An Indecent Proposal

by Sandra Marton

  According to the thumbnail sketch Bayliss had provided, A.H. Gordon had spent the last fifteen years of her life in New England. She was a teacher at some fancy girls’ school.

  Lord. It was a prescription for disaster. Cade could imagine what she was like, a fortyish spinster in tweed, wearing sensible oxfords and wire-rimmed glasses, dishing out orders in a snooty boarding-school accent to a bunch of men who were probably still trying to figure out if old A.H. was male, female or something uncomfortably in between.

  Cade hunched over the report again. The more he read, the more he felt like groaning.

  It wasn’t bad enough she’d lived and taught back East. She’d also taken her degree there, at a college for women. Cade almost laughed. An Eastern college for women was definitely the place to get your education, if you wanted to find out how to deal with a Texas oil crew.

  As for what she’d studied—he did laugh, this time.

  A.H. Gordon had not one but two degrees, one in business administration and one in psychology.

  Either was about as useful in the oil business as teats on a bull.

  The business degree might sound good, but Cade had taken a few business courses back in the days when he’d been studying petroleum geology. He could still remember the serious, bearded profs in their tweed jackets with the leather elbow patches, spouting facts and figures to prove that the way to get the most out of your workers was to make them feel a part of the process.

  Maybe it worked in a Toyota factory, or on Madison Avenue. But out in an oil field, the way to get the most out of your men was to prove that you were one of them, that you could sweat and strain and wrestle heavy, dangerous equipment the same way they could.

  That left A.H. Gordon out.

  As for psychology—Cade had taken some of those courses, too, not out of choice, God knew, but because they’d been part of the university’s degree requirements.

  If A.H. Gordon believed in her subject, then she believed, too, that it was important to worry about everybody’s childhood traumas, egos and self-worth.

  It was a technique that might work with kids. But if you had to ride herd on a bunch of tough-talking roughnecks, it was doomed to failure.

  Cade sighed and settled back in the chair. He stretched out his legs, crossed them at the ankles and scanned the report again, just to make sure he’d gotten the salient facts. Then he slapped it down on the table beside him and laced his fingers together, steepling them below his chin, tapping the tips of his index fingers against his mouth.

  A.H., he mused, A.H. Was A for Anne? Alice? Agnes? Cade grinned. Oh, yes, he thought, Agnes. Definitely.

  And the H. What was that for? Helen? No, he didn’t think so. Harriet? Hannah? Henrietta? Yeah, that was it. Hank Gordon’s daughter had been named for her father.

  Agnes Henrietta Gordon. That was the woman’s name. He could feel it in his bones.

  To think he’d expected to spend two whole days sorting things out in Dallas. An hour right here had done the job. All he needed to do was remove A.H. Gordon from the top spot at Gordon Oil and replace her with someone who could handle the job.

  He would do it tactfully, if he could. But if he couldn’t…

  He reached for the telephone, ran his finger down the list of numbers programmed into it, found the one he wanted and hit the button. Minutes later, he was ticketed on the next flight to Dallas. Then he trotted up the stairs to his room and tugged his leather carryon from the wardrobe closet.

  He felt a twinge of regret for A.H. Gordon. The job heading up Gordon Oil must have fallen on her shoulders after her father’s death. By now, she was probably close to panic, lost and alone in a man’s world. In fact, she was probably eager to step aside. She just didn’t know how to do it gracefully—but he’d show her.

  Cade pulled open the bureau drawers and began tossing shirts and undershorts into the carryon. And if, by some remote possibility, she wasn’t quite ready to relinquish control of the company, he’d just have to be brutally frank.

  “A.H.,” he’d say, clapping her on her overstuffed, tweedy back, “you’re not helping Gordon Oil reach its full potential.”

  Cade grinned as he strode into the connecting bathroom and gathered his toiletries. A psych major ought to appreciate that approach. Then he’d appoint someone to take her place—one of his own men, perhaps, or someone whose ability caught his eye at Gordon’s—and climb on the first plane leaving Dallas for London.

  Or maybe he’d go to England the long way, with a stopover in Dumai first, where that beautiful, giftwrapped package still waited for him. He smiled as he conjured up an image of heavily lashed eyes, a soft mouth and a lush body.

  What had her name been? Leilia. A sexy name for a sexy woman, one who was as lovely as she was eager to come to sweet, exciting life in a man’s arms.

  He wondered what such a woman would make of an A.H. Gordon.

  It might be simpler to convince a poodle and a fox terrier that they were related, he thought, and chuckled.

  Whistling softly between his teeth, he zipped the carryon shut, stepped briskly into the hall and shut the bedroom door after him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ANGELICA Gordon was not a happy woman.

  She had creditors breathing down her neck, a drilling crew threatening to strike and so many bills to pay that she’d given up looking at her morning mail.

  Even worse, she had a meeting in two hours with a hatchet man for Landon Enterprises.

  No, she thought as she yanked a black linen dress from her wardrobe closet and eyed it critically, no, she was not happy at all.

  Angelica frowned, held the dress under her chin and glared at herself in the mirror.

  The idea was to look like an executive, not the chief mourner at a funeral. She tossed the dress on the bed, where it joined a small but growing pile of discards.

  Why hadn’t they given her more warning? It was unconscionable, announcing a visit only hours in advance. Suppose she’d had a conflicting appointment that couldn’t be canceled?

  Angelica blew an errant copper curl off her forehead. That was probably the whole point of doing it this way, she thought grimly. The fax Emily had read her over the phone spoke of “urgent business,” but anyone who knew anything about business strategy would realize that the only business that was urgent was reminding her that Landon Enterprises could make her jump through hoops any time it wanted.

  Not that she needed reminding. Landon owned her, lock, stock and barrel. They had the right to do virtually anything they chose—and she suspected that what they chose was to remove her as head of Gordon Oil.

  Well, she wasn’t going to make it easy for them. She’d tried her hardest to make this work. Surely, they’d understand….

  Angelica groaned softly and sat down on the edge of the bed. The only thing Landon would understand was Gordon’s downward spiral.

  Maybe her friends back east had been right all along.

  Jack Brenner, who taught mathematics at Miss Palmer’s and with whom she’d shared an occasional meal or movie, had been blunt.

  “You’re not superwoman! Just because your father left you a run-down business doesn’t mean you have to give up your life to go save it.”

  Angelica had tried to explain that Gordon Oil would be a challenge.

  “It’s a chance to really use my skills,” she’d said.

  “You’re using them,” Jack had insisted, “as careers adviser at the academy. You’re good at your job, and you like it.”

  “I do like it—but this field wasn’t my first choice. I have a degree in business, too, remember? I always wanted a career at Gordon Oil. I’ve got ideas for its growth, and plans—”

  “What about living in Texas? How are you going to handle that?”

  Angelica had smiled. “Texas is part of the United States, Jack.”

  “But you’ve lived here most of your life.”

  “Yes, almost fifteen years. I moved here with my mother after my parents divo
rced—but where I’ve lived isn’t the point! Don’t you see? My father left me his company—”

  “Right,” Jack had said grimly. “He left it to you. He didn’t say anything about wanting you to run it.”

  That was true, but it only made the need to prove herself as director of Gordon Oil more appealing. Angelica had quit Miss Palmer’s, packed her things and moved back to the city where she’d been born.

  Within weeks, she suspected she’d made a mistake.

  The oil business seemed to be run by Hank Gordon clones. Men were men, women were second-class citizens—and old Hank had been an asshole to have left his company to his daughter.

  Except it turned out Hank hadn’t really done that at all. Her father’s will had been as disorganized as his books. Within weeks of arriving in Dallas, Angelica had learned he’d actually sold the company to the enormous Landon conglomerate a couple of months before his death.

  But Landon’s hadn’t so much as contacted her. After a while, Angelica started to feel as if the company really was hers. She’d settled in at the tiny office, traveled out to the scattered drilling sites…

  And found disaster. Hank Gordon had known how to find oil but not how to run a business. He’d still been using management policies that dated to the days when Texas was part of the wild West!

  With a weary sigh, Angelica got to her feet, made her way to the bathroom and stepped into the shower. A few weeks ago, she’d dutifully mailed a quarterly report to Landon’s main office. It showed that Gordon’s debts had grown larger, its income smaller, its work crews less productive, and all since she’d taken over.

  Angelica shut off the water, stepped onto the bath mat and toweled herself dry. Not that it was her fault. Change was never easy, especially when you were dealing with a bunch of men who thought the world had been a better place when wagon trains were still rolling across the plains.

  She had to make the Landon rep understand what had happened here, that she’d been defeated not by her lack of ability but by the enormity of the job that needed doing. After all, this man would speak her language. He’d understand flow charts and team leadership and employee-generated goals, all the things that were needed to make a success of Gordon Oil.

  Her spirits lifted. She leaned forward and wiped the foggy mirror with the heel of her hand. Her face peered back at her, a pale oval pierced by wide-spaced green eyes.

  “Approach this meeting positively,” she said crisply, “and it will be a success!”

  Quickly, she blew her hair dry, determinedly ignoring the curling tendrils that sprang up as quickly as she brushed them flat. Her hair was impossible, both in color and texture. She’d tried everything to tame it over the years, from shearing it off with a pair of scissors when she was twelve to dyeing it a shade euphemistically called Mahogany Glory her freshman year at college.

  Nothing worked. Cutting it short only meant she couldn’t subdue the curls with barrettes or clips, and darkening the color had made the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her small, straight nose seem to leap off her face.

  Angelica’s spirits dipped just a little. This was not the hair of an efficient executive, she thought, staring at her reflection. Already, bright copper curls were springing up around her face and falling in a wild tumble over her shoulders.

  How could a woman with two degrees, a serious nature and the responsibility of running a company have been given hair like this?

  With a sigh, she scooped the curls from her face and secured them at the nape of her neck with a coated rubber band. Then, head high, she marched into the bedroom.

  What did her hair matter? She had a presentation to make to the man from Landon’s, one that would convince him to give her more time to drag Gordon Oil into the modern world, she was sure of it.

  Almost sure, she amended, and sighed.

  She stepped into a brown wool skirt, slipped on a white blouse, buttoned it to the Peter Pan collar and topped it with an oatmeal tweed jacket. She hesitated only over the shoes. She was tall for a woman, five foot eight in her stocking feet. Even in her sensible pumps, she might end up taller than her visitor.

  Would he find that intimidating?

  She’d wear flats and play it safe. The last thing she wanted to do was get on the Landon rep’s bad side.

  At last, she turned and looked at herself in the mirror.

  Efficient, she thought, nodding her head. Very efficient.

  Angelica glanced at the clock, rolled her eyes and snatched her briefcase from the top of the bureau. She hurried through the little house that had been her father’s, out the front door to her small, late-model sedan parked at the curb.

  A gentle breeze played at her hair, helping to ease the wisps of copper that were already bouncing lightly against her forehead and cheeks. Unconsciously, she stuck out her bottom lip and blew the stray curls back.

  “OK, Landon Enterprises,” she said as she got behind the wheel, “I’m ready!”

  So armed, Angelica Gordon carefully checked both her side and rearview mirrors, flicked on her signal light and pulled out into the street.

  * * *

  At noon, Angelica cleared her desk and gave strict instructions to Emily, her secretary and all-purpose gofer. The representative was due in an hour. Emily was to greet him, seat him in the one nonrickety chair in the waiting room, then immediately inform Angelica of his arrival.

  “Then bring us some coffee, please, Emily, if you don’t mind. I know I normally get my own—you know how I feel about equality in the workplace, but—”

  “It’s not a problem, A.H.”

  “Thank you. And, oh—be sure and hold all my calls.”

  By two, Angelica was pacing her tiny office, wearing furrows in the already threadbare carpet.

  At two-thirty, she stepped into the anteroom and looked at Emily.

  “Are you sure the fax said he would be here at one?”

  Emily shrugged. “That’s what it said, all right. It took two tries for it to come through—the phone company cut off service in the middle but I went out to the booth on the corner, called the business office and explained—”

  “—that their check was in the mail,” Angelica said impatiently. “But the fax was specific, is that correct? We did get a message saying he was coming in today on the flight from Denver?”

  “Uh-huh. And before you ask, I already checked with the airport. The flight came in on time.”

  Angelica’s green eyes narrowed just a little. “Did it?”

  “Maybe his taxi’s stuck in traffic.”

  And maybe she was being taught her place in the scheme of things, Angelica thought, but she forced the idea out of her mind.

  It was important to greet the man in a positive frame of mind.

  “You’re right,” she said. “Traffic from the airport can be awful. We’ll just wait.”

  There was no sense in wasting even more of the day than she already had. With a sigh, she opened the bottom drawer of her desk, took out the letters, bills and odds and ends she’d dumped into it and spread them across her blotter.

  Maybe if she kept busy working, time would pass more quickly. She could clear the desk again easily enough once Emily announced her visitor’s arrival.

  At three, Angelica shoved back her chair. So much for being treated with dignity—and so much for hoping Landon Enterprises would agree to give her more time to prove herself. She was going to be fired, that was obvious, but first she was going to have a ration of crow shoved down her throat.

  She stood up and marched to the door.

  “When the gentleman finally arrives,” she told Emily in clipped tones, “tell him I’m busy. Sit him down, hand him today’s paper and let him wait ten or fifteen minutes before you ring me.”

  Emily’s brows lifted. “You sure you want me to do that?”

  “It’s a simple reverse power play, Emily. The man is establishing his dominance, so I’ll have to make it clear that I don’t see myself in a subordinat
e role.” Her smile was tight. “It’s not a problem, I assure you.”

  At four, Angelica stabbed the button on her intercom, folded her hands on her desk blotter and waited.

  Emily came hurrying into the office. “A.H.,” she said, “I was just going to—”

  “I know it’s pointless to let myself get angry,” Angelica said, very, very calmly, “especially since I know he may be doing this to try and unnerve me, but—”

  “A.H., listen-”

  “—but,” Angelica said, shoving back her chair and rising to her feet, “who in hell does this human hatchet think he is?”

  “Oh, A.H., please, don’t say such things. You—”

  “I know. I know.” Angelica took a deep breath and looked at the ceiling. “I should not let this upset me. I should consider what his motives might be.” Her eyes snapped to Emily’s. “How dare he?” she asked. “Of course, I’m not surprised. Anyone who would work for an outfit like Landon’s can’t care too much about decency or morality. Those people are sharks, Emily, they’re hyenas who smell blood and come hurrying in for the kill.”

  Emily groaned softly. “ A. H.—”

  “If and when the weasel gets here, tell him I got tired of waiting and I’ve left for the day.”

  “No! A.H.-”

  “I know you think I ought to wait for the man, Emily, but it’s important I not let those people get away with this. If they think I’m going to let them intimidate me—”

  “I can’t imagine that anyone could do that, Miss Gordon,” a deep voice said.

  Angelica spun around. There was a man in the doorway. He had a square jaw, a dimpled chin and a nose that was just enough off-center to give his incredibly handsome face interest. He was tall, broadshouldered, impeccably dressed in a pale gray suit, white shirt and blue and red striped tie—a picture of customtailored elegance, forever spoiled by the mirror-bright black boots peeping out from under his trouser cuffs.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said coldly. “This is a private office. If you have business here—”

  “Just what, pray tell, is a human hatchet, Miss Gordon?” A smile so arrogant it bordered on insult tilted the corner of his mouth. “It’s an interesting description but I’m afraid I can’t quite get the image.”