Chances Are

by Red Rose Publishing

  Chances Are

  By

  LaVerne Thompson

  Dedication & Acknowledgements

  This is for Barbara, who when she lost her job, put the idea for this story in my head. I hope everything is fine now for you. I also need to thank my crit partners and their red lines for sending me in the right direction. You know who you are. And I have to thank my fabulous editor, Lara Parker, couldn't do this without you. There are also others (you also know who you are) that I have to thank for clarifying banking and computer security systems for me. Fabrications of the banking and security industries are my own and made to stay within the storyline.

  I collect names to use in my stories from everywhere. In this instance, my hero's first name was actually a combination of names. But imagine my surprise when I got an email awhile back from someone actually named Talbert Reynolds. It's a cool name for cool people. I like Kayla's name too.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Chances Are by LaVerne Thompson

  Red Rose™ Publishing

  Publishing with a touch of Class! ™

  The symbol of the Red Rose and Red Rose is a trademark of Red Rose™ Publishing

  Red Rose™ Publishing

  Copyright© 2010 Savannah Chase

  ISBN: 978-1-60435-648-9

  Cover Artist: LaVerne Thompson and Missy Lyons

  Editor: Lara Parker

  Line Editor: Zena Gainer

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. Due to copyright laws you cannot trade, sell or give any ebooks away.

  This is a work of fiction. All references to real places, people, or events are coincidental, and if not coincidental, are used fictitiously. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only.

  Red Rose™ Publishing

  www.redrosepublishing.com

  Forestport, NY 13338

  Thank you for purchasing a book from Red Rose™ Publishing where publishing

  comes with a touch of Class!

  The cover model is Jimmy Thomas.

  www.jimmythomas.com

  www.romancenovelcovers.com

  Chances Are

  By

  LaVerne Thompson

  Chapter One

  The cool air slapped at Kayla, a tall striking woman with short curly sable-colored hair, as she walked out of the bank, her head held high, clutching a large cardboard box. Who would have thought her entire office, her professional life could be reduced to one box? But she'd be damned if after fifteen years of faithful service to this bank, and the last three as the branch manager, she'd allow some pimple faced bozo with a bunch of initials after his name to see her cry. She'd wait until she got to the privacy of her own home to do that.

  Maybe not even then.

  The heavy oak door slammed shut behind her. The self-satisfied sound of Mr. Newington’s nasal voice still ringing in her ears.

  “Ms. Michaels, I’m here to inform you in person, this branch is slated for closure in two weeks. A few of the tellers and staff here will be transferred to other branches with openings; however, there are no openings for your position. We have to lay you off, effective immediately. Your benefits will remain intact for three months, and you will receive in compensation whatever remains of your vacation time for the year, along with one month’s salary. Expect an extraction packet in the mail in a couple of days, detailing everything. I’m going have to ask you to clear out your personal things, and leave the bank as quickly and quietly as possible.”

  Taken aback by his abrupt manner and the short notice, Kayla asked, “What about my assistant manager?”

  “I’ve already notified her that your position has been cut, as well as her own. There is no need for you to worry about anything further. I’m here to effectuate the closing.”

  He wouldn’t even allow her to call the staff together to explain what happened. She barely had time to walk around and say goodbye to everyone. Mr. Newington, from corporate, kept coming out of her old office glancing at his watch as he watched her.

  If he was a sample of the new bank’s owner, she wanted no part of it. She’d never set foot in there again, or any of that bank's branches. First thing tomorrow morning she’d close and transfer her checking, savings and IRA accounts to another bank, and she'd do it all online. The quarter ended at midnight, she wanted every dime of interest. It may not be enough to even be a blip on the bank’s radar screen, but it was her money. She’d worked hard for it. And she could damned well put it anywhere she damned well pleased.

  In a rush to get away from the building she had forgotten she didn’t have her car. She’d gotten a ride into work with her sister. Her car was in the shop, again. She couldn’t even reach her cell phone. It sat in the purse slung over her shoulder, wedged between the box and her side. She’d have to put the box down in the middle of the sidewalk to get to it.

  Besides, she consoled herself, she didn’t really want to call her sister. She’d have to tell her what happened. And she didn’t want to think about any of it yet. There wasn’t anything her sister could do anyway. Nothing anyone could do to return her nice orderly life.

  She turned around to scan the almost empty mid-day autumn street of Old Town Alexandria for a cab; she’d probably have to walk up to the busier main road. Someone bumped into her shoulder—hard. Her box tumbled out of her hands, and her things scattered all over the sidewalk. The jerk who jostled her didn’t even bother to stop and help, he just muttered sorry and ran on.

  “Asshole!” she screamed at his retreating back. After being treated so rudely, boy, it felt good to be able to yell at someone.

  She bent down to pick up her things when a large, pale, long fingered hand moved into her line of vision.

  “Here you go,” a deep masculine voice said, causing her lower abdominal muscles to clench and contract.

  The hand held a very pricey Waterford paperweight in the shape of the Capitol dome, which used to sit on her desk. It had been a gift from her sister last Christmas.

  She reached to take the paperweight away from him, when his fingers brushed against hers. Immediately, she pulled her hand back, dropping the paperweight in the process. Good thing it landed in the box on top of her sweater and not on the brick tiled sidewalk. Her sister would never forgive her if she broke it.

  But who could blame her. Her fingers felt like they had plugged in a lamp with a faulty cord. The electric charge, coursing from her hand up her arm, reminded her of the one she’d gotten when she was eight after doing that very thing. Her gaze followed his masculine hand to a black leather-covered arm, up and up to the most incredible sight she’d ever seen in her life. She blinked twice. Her troubles got shoved to the back of her mind.

  He had dark brown hair. She loved dark hair. It was cut short around the sides but long enough in the front to brush across his forehead. His eyes though, his eyes made the full package. They held her gaze, compelling her not to look away.

  Long dark lashes framed the most beautiful eyes ever granted to a man or woman. To name them dark blue or violet did not accurately describe them. God gave them the most perfect setting by placing them in a face showcasing sharp cheekbones, a nose not too big or too skinny but what romance writers meant when they said aristocratic, and lips just begging to be sucked.

  “Here,
let me help you.” The sound of his voice barely broke the spell she found herself under.

  The stranger continued to pick up the rest of her things on the sidewalk, but his eyes kept returning to hers. She, on the other hand, never took her eyes off him. She just stayed there crouched on the sidewalk next to her box, too stunned to move and too shocked to speak.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. “That guy was a jerk.”

  So saying, the man gently took her arm in one hand and wrapped his other around her box. In one fluid movement, he easily pulled them both up as he rose to his full six-foot-three or so frame, easily overshadowing her five-foot-eight point of reference. The leaves rustled as the wind kicked up, his long buttery soft leather jacket flowed around his ankles and brushed against her stocking-covered leg. You had to love a man who could wear leather like this, and still look like a man not at all confused about his sexual orientation.

  He wore his look well.

  Finally, she found her voice, such as it was. “Tha-Thank you,” she stammered.

  “You’re welcome. Do you need any help carrying this stuff?”

  Her stomach muscles clenched again. “Ahh…no, thank you. I…I just need to catch a cab.” What was wrong with her? She sounded as though she had a speech impediment.

  “No problem.” He released her arm but continued to hold the box as he stepped off the sidewalk, and barely raised his free hand. A cab pulled up in front of him. This guy had some serious cab karma going. If she’d been by herself it would have taken her ten minutes to find one.

  He held the door open, and glanced at her expectantly. Frowning, she looked at him and then into the brown plastic clad interior of the car, understanding finally dawning; she was supposed to get in. She shook her head, stepped into the cab, and he placed the box on the seat next to her.

  “Take this lady…” He looked at her, silently asking her to tell the driver where she wanted to go.

  Never taking her gaze from his, she gave the driver her address, but could not find the right words to say to her helper. She had to say something. For God’s sake she was, or had been a bank manager, more than capable of dealing with the bank’s customers, but “Thanks again,” was the only thing she seemed capable of uttering. What else could she say? “Take me home with you,” didn’t seem appropriate.

  He stood beside the car door as though reluctant to close it. He kept staring at her with those bewitching eyes, as if he too wanted to say more. But like her, he didn’t. He nodded, then said in a voice which conjured up satin sheets, bare bodies and entwined limbs, his and hers, “Anytime.” He shut the door. She twisted around in the seat so she could watch him as he continued to stand on the street, staring at her as she drove away in the cab.

  Tal stood watching the car until it drove out of sight. His gut telling him letting her go without exchanging information, like a name, might have been a mistake. Already late for an important meeting, he couldn’t linger with her. Much as he wanted to. He repeated the address she had given the cab driver to himself. He didn’t want to forget it; he wanted to be able to find her again. At her touch, a shock had slammed into his system like nothing he’d ever experienced before, and from the surprised look in her eyes, she’d felt it too.

  He turned around to walk into the bank behind him. The same bank he’d seen the woman walk out of. When he’d first seen her, he’d paused in his stride, his breath catching in his throat. She was stunning. And when he’d caught a glimpse of those whisky colored eyes, they’d further drawn him to her. He wanted to sink into their depths and never come out.

  She wasn’t beautiful in the runway model sense. Her features were not perfect, rounded instead of sharp, but they captivated, holding him spellbound nonetheless. Dark colored hair, cut in a short curly style, framed a dark bronze complexion. The kind of style a man could run his fingers through while she lay on his pillow, and not have to worry about getting hair in his mouth or in his face. He’d wanted to kiss her button nose, and wondered what her full kissable lips would taste like. While she wasn’t overweight by any stretch of the imagination, she did have something for a man to hold onto in the middle of the night. Well, he knew where all of his thoughts were headed.

  Something, a little flash, made him look down on the sidewalk near the door. A piece of gold lay on the ground. He bent down to pick it up. It was an earring in the shape of a butterfly. The moment he touched it, he knew it belonged to her. Fate might have provided him with an excuse to see her again.

  But business first, Tal put the earring in his coat pocket and entered the building. Even though it was almost noon, he appeared to be the only customer in the bank. Three tellers sat behind a long chest high counter, there should have been a need for six, and a woman at the front desk greeted him good morning. He asked her for the branch manager; he hoped to also find out if the manager knew who the woman was who had just left. She carried a box full of personal office type things, and he wondered if she had been laid off or allowed to resign.

  The corporate bank was going through a complete overhaul because of a merger; it was the reason for his presence. One among many things he needed to discuss with the branch manager. Over the next few weeks, most of the staff would be let go, and this branch in particular shut down. Too many branches existed within a ten-mile radius. The convenience and popularity of online banking made so many mortar and stone buildings unnecessary and too costly to maintain.

  This location had the lowest foot traffic, and would be one of three in this part of Northern Virginia to go. Two others would be downsized and relocated to grocery store locations. The merger would only keep branches open in high foot traffic areas, and retain the best managers on board. At the same time keeping as many of the employees as possible.

  A short wiry younger man, with short cropped hair, in a blue suit approached Tal. “Yes may I help you?”

  “That depends,” Tal responded. “I asked to see the branch manager.”

  “I’m Mr. Newington, acting branch manager.”

  “Ah, Mr. Newington.” Tal recognized the name, but he wasn’t sure what Newington was doing here. “I thought the branch manager for this bank was a woman, a Ms. Michaels.”

  Newington clasped his hands in front of him, raised his neck, stretching his body out to all of his five feet six inches, and attempted to look haughtily up at Tal. Not something he pulled off very well. “Ms. Michaels is no longer with us. Now, how may I help you?”

  Tal frowned. “You can start by telling me why Ms. Michaels is no longer with the bank?”

  The man raised pencil thin eyebrows. “I beg your pardon, but that is certainly none of your business. Now unless you have some business with the bank, I believe I have other things I need to be doing.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. I forgot to introduce myself.” Tal’s hands remained loosely at his sides; he made no attempt to offer the man a handshake. “Normally, the managers usually know who I am. I’ve forgotten you’re still a part of a recent merger, and you and I haven’t met in person, yet. I’m Talbert Reynolds, President of Reynolds Bank. This bank in particular, and did I mention, your boss?”

  Tal watched as the blood drained from Newington’s already chalky face.

  “Not…Mr. Reynolds the third?” Newington stammered.

  “Since last I checked.”

  Newington’s eyes widened, leaning forward he grabbed one of Tal’s hands and began to pump it enthusiastically. “Oh Mr. Reynolds, please accept my sincere apologies.” Smiling now, he said, “I wasn’t expecting you for another two or three weeks.” In the time it took Tal to blink, the man’s demeanor took a hundred-and-eighty-degree turn.

  “Please, follow me back to my office.” Newington ushered Tal past an older woman at a desk situated at the opening of a short, carpeted hallway and into the second office on the left, still bearing Ms. Michaels’ name on the door.

  The office barely had enough room to hold the desk, a credenza behind it and two visitor’s chairs. It appeared to
be empty of any personal items. Even the tellers had a couple of small colorful African violet plants on the counters, and the secretary had photo frames on her desk. The same standard advertising banking pictures out front around the counter adorned the off white office walls. The only thing on the beige, lacquered desk top beside the computer monitor and keyboard was a pen and a sticky pad.

  “I’m so sorry for the misunderstanding,” Newington continued. “I had hoped I’d have more time to get the staff in hand, and make recommendations as to who should be transferred to other branches and who should be let go.”

  “Mr. Newington, I’m sorry but, why are you here exactly?” Tal asked, taking the seat behind the desk, forcing the other man to take a guest chair.

  Tal knew who Newington was, he’d read his file. He was one of the dead weight managers his company had already identified as needed terminating. In fact, he should have received his notice a couple of days ago, but he wanted to hear what the man had to say for himself.

  “I’m the Director of Employee Relations from the former head office. I’ve been assigned to the banks slotted for closure, to make recommendations on employee placement.” Newington beamed as though he were explaining a miracle to a child.

  “Uh-huh. I see.” And Tal did see. This pompous ass was trying to save his own hide by making himself useful to the new owners. He was attempting to create a position for himself in the new company, hoping to save his job by firing others.

  “And what, may I ask, happened to the previous branch manager, Ms. Michaels?”

  “She resigned.”

  “Resigned or was persuaded to leave?”

  Newington’s smile was all white teeth. “Does it matter?”

  “Actually, yes.” Tal was furious at Newington’s presumptions. Sitting back, he kept his face devoid of expression, placing his hands on the arms of the chair so he wouldn’t shake some sense into the smug prick’s head. “She was not one of the people I had slotted for release.”