A Baby to Love

by Susan Kearney

  “Absolutely.” Jeff’s confidence quelled her budding panic. “You may not remember your client or employee names, but work is part of your experience. You’ll be able to draw on your store of knowledge.”

  “That’s good news.”

  He sighed, pushed away his empty plate and placed his elbows on the table, leaning forward. “But I should warn you, if you’re in the decorating business, you may not remember the color of the material you ordered last week.”

  The sinking sensation in her stomach was back again. “I don’t understand.”

  “If you were a doctor, you’d know how to perform the operation, but you wouldn’t necessarily remember the patient or the patient’s illness.”

  She opened the personal directory to the phone numbers. “I suppose that’s why these names mean nothing to me. I didn’t find any relatives listed under Connors.”

  “That doesn’t necessarily mean you don’t have family. The numbers you call often probably aren’t written down.”

  Chelsea cleared the table and put the plates in the dishwasher. “I know. But the list is mostly businesses. I’m beginning to wonder if I have friends. I suppose I’ll find out once I get to work.”

  “Scared?”

  “A little.” For a stranger, Jeff read her well, but even he couldn’t guess the trepidation she faced going to work today. She could come face-to-face with whoever had attempted to stab her with that syringe and she wouldn’t know it.

  As much as she wanted to stay home and hide, she would discover more around people who knew her. Deciding that amnesia made her vulnerable, she decided to limit the number of employees who knew about her problem to an essential few.

  While she wiped off the counter, Jeff flipped the pages to the calendar and appointment scheduler in the back. “On the date you were brought to the hospital, it says, ‘Pick up Alex.’ On Thursday, ‘Day cleared for Alex.’ And look, your meeting for today is right here.” He pointed.

  Chelsea glanced down. “M.L. Important.” The words were written larger and bolder than the other notes. “Well, I guess I’ll find out what that means when I get to Classy Creations.”

  She’d intended to call a taxi to take her to work. Sometime today she had to track down her car. After dinner she hoped to take Jeff up on his offer to drive her to Anne’s house. But after she dressed, Alex drooled on her, and Jeff ended up driving her to Classy Creations.

  He parked outside a striking gray-stoned building. He handed her the day planner, and their fingers grazed. At his touch, a brief shiver rippled through her, and her heart beat with the pulse of the pop radio station’s music. “Would you like me to come inside with you?”

  Yes “No, thanks.” His closeness was so male, so bracing, but she had to stand on her own despite her fear of the unknown. She waved goodbye to Jeff, glad that she planned to meet him later.

  The name Classy Creations was written in white neon over the etched-glass doors, giving no hint to what kind of business she owned. Urging herself forward with the hope that the familiar surroundings might jog her memory, she advanced, her mouth dry. Pushing Alex in his stroller, she entered the elegant three-story office building.

  Chelsea intended to find Sandy and regretted her failure to ask her secretary where her office was located within the building. Stopping by the elevator, she read a placard and learned Chelsea Connors, president, had taken the entire third floor for an office. Before moving on, she noted her vice president’s name was Martin Tinsdale, accounting was run by Walter Brund, her art director was Micki Lawson and her traffic manager, Sandy Ronald. The names meant nothing, but she suspected several names matched the initials in her personal planner. She didn’t even try to remember the myriad of account executives or assistant account executives. Waiting for the elevator, Chelsea straightened her skirt and matching navy jacket with its double row of brass buttons and wondered if she looked like she usually did. Earlier, she’d removed the bandage and combed her hair over the stitches so no one should even suspect she’d been hurt. Ignoring her nervousness, she hoped Alex’s presence would distract her employees from noticing their boss’s uneasiness.

  Except for the small mishap before they left the house, the baby was behaving himself: He seemed fascinated with the welcoming potted plants and the modern lighting reflecting off the darkly inviting mirrors in the lush entrance. Unfortunately she recognized none of the decor.

  The elevator opened and two people stepped out, one of them greeting her with familiarity, the other more formally. She stiffened as they approached and had to force herself to stand her ground and pretend normalcy.

  “Hello, Ms. Connors,” said a pert redheaded girl who couldn’t yet be out of her teens. Although her tone was bright and cheerful, the girl refused to meet her gaze. Was she shy at talking to the boss? Or was Chelsea simply so on edge that she bordered on paranoia?

  A skinny man with four gold earrings in his left ear smiled and spoke in a distinctly feminine tone. “Beautiful baby, Chelsea.”

  “Good morning.” She hoped her general greeting would be enough and the man and girl would pass by without stopping to talk.

  “I’ll have the layout ready in a few minutes, Mick,” the young girl said as she sauntered away.

  Mick. He must be her art director, and she wondered if he always walked with a slight limp.

  He stopped beside her, seemingly intent on a private conversation, and she suddenly felt too alone and exposed in the otherwise vacant hallway.

  “The mock-ups are set, and the color work looks spectacular.” He kissed his fingers. “That new graphic free-lancer is top-notch.”

  She had to quit overreacting. When Mick didn’t immediately leap and attack her, she concentrated on his words and settled for a safe reply. “Good.”

  Mick gave her a thumbs-up. “Good luck. You know where to find me if you need me.”

  Did Mick’s preparations have something to do with her appointment? Suddenly anxious to speak to Sandy and clear up the mystery, Chelsea pushed Alex into the elevator. They rose smoothly to the third floor. Mick had acted as if he knew about the baby, so she must have discussed Alex. She could assume others knew about him, too, so she wouldn’t have to explain his presence.

  Good. The less explaining she had to do, the better. Especially when she had so many questions.

  She had fifteen minutes before her appointment. And she still didn’t know what she did for a living. She felt like a downhill skier racing on thin ice. Only Jeff’s certainty that she would know what she was doing gave her the confidence to proceed.

  The elevator doors opened. Chelsea ignored the flapping butterfly wings in her stomach and pushed Alex and his stroller through the doorway. The scent of fresh roses welcomed her.

  The third floor was silent, practically empty.

  Free of hallways and partitions, the rooms flowed together without a ripple. The visual unity was reinforced by walls painted in a pale putty color and by a ceiling glazed in shades of green similar to the colors used at her house. Artfully placed French doors flooded the office with sunlight. A balcony overlooked a rear courtyard. Additional large clay pots, filled with healthy plants and vases of long-stemmed roses that matched those in the garden below, gave the spacious office a warm touch.

  “There you are.” A willowy brunette standing behind a lacquered desk shot her a wide-eyed look, shoved a few papers into her drawer and wiped an imaginary piece of dust off the spotless desktop with a fingertip sporting a one-inch, perfectly manicured nail.

  Chelsea strode in her direction. “Sandy?”

  “None other.” Sandy lowered her contralto voice. “He’s already here.”

  Chelsea didn’t see anyone in the large room. “Who?”

  “Your ten-o’clock appointment, Mark Lindstrom.” Sandy glanced at the stroller and then tilted her head toward a wall that had been crafted so magnificently, the doorway was camouflaged. Chelsea could just barely discern what must be the inner sanctum, a smaller office off
this large one.

  “I’ll watch the baby.” Sandy reached for the stroller’s handle.

  Unsure why she was reluctant to leave Alex with her secretary, Chelsea decided to follow her instincts. “Thanks, but I’ll keep him with me. He looks about ready for a nap.”

  “Fine.” Sandy shoved a sheaf of papers into her hand. “I prepared a file on the campaign for you.”

  Her secretary was supposed to be answering questions, not creating new ones. Chelsea’s brow furrowed. “Campaign? Is Lindstrom a politician?”

  Sandy frowned and gave her an odd look. “He runs Benedict Academy.”

  Somehow Chelsea didn’t think the prestigious military academy needed Classy Creations to redecorate. Opening the file, she read about her meeting with Mark Lindstrom last week at Benedict Academy.

  Had she seen something at the military academy she shouldn’t have? Her heart started thumping madly. Her thoughts sped in speculation. Perhaps the attack in the hospital and her missing gun were connected to her work. Could she be involved in a military secret or cover-up?

  She took a deep, steadying breath. “Sandy?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of business do I run?”

  Chapter Five

  At Chelsea’s question, Sandy clamped a hand to her mouth, cutting short her gasp of obvious dismay.

  Chelsea touched the other woman’s shoulder and tried to conceal from her voice her own frustration with her handicap. “I’m perfectly capable of work. I just need your help remembering what that work is.”

  “I don’t understand,” Sandy whispered

  “No one does. Now, please help me figure this out. What am I trying to sell Mr. Lindstrom?”

  Sandy visibly recollected herself. “You call him Mark. And you’re trying to sell him our advertising campaign. Classy Creations is a public-relations firm.”

  While Sandy spoke, Chelsea skimmed her writing and relief flooded through her. While she didn’t recall the specifics, her thorough notes brought her up to speed on the 150-year-old military academy. Immediately upon reading, she understood the concept, the unique slant, the selling points in the presentation she was about to pitch.

  “Thanks, Sandy. After I’m through, I want us to sit down and chat.”

  One perfectly plucked brown eyebrow arched. “Chat?”

  “I think it would be best if you and I remain the only ones who are aware of my amnesia. I don’t want the troops to lose confidence. So I’ll need you to fill me in on the employees, the history of the firm, where we stand financially, our other clients—those sorts of things.” And maybe her secretary knew about her personal life and why someone had tried to kill her.

  “Yes, Ms. Connors.”

  “Please, call me Chelsea,” she insisted again. “After three years, it’s time we became better acquainted, don’t you think?”

  Sandy glanced pointedly at her watch. “I think you’d better not keep Mr. Lindstrom waiting. You know those military folks are prompt.”

  Chelsea had started to walk toward the back room when Sandy whispered, “The password on your computer is ‘$-M-O-N-E-Y-$.’”

  What else? Besides business, there didn’t seem to be much in her life. At least now she had Alex. “Thanks.”

  Wondering what other essential information she’d forgotten to ask, Chelsea gathered her courage. Could she pull this off? Perhaps she should admit her amnesia to her client, but then she’d certainly shake his confidence in the firm, and according to Sandy, Classy Creations couldn’t afford to lose this account.

  Once again Jeff’s words came back to her. He’d said she would know her job. She damned well better. Her and Alex’s future depended upon it.

  She wheeled the stroller into the back office, thankful Alex was asleep. For once the little darling had excellent timing.

  “Hi, Mark,” she greeted the man standing so stiffly by the window that he could have been at attention except his hands were clasped behind his back. His shoulders filled an immaculately pressed uniform. His black shoes were polished to shine.

  Mark Lindstrom was younger than she’d expected, maybe thirty. And he was handsome. His bold blue eyes behind wire-rimmed aviator glasses, square jaw and straight nose were pleasing to the eye. His dark hair with a light sprinkle of premature gray was trimmed to perfection. Yet he didn’t make her feel warm inside the way Jeff did, and she was relieved to know she wasn’t attracted to every handsome man she met.

  “Good morning.” His greeting, clipped and sparse, matched the man.

  She glanced around the room, taking in the easel, the computer behind a desk and the kitchenette next to a minibar. “Sorry we had to reschedule. I hope the change didn’t inconvenience you.”

  Mark removed his glasses, plucked a folded tissue from his pocket and cleaned the lenses in a small circular motion. “Your secretary said you’d been in the hospital. Are you all right?”

  “I slipped and fell. Luckily I needed only three stitches.”

  Mark replaced the glasses on the bridge of his nose and glanced at the carriage. “Good-looking baby.”

  She acknowledged the compliment with a grin, proud as if she were his birth mother and responsible for his genes. “I just adopted Alex. Sorry, I haven’t yet arranged for child care.”

  His fierce gaze left Alex to fix on her. “I work with cadets every day. I like children.”

  For some reason, his stare made her uncomfortable. Perhaps it was the way he peered down at her. “Please, have a seat. Would you like some coffee before we begin?”

  “Nix on the coffee. And I prefer to stand.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I think better on my feet.”

  Behind her back, she clenched and unclenched her fists. Relax.

  Chelsea walked over to the storyboard covered with a cloth. Her notes in the file indicated what she would find there. He’ll never know I haven’t seen the art. Quickly she decided to present the concept, then allow the art to sell Classy Creations.

  “With Benedict Academy’s expansion, you need students—high-caliber students. The best way to recruit is to encourage women to enroll in your school.”

  When she paused for a reaction check, he didn’t move. His face remained implacable, and not even his eyes flickered with encouragement.

  Determined not to let him see her sweat, she continued in an even tone, “It’s just a matter of time before someone forces the school to admit female students. Instead of the courts legislating Benedict Academy to accept young ladies, why not create an atmosphere that welcomes them?”

  “Go on.” Mark folded his arms across his chest. Not a good sign. His words might sound as though he was willing to hear her out, and her notes said they’d lightly touched on this angle before, but his body language told her he didn’t like the idea.

  So sell him. Her financial future was at stake. Alex’s, too. She couldn’t just give up. Not until she gave the presentation her best shot.

  “We’ve created an advertising campaign directed at women. But before we go on, I want to mention the free publicity we can generate for your school if you accept this concept.”

  “Free?” His arms loosened, and he leaned onto the balls of his feet. His attitude had started to soften from his hard line of negativity.

  Good. Chelsea had her client’s complete attention. For the first time, she thought she might pull this off. “A campaign to recruit women would be unique.”

  She moved on to outline the advantages, explaining how talk-show hosts would be eager to promote this new opportunity. Even better. He now stared directly at her while she spoke. “I’d like to kick off the ad campaign with a party. We’ll invite well-known alumni and the press. Women’s magazines shall be our prime targets.”

  He removed his glasses and again cleaned them with the tissue. “This will increase our exposure?”

  She decided the cleaning was a ritual he performed while he was thinking. Surely the office couldn’t be that dusty.

  “Mark
, I’m hopeful we can put Benedict Academy on prime-time national news. And that kind of exposure will reduce the money you have to spend advertising.”

  When he uncrossed his arms, clasped them behind his back and strode toward the easel, she knew she had him hooked. The first-class artwork on the storyboard reeled him in. The deal was almost cinched. But a sale wasn’t a sale until the client’s money rested in her bank account.

  Mark’s chin jutted forward. “You realize the board of directors will have to approve this change in policy?”

  She’d won him over. “I’ll meet with the board if necessary. But to implement this plan by next fall, we have to move quickly for several reasons. One, we need to begin planning the party right away.”

  “Perhaps we could combine our anniversary party with the announcement.”

  “Good idea. And two, this year’s high-school seniors will make their college selections for next year soon. Our data indicates the best students choose early.”

  Chelsea moved to the computer, typed in her password and called up the files. Suddenly she hit a glitch. She’d neglected to ask Sandy which file included the layouts for Benedict Academy’s printed ads.

  With Mark peering over her shoulder, she skimmed down the list quickly, attempting to keep the panic cornered in the back of her mind. She’d come too far to blow the presentation now. She tried a promisinglooking file named “Benn.act” but it proved to be the statistics used to compile her presentation.

  Deciding a straightforward explanation would be the least suspicious, she pushed her chair back from the desk. “I’ve forgotten which file holds your advertising. Excuse me for a minute.”

  Hoping Mark wouldn’t notice she had an intercom on the desk, she hurried on shaking legs from the office in search of Sandy, whom she found watering plants and cleaning dead leaves out of clay pots, and quickly told her what she needed.