of columns of figures into the calculator. With a lead pencil, she made a tiny mark beside each number as she punched it up.
The telephone rang halfway through the column. Deborah let it ring a second time before picking up the receiver. "Mr. Wilding's desk, Miss Holland speaking."
"This is Simpson Armbruster. Is Mr. Wilding in, please?" The male voice held an elderly ring. The name was not one that Deborah remembered hearing mentioned before.
She shot a questioning glance at her employer. Zane Wilding had lifted his head from the report he was reading, his expression an impenetrable bronze mask.
"One moment, Mr. Armbruster." She pressed the hold button, but Zane was already shaking his head to refuse the call. Deborah reconnected the blinking line. "I'm sorry, sir. Mr. Wilding is on another line. May I take a message or have him return your call?" Deborah requested. It hadn't taken her long to invent a variety of excuses why her employer was refusing calls.
Mr. Armbruster asked for his telephone call to be returned and Deborah jotted down the number where he could be reached. When she had hung up the phone, a sun-browned hand was reaching to tear off the sheet of paper with the number. Deborah hadn't realized her employer was anywhere in the vicinity of her desk until that moment, the thick carpet muffling the sound of his approaching footsteps.
He was standing directly behind her chair. There was a rapier thrust of blue steel in the look he gave her. "Did he say why he had called?"
"No, He merely asked you to call him back at your convenience." Everything was always at his convenience, she thought, getting a crick in her neck from looking up into his face with its powerful jawline and slanted cheekbones. Out of sheer perversity she added, "Your wife seemed to be a very nice woman … very beautiful."
The steely quality to his blue gaze grew sharper. "I'll return this call from the pool." Pushing back the cuffs of his white shirt and dark jacket sleeve, he glanced at the thin, gold watch on his wrist. "I'll be back at one-thirty."
If he had stated that he wasn't interested in any personal comments from her, Zane Wilding couldn't have made his meaning more clear. As he walked away from her desk toward the door, Deborah studied his lithe, graceful way of moving.
There was so much about him that attracted a woman. The barely tamed thickness of his dull black hair looked feather soft at times. His stature dominated most people he came in contact with and he had the powerfully tapered build of a swimmer, broad muscled shoulders and chest with a flat stomach and slim hips. On the average of three days a week he took a long lunch hour and went to a swimming pool in the vicinity to exercise, Deborah had learned. That, no doubt, accounted for his excellent physical condition in spite of the hours spent behind the desk.
There was so much virility in his rugged features cast in bronze that Deborah wondered why she had gained the impression of unfulfillment from his wife. A woman as feminine as she was should appeal to a man as masculine as Zane Wilding. His chiseled mouth had made no attempt to kiss his wife, not even with a chaste peck. But Deborah remembered that she had never seen him exhibit even a normal interest in the opposite sex. Somehow she found it difficult to reconcile his attitude of iron celibacy to the male lust that she suspected seethed behind that bronze armor of indifference.
Taking a firm grip on her wandering thoughts, Deborah shook away the half-formed curiosity about her employer's love life. Whom he slept with—or didn't sleep with—wasn't her concern. Zane Wilding would be the first one to tell her so, if he knew.
AFTER A MONTH, Deborah's life settled into a routine. The only thing routine about her job was the lack of a set routine, other than work. Her duties weren't restricted to the office. Four times she had attended business dinners with her employer where she was required to take mental notes of the discussion and transcribe a generalized account of the meeting into a report that she submitted to Zane Wilding the next afternoon. Fortunately, after these late night dinners she wasn't required to be in the office until noon the next day, but she usually spent the free mornings jotting down her recollections of the previous night's conversations so they could be organized into a report when she reached the office.
There were two out-of-town trips in the first month, one to New York and the other to Los Angeles. The first time Tom Brookshire had flown with them, but the second time it was only Deborah and her employer. If it had been anyone other than Zane Wilding, Deborah would have been wary of spending two or three nights in the same hotel as her boss. But she could have had three eyes and one leg for all the notice Zane Wilding paid to her. Everything was strictly business.
In all the long hours they had spent together, he had never made any comment that could be construed as friendly or personal. All the words that came out of his mouth were orders, commands or requests. On rare occasions he opened a door for her or held a chair, but Deborah could count those times on her fingers. They were the only times that he revealed he was aware of the fact she was a member of the female sex.
Once or twice the feminine part of her makeup wanted to rebel at his indifferent treatment of her, but Deborah always quelled the revolt. Theirs was a business relationship—employer and employee. It wouldn't be wise to complicate it, she realized.
The job was living up to all her expectations of being exposed to the many and varied facets of a large corporation. However questionable her opinion was of Zane Wilding as a human being, Deborah had no reservations about his skill as a businessman. His experience and natural acumen were beyond hers. He seemed born to command. She doubted that there were many men who could sit silently through an entire meeting and still be totally in charge of all that was discussed—as he was doing now.
Her gray eyes glanced absently from her shorthand note pad and its record of the discussion to the strong, lean hands on her right. They were male hands with blunted nails and wisps of dark hair curling from beneath white shirt cuffs. Beneath the sun-browned skin there was the tensile strength of steel. They were the hands that firmly held the reins of a multimillion-dollar conglomerate.
Thumbing to the next page of the report, he lifted a hand to rub a knuckle against the hard line of his mouth in aloof concentration. Deborah found herself wondering how often the inherent mastery in his touch was directed into a caress. She had never met a man who exhibited less need for human contact than Zane Wilding did.
One of the double doors to the large conference room was opened a crack. Deborah saw Mrs. Haines peer hesitantly in. The interruption drew a slicing look of censure from Zane. As unobtrusively as possible, Deborah rose from her chair and walked quietly to the door.
"What is it, Mrs. Haines?" she w
hispered.
The older woman wore an apologetic, yet agitated look. "It's Mrs. Wilding on the phone."
"Which line?"
"Two."
"Thank you, Mrs. Haines." Deborah smiled firmly and closed the door.
Before the meeting had begun, Zane Wilding had left strict orders to hold all calls. With that indelibly imprinted in her mind, Deborah walked to the telephone on the small table in the corner of the room. She pushed the button to connect the second line and picked up the receiver.
"Mrs. Wilding? This is Miss Holland." She kept her voice low so as not to intrude on the discussion going on behind her at the long table.
"I don't want to talk to you! I asked to speak to Zane. Where is he?" There was a slurred pattern to the strident female voice. Deborah found little resemblance between the quiet-spoken blonde she had met in the office and the agitated woman on the line.
"I'm sorry. He's in a conference right now. Let me have him call you back in an hour," Deborah suggested.
"Conference! He isn't in any conference. You're lying to me!"
"I assure you, Mrs. Wilding—"
"You damned little bitch!" It was becoming more and more apparent that Sylvia Wilding was drunk. "He's with you right now, isn't he? What's he doing? Making love to you? Is he kissing you and fondling you? You cheap little slut, I bet you think it's funny to be talking to me while he's holding you in his arms."
The flurry of jealous accusations momentarily shocked Deborah. "Mr. Wilding is chairing a corporate meeting at this moment." The denial came out in a breathless rush of indignation.
"Chairing a meeting? Hah! He's bedding you. Do you like all that naked muscle against your skin? I'll bet you want to have his baby."
"Please—" There didn't seem to be anything she could say to stop this torrent of suggestive questions.
"I want to speak to Zane!You put him on the phone this instant!"
"Who are you speaking to, Miss Holland?" The harsh demand came from Zane Wilding.
Clamping a hand over the mouthpiece of the receiver, Deborah half turned to answer him. "It's your wife."
