by Nora Roberts
“You have to see the whole picture, understand the frustrations, the ambitions . . . well, the dreams, Katie. Linc always felt he was overshadowed, outclassed by the Templeton branch of the family. No matter what he did, how hard he tried, he could never measure up. That was a hard pill for a man like him to swallow.”
“Just what kind of a man was he that he would be so envious of someone else’s success?”
“It wasn’t like that, exactly.” Obviously uncomfortable, Tydings shifted in his seat. “Linc had a powerful need to succeed, to be the best.”
“Yes.” She struggled against a shudder. Tydings might have been describing the daughter rather than the father. “I understand that.”
“He just felt that if he could catch a break, just one break, he could build on it. Make something. He had the potential, the brains. He was a smart, hardworking man. A good friend. With a weakness for wanting more than he had. He wanted the best for you.”
Tydings’s smile spread again. “I remember the day you were born, Katie, how he stood there looking at you through the glass and making all these big plans for you. He wanted to give you everything, and it was hard for him to always settle for less.”
She hadn’t needed everything, Kate thought later when she sat alone at the table. She had only needed parents who loved her and loved each other. Now she would have to live knowing that what her father had loved most was his own ambition.
“Something wrong with your lunch?”
She glanced over, and the hand she had pressed protectively against her stomach fisted as Byron slid into the chair that Tydings had vacated. “Are you on dining room detail? I thought the brass stayed up in the lofty regions of the penthouse.”
“Oh, we mingle with the lower floors occasionally.” He signaled to a waitress. He’d been watching Kate for ten minutes. She had sat completely still, staring out of the window, her meal untouched, her eyes dark and miserable. “The chicken bisque,” he ordered. “Two.”
“I don’t want anything.”
“I hate to eat alone,” he said smoothly, as the waitress cleared the dishes. “You can always play with it like you did your salad. If you’re not feeling well, the bisque should perk you up.”
“I’m fine. I had a business lunch.” Under the table she pleated her napkin in her lap. She wasn’t ready to get up, wasn’t sure her legs were strong enough. “Who eats at business lunches?”
“Everyone.” Leaning forward, he poured two glasses of mineral water. “You look unhappy.”
“I have a client with an imbalance of passive income. That always makes me unhappy. What do you want, De Witt?”
“A bowl of soup, a little conversation. You know, I developed this hobby of conversation as a child. I’ve never been able to break it. Thank you, Lorna,” he said when the waitress set a basket of warm rolls between them. “I’ve noticed that you often have a bit of trouble in that area. I’d be happy to help you, as I’m sort of a buff.”
“I don’t like small talk.”
“There you are. I do.” He held out a roll he’d broken apart and buttered. “In fact, I’m interested in all manner of talk. Large, small, meaningless, profound. Why don’t we start this particular session with me telling you that I’ve got an appointment to view that house you recommended.”
“Good for you.” Since the bread was in her hand now, she nibbled.
“The realtor speaks highly of you.” When Kate only grunted, then scowled down at the bowl of soup that was slipped under her nose, Byron smothered a grin. Damned if she wasn’t too much of a challenge to resist. “I may just solicit your services myself, as I’ll be staying in Monterey. Hardly practical to keep my accountant back in Georgia.”
“It’s not necessary to have an accountant in the same location. If you’re satisfied with his or her work, there’s no need to change.”
“That’s the way to drum up business, kid. I also have a habit of eating,” he continued. “If you need help along those lines, I can tell you that you start by dipping your spoon into the soup.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Think of it as medicine. It might put some color back in your cheeks. You not only look unhappy, Kate, you look tired, beaten down, and closing in on ill.”
Hoping it would shut him up, she spooned up some soup. “Boy, now I’m all perked up. It’s a miracle.”
When he only smiled at her, she sighed. Why did he have to sit there, acting so damn nice and making her feel like sludge?
“I’m sorry. I’m lousy company.”
“Was your business meeting difficult?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.” Because it was soothing, she sampled the bisque again. “I’ll deal with it.”
“Why don’t you tell me what you do when you’re not dealing with difficult business problems?”
The headache at the edges of her consciousness wasn’t backing off, but it wasn’t creeping closer. “I deal with simple business problems.”
“And when you’re not dealing with business?”
She studied him narrowly, the mild, polite eyes, the easy smile. “You are coming on to me.”
“No, I’m considering coming on to you, which is entirely different. That’s why we’re having a basic conversation over a bowl of soup.” His smile widened, flirted. “It also gives you equal opportunity to consider whether or not you’d like to come on to me.”
Her lips twitched before she could stop them. “I do appreciate a man who believes in gender equality.” She also had to appreciate that for a few minutes he’d taken her mind off her troubles. That he knew it, yet didn’t push the point.
“I think I’m beginning to like you, Kate. You are, I believe, an acquired taste, and I’ve always enjoyed odd flavors.”
“That’s quite a statement. My heart’s going pitty-pat.”
He laughed, a quick, full-throated, masculine sound that appealed, however much she would have preferred otherwise.
“Yeah, it’s definite. I like you. Why don’t we expand this conversation thing over a full meal? Say, dinner. Tonight?”
She was tempted to agree, for the simple reason that being around him made her think about something other than herself. But . . . She set her napkin beside her bowl. She thought it would be best to err on the side of caution with a man like Byron De Witt. “I don’t want to form habits too quickly. I have to get back to the office.”
She rose, amused when he automatically got to his feet. Gender equality or not, she decided, he was southern gentleman through and through. “Thanks for the soup.”
“You’re welcome.” He took her hand, held it lightly and enjoyed the faint line that popped up between her brows. “Thanks for the conversation. We will have to do it again.”
“Hmm,” was her best response as she slid the strap of her briefcase over her shoulder and walked away.
He watched her go and wondered what problem, business or otherwise, had made her look so devastated. And so alone.
The rumor mill was working overtime at Bittle and Associates. Every tiny, underripe fruit plucked from the grapevine was chewed lavishly at the water cooler, the copy room, the storage closet.
Larry Bittle and his sons, Lawrence Junior and Martin—just call me Marty—continued their closed-door meetings with the other partners every morning. Copies of accounts were delivered to the group by Bittle Senior’s tight-lipped, sharp-eyed executive assistant regularly.
If she knew anything, went the wisdom of the water cooler, she wasn’t saying.
“They’re working their way through every account,” Roger told Kate. He’d hunted her down in the stockroom when she went to replenish her supply of computer paper. “Marcie in Accounts Receivable said they’re even going over internal ledgers. And Beth, the Dragon Lady’s assistant, says they’ve been on the hot line with the lawyers.”
Lips pursed, Kate grabbed a handful of Ticonderoga number 2’s. “Are all your sources female?”
He grinned. “No, but Mike in the
mail room is coming up dry. What’s your take?”
“Gotta figure internal audit.”
“Yeah, that’s mine. But here’s the question, Kate. Why?”
In truth, that very question had been on her mind for days. She considered. Smart, ambitious, ruthless people had the best gossip. Since Roger fit all the requirements, she decided to share her thoughts in hopes of priming his pump.
“Okay, we’ve had a couple of really good years. In the past five we’ve increased our client base by fifteen percent. Bittle’s growing, so I’m thinking expansion, maybe a new branch. They’d put Lawrence in charge, add more associates, and give some of us the option of relocating. A big step like that would take a lot of thought and planning, and the partners would want to focus hard on the bottom line.”
“Could be. There’s been noises before about opening in the L.A. area, snagging more media accounts. But I’ve been hearing other grumblings, too.” He leaned closer, lowered his voice, and his eyes were bright with excitement. “Larry’s been thinking about passing the torch. Retiring.”
“Why would he?” Kate whispered in response. They sounded like conspirators. “He’s only sixty.”
“Sixty-two.” Roger glanced over his shoulder. “And you know how his wife likes those cruises. She’s always bugging him to take one to Europe, around the Med, that sort of thing.”
“How do you know that?”
“Beth. Assistant to the assistant. She got brochures for the old man. The Bittles’ fortieth anniversary is coming up this year. If he retires early, there’s going to be a partnership slot up for grabs.”
“A new partner.” It made sense. Perfect sense. All the meetings, the account checks. The current partners would have to weigh and judge, debate and discuss who would be most qualified to move up. She barely stopped herself from dancing a jig. She had to remember who it was she was talking to. Roger was her toughest competitor.
“Maybe.” She shrugged, though inside, glee was spreading like a lovely pink balloon. “But I don’t see Larry sailing off into the sunset yet. No matter how much his wife nags him.”
“We’ll see.” Roger kept a sly smile on his face. “But something’s going to happen, and it’s going to happen soon.”
Kate walked sedately back to her office, closed the door, put her supplies neatly away. Then she danced her jig.
She didn’t want to get ahead of herself, didn’t want to start projecting. The hell she didn’t. Dropping into her chair, she spun herself around once, twice, and a giddy third time.
She had an MBA from Harvard, had graduated in the top ten percent of her class. In the five years she’d worked for Bittle, she had brought in twelve new accounts through client recommendations. And had lost only one. To that jerk Roger.
But even that hadn’t gone out of house. She personally generated over two hundred thousand a year in billing. So did Roger, she admitted. She kept an eye on him. But when Marty had awarded her a raise last year, he’d told her she was considered the cream of Bittle’s associates. Larry Bittle called her by her first name, and his wife and daughters-in-law had been known to drop by Pretenses to shop.
A partnership. At twenty-eight, she would be the youngest partner ever at Bittle. She would have exceeded by years her own rigid expectations of herself.
And wouldn’t it, in some way, erase this taint she felt? This secret she had buried inside. If she was a success, it would overshadow all the rest.
She allowed herself to dream about it—the new office, the new salary, the new prestige. She would be consulted on policy, her opinion would be weighed and respected. Giggling, she leaned back in the chair and spun again. She would have a private secretary.
She would have everything she’d ever wanted.
Kate imagined picking up the phone, calling the Templetons in Cannes. They’d be so happy for her, so proud of her. Finally, she would be able to believe that everything they’d done for her was deserved.
She’d have a celebration with Margo and Laura. Oh, that would be sweet. At long last Kate Powell had come into her own, had done something important and solid. Years and years of work and study, of aching shoulders, tired eyes, and a burning stomach would have paid off.
All she had to do was wait.
Forcing herself to push the dream to the back of her mind, she swiveled to her computer and got to work.
She hummed as she ran figures, calculated expenditures, logged tax deductions, clucked over capital gains, and figured depreciation. As usual, she tuned in to the work and lost track of time. Kate came up blinking when the beep from her watch told her it was five o’clock.
Another fifteen minutes to close the file, she decided, then glanced up in mild annoyance at the knock on her door. “Yes?”
“Ms. Powell.” Lucinda Newman—or the Dragon Lady, as she was unaffectionately called among the rank and file—stood imposingly in the doorway. “You’re wanted in the main conference room.”
“Oh.” Kate’s heart gave a wild, joyful leap, but she kept her face composed. “Thanks, Ms. Newman. I’ll be right there.”
Well aware that her hands were trembling with anticipation, Kate pressed them together in her lap. She had to be cool and professional. Bittle wasn’t going to offer a partnership to a giddy, giggling woman.
She had to be what she always was, what they expected her to be. Practical, levelheaded. And, oh, she was going to savor the moment, remember every detail. Later, when she was out of sight and earshot, she would scream all the way to Templeton House.
Kate rolled down her sleeves, shrugged into her jacket, and smoothed it into place. She hesitated over taking her briefcase, then decided it only made her look more dedicated to the job.
With measured steps she took the stairs to the next floor, walked past the partners’ offices toward the executive conference room. No one who chanced to see her in the quiet corridor would have realized her feet weren’t touching the tasteful tan carpet. She thumbed an antacid out of the roll in her pocket, knowing it would do little to calm her jittery stomach.
She wondered if a bride on her wedding night could feel any more nervous and thrilled than she did as she raised a hand to knock politely on the thick paneled door.
“Come in.”
She lifted her chin, put a polite smile on her face as she turned the knob. They were all there, and her heart gave another skipping leap. All the partners, the five powers of the firm, were seated around the long, glossy table. Large tumblers of water stood by each place.
She skimmed her gaze over each of them, wanting to remember this moment. Fusty Calvin Meyers with his usual suspenders and red bow tie. Elegant and terrifying Amanda Devin, looking stern and beautiful. Marty, of course, sweet and homely and rumpled. Lawrence Junior, steady, balding, and cool.
And of course, the senior Bittle. She had always thought he looked like Spencer Tracy—that lived-in face, the sweep of white hair, the stocky, powerful little body.
Her pulse bumped, aware that all eyes were on her.
“You wanted to see me?”
“Sit down, Kate.” From his seat at the head of the table, Bittle gestured to one at the foot.
“Yes, sir.”
He cleared his throat as she took her chair, settled. “We thought it best to meet at the end of the workday. You’re aware, I’m sure, that we’ve been involved for the past several days in a check of our accounts.”
“Yes, sir.” She smiled. “Speculation’s been racing down the corridors.” When he didn’t smile back, she felt a nervous tickle at the back of her throat. “It’s hard not to get on the rumor train, sir.”
“Yes.” He let out a breath, folded his hands. “A discrepancy in an income tax payment came to Mr. Bittle Junior’s attention last week.”
“A discrepancy?” Her gaze shifted to Lawrence.
“In the Sunstream account,” he clarified.
“That’s one of mine.” The nervous tickle at the back of her throat changed to a nervous dread in her st
omach. Had she made some sort of stupid error in the chaos of the tax crunch? “What kind of discrepancy?”
“The client’s copy of the tax form indicates a federal payment due of seven thousand six hundred and forty-eight dollars.” Lawrence opened a file, took out a thick stack of papers. “Is this your work, Ms. Powell?”
He was the only Bittle who called her Ms. Powell. Everyone in the firm was accustomed to his formality. But it was the clipped manner of his speech that put her on alert. Carefully she took out her glasses and slipped them on as the papers were passed down to her.
“Yes,” she said after a quick glance. “It’s my account, I did the tax work. This is my signature.”
“And as with several of our clients, the firm cuts the checks for tax payments for this one.”
“Some prefer it.” She dropped her hands into her lap. “It distances them, a bit, from the sting. And it’s more convenient.”
“Convenient,” Amanda commented and drew Kate’s eye. “For whom?”
This was trouble, was all Kate could think. But from what and where? “Many clients prefer to come into the office, discuss the tax situation and the results—argue and vent.” They all knew this, she thought, scanning the table again. Why did she have to explain? “The client will sign the necessary forms and the account exec will issue the check out of escrow.”
“Ms. Powell.” Lawrence took another stack of papers from his file. “Can you explain this?”
As smoothly as possible, Kate wiped her damp palms on her skirt, then studied the forms passed to her. Her mind went momentarily blank. She blinked, focused, swallowed hard.
“I’m not sure I understand. This is another copy of the 1040 filed for Sunstream, but the tax due amount is different.”
“Twenty-two hundred dollars less,” Amanda pointed out. “This is the form and the payment made on April fifteenth of this year to the IRS. The check drawn out of escrow was for this amount.”
“I don’t understand when or how the other copy was generated,” Kate began. “All work sheets are filed, of course, but any excess forms are shredded.”
