by Janet Dailey
Deborah wasn't sure which was more unnerving—being held so firmly at a distance as Zane was doing now, or being held close to the hard male body inches from her own. Either way, the situation made her feel on edge. The warmth in the strong fingers clasping hers brought a tightness to her throat. Her gaze focused itself on an imaginary point on his right shoulder, rather than lift the few inches necessary to study his face at close quarters.
Just the same she was conscious of his slanted jaw-line and strong chin on a level somewhere near her forehead, and the chiseled contours of his mouth above that. The clean, manly fragrance of his shaving cologne dominated her sense of smell and disturbed her breathing.
The music and the intimacy implied in dancing together were making her reaction to his nearness much too physical. Deborah realized that was dangerous ground. It became imperative to speak and assert the business footing of their relationship again.
"This hasn't been a very productive evening, has it?" she remarked in what she hoped was a calm voice.
"Wasted would be a more accurate description." His low-pitched voice triggered pleasant vibrations through her bones, despite the grimness of his tone.
Fighting back that reaction, Deborah quipped, "Not totally wasted. The food was good."
She lifted her gaze a few inches and saw his mouth quirk at her statement. It was the closest she had ever come to receiving a smile from her taciturn employer. Of course, the dry expression never reached the steel-blue depths of his eyes. Deborah was convinced nothing ever did.
His impersonal gaze briefly skimmed her length. "Didn't you wear this same outfit two weeks ago when we dined with the president of the architectural firm?"
Discovering that he actually noticed what she wore was a pleasant revelation. It gleamed in her clear, gray eyes. "Yes, I did," she admitted.
Immediately his blue eyes narrowed to a piercing degree. "I suppose you have a limited choice of evening wear, which is why you have to keep wearing the same things over and over."
Deborah realized that she had mistakenly interpreted his first remark as a compliment. "A very limited choice," she replied stiffly. "It consists of one dress, one pantsuit, an evening gown, and this. None of them is very extravagant, but then I'm not taking part in a fashion parade. I have other things to spend my money on besides evening clothes to entertain your business associates." Silver lightning flashed in her eyes, crackling with her temper.
"Something will have to be done to enlarge your wardrobe." His tone indicated an impatience that he had to be bothered with such a minor detail.
"May I suggest, Mr. Wilding, that you give me a raise and arrange to let me have some free time while the shops are open so I can correct the situation?" Deborah was practically steaming, resenting his criticism of her limited wardrobe.
"Are you complaining about your salary and long hours?" A black eyebrow lifted in challenge.
"You are the one who is complaining—about my limited evening wear. I was offering a remedy." She gave him a saccharine smile.
"I see." There was a glint in his eye that suspiciously resembled amusement.
Deborah looked away, preferring his frigid regard to silent, mocking laughter. Her gaze touched on other dancing couples, entwined in each other's arms. The distance between them made her feel conspicuous. Not that she wanted to rest her head on that chest of living stone, because she had no amorous inclinations for her employer. But she was aware that the firm warmth of the hand at her back and the fingers curved around her own, were at odds with his attitude of chilling indifference. She stifled that knowledge, not knowing where it might lead.
"It's unfortunate that you aren't as quick to praise as you are to criticize, Mr. Wilding," she issued tightly, looking anywhere but at her employer and his carved face that was not that far from her own. "Because it seems impossible to satisfy you."
"You can be assured, Miss Holland, that if you do something that doesn't satisfy me, I'll let you know." Dry amusement lurked in his low voice.
Flashing gray eyes swung back to meet his gaze. "Which is precisely my point. A person is just as eager to find out when she does something right as she is to know when she's wrong."
"So you want me to say you've done an excellent job so far."
"No, I don't want you to say it," she denied. "I want you to mean it. Praise is worth nothing when it's prompted."
"I'm surprised you know that," he murmured in a faintly superior tone.
Deborah gritted her teeth. "I knew working for you was going to be an experience, but I didn't realize it was going to be a lesson in male arrogance."
The arm at her waist tightened to turn her away from a couple who would have danced blindly into them. Briefly Deborah felt the contact with his muscled thigh. It was a jolting reminder of the lean, hard length of a man in his prime. After that, she kept her mouth closed rather than have Zane Wilding think she was attempting to attract his attention to her femininity. When the song ended, she escaped the unnerving indifference of his arms and turned to walk back to the table. Naturally he was right behind her.
His low, bland voice taunted, "Unprompted, may I state that your silence was refreshing."
Deborah flashed him a glance over her shoulder and met the hard, cold blue of his eyes. "You may state anything you wish. You are the boss." Satisfied that she had the last word, she fixed a calmly pleasant expression on her face and continued to the table where the others waited for them.
Ignoring the speculative looks from the financier and his wife, and the jealous green of their daughter's, Deborah walked to her chair. Zane Wilding was there to pull it out for her and she caught the curious, assessing look Tom Brookshire gave him.
"Thank you for the dance, Miss Holland." The glinting light in his blue eyes was challenging and hard.
A sharp retort trembled on her lips that she hadn't been given the opportunity to refuse, but she bit it back and nodded with thinly faked courtesy. While he took the chair beside her, Deborah reached for her drink to cover her tense unease.
"You made a charming couple on the dance floor, Miss Holland," the florid-faced Mr. Darrow remarked.
"Oh." She glanced at the financier over the rim of her glass. "Obviously you didn't notice how many times I stepped on Mr. Wilding's toes." Figuratively, at least, she thought, and glanced across the table to see the raised eyebrow of Tom Brookshire whose expression was a combination of amusement and sharp question.
Thankfully, no one pursued her comment as Bianca Darrow spoke to draw Zane Wilding's attention to her and away from Deborah. Not once during the course of the evening did her employer ask either Mrs. Darrow or her daughter to dance. Deborah expected them to be offended by his slighting of them, but except for the jealous looks Bianca kept casting her way, neither woman appeared angry over the lack of an invitation.
The financier asked Deborah to dance once, after he dutifully danced first with his wife and later her daughter. On the floor he confessed to Deborah that he preferred to polka. She surmised his preference was the reason he kept pumping her arm while they danced to a slow tune. It was probably an unconscious effort to speed up the tempo of the song. Whatever his reason, her arm practically ached by the time the song ended. At the table Deborah kept her mouth firmly shut most of the time, not speaking unless a remark was addressed specifically to her. Having stuck her foot in her mouth once that evening, she had no intention of repeating it. Besides, if Zane Wilding found her silence refreshing, she decided he could freeze in it.
When Tom led her onto the dance floor near the end of the evening, he commented on her subdued behavior. "You are awfully quiet tonight, Deborah."
"Don't you find my silence refreshing?" The caustic challenge was out before she could stop it.
Automatically his gaze shifted to Zane Wilding seated at the table. He didn't need to be told who had prompted that remark.
"I'm sorry, Tom," Deborah apologized stiffly. "I had no reason to snap at you."
"But you'
ve been snapping at him," he guessed, a smile twitching his mouth.
"He was complaining that I wear the same evening clothes all the time. Working eighteen hours a day, seven days a week for him," Deborah exaggerated in anger, "when do I have time to buy anything new? I don't like being unfairly criticized and I told him so." An astute pair of brown eyes flicked to the dark copper sheen of her hair. Deborah noticed it and simmered. "Don't go blaming the sharpness of my tongue on red hair. My sister has fiery red hair and she's as timid as a church mouse. I've always been independent and outspoken."
"I didn't say a word." Tom drew his head back in mock defense.
It was just the right attitude to cool her seething temper. "I snapped again, didn't I?" she smiled ruefully and sighed.
"Don't worry about it." He dismissed her need to apologize. His calmness in the face of her stormy resentment toward their mutual employer had a stabilizing effect and brought an end to her silent, bristling attitude.
It took the acrid taste out of the evening, letting it end on a peaceful note. But it was part of Tom's job to smooth the feathers his boss might have ruffled. Deborah had realized that a long time ago.
BECAUSE OF THE LATE FLIGHT back To Connecticut, Deborah wasn't required to come into the office until ten the next morning. Passing through the outer office, she tossed a "good morning" to the efficient, prim secretary guarding the door to the private domain of her employer. Zane Wilding was on the telephone when she walked in. Her gaze took note of the fact as she continued toward her desk.
Cupping a hand over the mouthpiece, he glanced at her. "What are your measurements, Miss Holland?"
The question stopped her dead. "I—beg your pardon?" The phrase tumbled out in an astonished breath.
"Your measurements, what are they?" he repeated curtly.
Deborah stiffened. "I don't see that it's any of your business."
His mouth thinned into an even harder line. Removing his hand, he spoke into the phone. "Hold the line, please." He punched the red hold button and lifted his head to regard her with icy-blue indifference. "I'm having some evening clothes sent to your apartment to supplement your wardrobe. I could guess at your size, but it would be much simpler if you gave me your measurements, your height and your weight."
His sweeping gaze mentally stripped away her loose-fitting blouse and her side-split skirt of khaki, and assessed the flesh-and-bone contours of her figure. Self-consciousness flamed her skin at his thorough inspection. Despite the analytical quality of his look, his inherent virility gave it overtones of sexual interest.
"It isn't necessary for you to arrange anything," Deborah refused his offer. "I'll take care of my wardrobe myself."
"As you pointed out, both your time and your money are limited," he replied with a scant effort at patience. "Since it's unlikely that you will ever have a personal need for an extensive array of evening dresses, and since I have required that you obtain one to fulfill your position, it's reasonable that I should furnish you with the additional clothes. I am merely furnishing an employee with a uniform that I deem necessary. Is that clear?"
"Perfectly," she agreed rigidly.
"Then please oblige me by giving your vital statistics." It was an order, a demand, but not a request.
Struggling to keep her poise, Deborah responded. "I'm five foot seven, 125 pounds, with measurements of 35-25-36."
Without a flicker of an eye, Zane Wilding repeated the numbers over the telephone and added, "She has dark auburn hair and gray eyes. I'll trust you to make the appropriate choices, including accessories, if any of them prove unsatisfactory, they will be returned. Send the bill to my attention." When the conversation was ended, he hung up the receiver. Deborah was still standing in the center of the room. His gaze skimmed her face briefly. "You are looking pale, Miss Holland. You need some sun."
Her temper simmered as she realized his criticism of her appearance wasn't over yet. "When would you suggest I do that, Mr. Wilding, when I spend every daylight hour inside these four walls?" Her question was deliberately sarcastic.
But he was unscathed by her sharpness. "Try a sunlamp then." He began shifting through the paper's stacked in front of him to resume his morning reading of a half dozen of the leading newspapers across the country.
"Is that what you do?" Her glittering gray eyes took in the sun-bronzed features so vital and disgustingly healthy in their color.
"I have in the past," he admitted, giving her a considering look. "However, if you want access to the pool facilities I make use of during the lunch hour, you have only to ask. The exercise would probably do you good with as much sitting around as you do."
At that moment, Deborah fervently wished they were at the swimming pool so she could have the pleasure of pushing him in. Instead, she kept a rein on her temper and walked to her desk without responding to his suggestion. The problem was he was so often absolutely right in his judgments and solutions that it infuriated Deborah.
IT WAS DARK by the time she left the office that day and drove to her apartment. Dress boxes were stacked on her teal blue carpet, bearing the scrolled name of a well-known fashion shop in the city. Deborah stared at them resentfully for a minute, then kicked off her shoes and began opening them.
By the time she had finished, mounds of protective tissue paper were piled on the floor and an array of evening gowns and cocktail dresses adorned the sofa. The understated simplicity of the clothes emitted a subdued elegance that made them reek of money. All the colors were designed to complement her unusual combination of auburn hair and gray eyes. The accessories ran the range from designer shoes to scarves and evening shawls.
Deborah could find fault with only one choice. A scarlet cocktail dress with threads of silver would make too flamboyant a combination with her red hair. That she set aside to be returned to the store. After trying on three and discovering they were a perfect fit, she didn't bother with the other dozen that remained.
Her clothes closet hadn't been filled before. Now she found herself taking things out to make room for the expensive gowns. The task meant rearranging and cleaning out all the drawers of her bedroom bureau in order to find a place to put the clothes she had taken out of the closet. It was nearly midnight before her apartment was restored to some semblance of order and she was able to tumble into her bed and fall into an exhausted sleep.
As usual, when she arrived at the office early the next morning, Zane Wilding was already there. Deborah informed him that the evening dresses had been delivered and that she was returning one as unsatisfactory to her needs, but she didn't thank him for his generosity in the number or costliness of them. She argued with herself that to feel gratitude was wrong. After all, he had been the one who was dissatisfied with her appearance.
The following week there was another late-evening business dinner that she was required to attend. Deborah wore one of the new gowns, a simple yet sophisticated design fashioned in silver lamé. It was highly complimentary to her coloring. Tom Brookshire was quick to tell her how attractive she looked, but there wasn't a single remark from Zane Wilding about her appearance. If it hadn't been for a cursory, sweeping glance from those arctic-blue eyes, Deborah might have thought he hadn't noticed the new dress. It was an effort to smother her irritation with him, but she eventually succeeded and concentrated on taking mental notes of the conversation that ensued.
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Chapter Four
DEBORAH WASN'T SURE what had wakened her, but it hadn't been the buzz of the alarm clock on the bedside table. She stretched lazily and yawned before glancing at the clock's face. Half-past seven it read, and she jumped out of bed in panic, grabbing for the clock. The stem of the alarm hadn't been completely pulled out so the buzzer hadn't gone off.
"Damn, damn, damn," she swore softly as she raced for the bathroom.
Some inner sense had warned her subconscious of the lateness of the hour and wakened her. But she wouldn't have time for any breakfast, not even a cup
of instant coffee. She had under thirty minutes to dress and drive to the office, a combination that usually took an hour.
Swiping a brush over her teeth, Deborah promised them a better cleaning that night. She slapped on some lipstick and ran a brush through her hair. There wasn't time to style it in its efficient bun so she let its waving curls tumble around her shoulders. Pulling a shapeless, ocher-colored dress over her head, she grabbed a belt from the closet and a pair of shoes. As she hurried out her apartment door, she was fastening the belt while juggling her purse, shoes, and the amended report for the business meeting scheduled promptly for nine that morning.
The traffic that September day was heavy. Usually she left early enough to miss the rush, but this time she was caught in the middle of people on their way to work and parents driving their children to school. The frustration of having to poke along when every part of her screamed to hurry worked on her nerves. Her fingers drummed on the steering wheel.
The traffic light at the intersection just ahead of her changed to yellow. Deborah considered trying to speed through the caution light before it changed to red, but it was a school crossing so she stopped. It was an interminable wait for the green light. Her gaze kept darting impatiently to the light meant for the crossing traffic. Finally it turned to yellow, which meant only a matter of seconds before her lane of traffic would be receiving the green.
Anticipating the light change, Deborah shifted her bare foot from the brake to the accelerator to get a head start on the traffic around her. The light had just changed as the nose of her small car poked itself into the intersection. She didn't see the car that raced to beat the light. She wasn't aware of any danger until she heard the squeal of car brakes and a blaring horn.
Pure instinct made her wrench the steering wheel to angle away from the sound. As the other car skidded sideways into her door, she raised an arm to ward off the shattering glass of her car window. The impact hurtled her sideways to the passenger seat where her shoes, purse and the report lay. Her car seemed to make a slow spin before coming to a rocking stop in the intersection.
