The Hamilton Heir

by Valerie Hansen

  She was astounded. “Do you mean that?”

  “Every word.”

  “Even the part about thanking God?”

  Tim arched an eyebrow and nodded slowly, thoughtfully, before he turned toward the window and answered with his back to her, “Yes. Even that.”

  Dawn figured she wouldn’t have one original phrase left in her article if she edited it much more. Rather than compose directly onto a computer, she preferred to see the words on paper, but her first draft was getting so scribbled up it was almost impossible to read. Therefore, she’d either have to recopy the whole thing in longhand or return to the office computer to input the changes, then reprint.

  She opted to use the computer so she could also get an accurate word count and see how—and if—the sentences flowed. Since it was Saturday, she knew she’d have the whole Hamilton building to herself and could bide her time getting everything just right, even if it took all evening.

  A pot of homemade vegetable beef soup with a touch of Louisiana spice had been simmering on a back burner at her apartment. Rather than leave it cooking unattended and risk a fire—or trust Beau not to give in to his natural instincts and stick his nose where it didn’t belong—Dawn decided to take her supper to the office with her. Then, she reasoned, if she decided to stay late she’d have something good to eat. Betty’s Bakeshoppe café closed early and Dawn had gone hungry more than once when she’d worked past 6:00 p.m. and lost track of time.

  She stuffed her article into her purse and grabbed the quilted cozy she often used to transport hot dishes to church suppers. It was a little small for the pot of soup but it would do if she wrapped and tied it tightly. And it would keep any drips from damaging her expensive rental car if the pot happened to leak past its lid. Boy, would she be relieved when she finally got her old car back.

  Bidding a sorrowful-looking Beau goodbye, she slipped out the door and shut it behind her with a thrust of one hip rather than set the pot on the floor.

  All the way to the office she mulled over the article about Stuart. She’d read those sentences so many times they were committed to memory. That was not good. Objectivity was impossible if she knew the work too well.

  Approaching Hamilton Media she ignored the driveway to the employee parking lot. Nobody would care if she left her car where the VIPs usually parked. None of them would be here, anyway. Except…

  “Uh-oh.” Dawn’s heart sped. One Hamilton was here. A car was in his assigned spot. She searched her memory. Had Tim mentioned that he might come in to work over the weekend? She didn’t recall his actually saying so but a shadow of doubt lingered in the back of her mind. He might have said something about it. And her subconscious might have responded by causing her to bring enough food to feed them both. If not, having a whole pot of soup with her was certainly fortuitous.

  She supposed she could turn her rental car around and go home but she really didn’t want to do that. Nor did she feel it would be wrong to stay. There was always a guard on duty so she and Tim wouldn’t be in the building unchaperoned, and besides, maybe he’d just left the car there and ridden to the hospital to visit Wallace with Amy or some other member of his family.

  “Right, Dawn,” she murmured sarcastically, “and pigs can fly, too. The man is here and you know it.”

  Of course he was. And she found she was looking forward to going upstairs and seeing him, sharing her supper with him. Tim seldom remembered to eat when he was working. It would do him good to have a decent, home-cooked meal.

  She began to smile as she started toward the entrance. This trip would have been a good idea even if she’d had the sense to consciously plan it. Tim needed food, she needed to work on her article in the peaceful atmosphere of a nearly deserted office and she made some of the tastiest, heartiest soup in the South. What could be better?

  The part-time guard saw her approaching and opened the door for her. She greeted him. “Evening, Sam. How’s it going?”

  “Great, Ms. Dawn.” His nose twitched. “Hoo-whee, that smells good. What is it?”

  “Homemade soup, Louisiana style. I’m taking it to Mr. Hamilton. I assume he’s here?”

  “Yup. Been up there nearly all day, according to the sign-in sheet. That man’s a workin’ fool.”

  “You can say that again.” She suppressed a chuckle. “Come on up and eat with us if you like. I brought plenty.”

  The guard touched the brim of his cap and held the elevator door for her while he pushed the proper button. “Thank you, ma’am. I may just do that, soon as my relief gets here.”

  “Good. We’ll look for you.” The doors slid closed with a solid whump.

  The trip that was usually over before Dawn noticed it had begun, seemed to take forever. When the shiny brass elevator doors finally slid open on the third floor, she found, to her chagrin, that she was on edge.

  Imagine that. Must be because of the unfinished article.

  She stepped into the hallway carrying the covered pot as cautiously as possible. So far, so good. The quilted cozy she’d wrapped around it insulated her hands but the pan was both heavy and cumbersome, especially since she didn’t want to hold it close to her body in case it sloshed.

  Turning the knob and giving the office door a hard bump with her hip as she had her apartment door, she expected it to swing open. It didn’t budge. It did, however, rattle on its hinges. She set the soup pot on the floor and crouched beside it so she could rummage through her shoulder bag for the key.

  Suddenly, Tim jerked the door open.

  Still hunkered down, Dawn was so startled she lost her balance and plopped into an awkward sitting position at his feet. Feeling a bit foolish but delighted she’d chosen to wear jeans rather than change into more suitable office attire, she tilted her head up and smiled. “Hi.”

  Tim was frowning. “What are you doing down there?”

  “Right now? Sitting here.”

  “I can see that. What I meant was, it’s Saturday. Why are you here at all?”

  He held out his hand and she grasped it, letting him pull her to her feet. “I came to use the computer.”

  “You don’t have one at home?”

  “Nope. Never needed one till today. I get all the word processing I can stand during the week. When I’m off work I’d just as soon be out doing things, wouldn’t you?” Dawn knew what his answer would be the minute she asked.

  “No.” He eyed the quilt-wrapped object on the floor. “What is that?”

  “Our supper.” She was brushing invisible dust off her clothing. “Would you mind? Be careful. It’s hot.”

  Tim’s scowl lines deepened. “What are you talking about? I didn’t order any food.”

  “Of course you didn’t. You rarely eat properly.” As he bent to pick up the pot she sidled past him and led the way into the office.

  Tim followed. “What is this stuff.”

  “Soup. I made it myself.”

  “You hauled a pot of hot soup all the way over here? You’re crazy. You could have been burned.”

  “So far, so good,” Dawn said brightly. She pointed. “Put it right there on the counter next to the coffeemaker. One of these days I’m going to have to spring for a Crock-Pot, I suppose. In the meantime, this works fine.”

  “It looks like you wrapped it in a sleeping bag.”

  She began untying the ribbons that had held the cozy in place. “Actually, I made this little quilt for taking hot food to church suppers. Of course, I can always warm food on the stove there if it cools too much. Since we don’t have that option, we’d better dig in pretty soon. Either that or we’ll have to nuke it.”

  “What?”

  Bless his heart, he looks totally bumfuzzled, she thought with amusement. “I brought soup,” she said as if explaining to a child. “You and I are going to eat it. Soon. Whether you like it or not. Understand?”

  Tim had rolled up his shirtsleeves and shed his usual silk tie before Dawn’s arrival. Now, he folded his arms across his chest and
struck a defensive pose. “We are, huh?”

  “Yes, we are.” She grinned at him. “You’ll love it. I made it myself. From scratch.”

  “Why didn’t you just open a can?”

  “Where’s the adventure in that?” she joked. “I didn’t think to bring bowls so we’ll have to spoon it out of coffee mugs.”

  “Suppose I’m not hungry?”

  She eyed him mockingly and shook her head. “You’re starving. I can hear your stomach growling all the way over here. It sounds worse than Beau’s does when his supper’s late.”

  “It does not.” He placed the flat of one hand over his abdomen and gave her a doubtful look.

  Dawn laughed. “Well, maybe not, but I’ve known you long enough to know that when you’re working, you almost always skip meals.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Besides, it would be impolite to refuse to taste it.”

  “I suppose it would.” A lopsided smile began to spread across Tim’s handsome face and his eyes twinkled. “Guess I’ll be forced to eat some, won’t I?”

  “Guess so.” She handed him a brimming mug and a spoon. “I hope it’s not too hot for you. I used a few of my mama’s favorite Cajun spices.” She bowed her head over her own steaming cup and said, “Thank You, Father, for this good food and good company. Amen.”

  When she looked up, Tim was still standing there, mug in one hand, spoon in the other, staring at her.

  “That was sure short and sweet,” he said. “When my father says grace he usually covers everything from the sorry state of the world to the price of paper. When I was a kid we could count on our food getting cold before he was done.”

  Dawn chuckled warmly. “I figure God already knows all that other stuff so I just thank Him and get on with it. I’ve never been comfortable with too much formality, even in church.”

  “Interesting,” Tim said. He blew gently on a spoonful of soup and tasted it. “Hey. This is good.”

  “And you’re surprised? I should be offended.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. I can see now why you bother making this. Does it take a long time?”

  “Yes. But some things, like good soup and true friendships, are better simmered slowly.”

  She smiled and made eye contact, suddenly far more self-assured than when she’d arrived. “And they’re both definitely worth the wait.”

  Chapter Seven

  Dawn had been so positive Tim would find fault with her efforts in writing about Stuart Meyers, she’d almost keeled over in a faint when he’d given the article high praise and had passed it on to Ed Bradshaw with orders to run it in the features section of the following week’s special supplement to the paper. Moreover, judging by the nice letters and phone calls they’d received after it had appeared, readers of the Davis Landing Dispatch were equally pleased and impressed.

  “I’m going to make this a weekly column,” Tim told her, waving a folded copy for emphasis. “Even Bradshaw agrees, and he’s usually the last one to accept change.”

  “Who are you going to get to write it?”

  “I’m happy with the writer we already have.”

  Dawn’s eyes widened. “Not me? Oh, no. You promised the job was only temporary.”

  “That was before I knew how good you were going to be at it,” Tim said.

  “I’m good at making soup, too. You said so yourself. But that doesn’t mean I should open a restaurant.”

  He laughed. “True. Tell you what. Suppose I assign you and Felicity to alternate weeks? Would that be better?”

  “Maybe. I had no idea how much work went into writing anything, let alone a person’s whole life story. It’s given me more respect for the business, that’s for sure.”

  “Speaking of business,” Tim said. “I have to put in an appearance at the yearly stockholder’s get-together at Opryland in a few weeks.” He grimaced. “I’d rather sit through a dozen regular board meetings than one of those black-tie dinners but I have no choice. For once, I wish Dad or Jeremy were back at the helm so they could go instead.”

  “I’m sorry.” She was shuffling papers that needed filing and not looking at her boss as she offered standard words of commiseration. “Anything I can do to help?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  Dawn’s head snapped up. “Yes?” The question was followed by an unspoken Uh-oh and a shiver of trepidation.

  “Yes. I thought the whole ordeal would be more bearable if you accompanied me this time.”

  “Me?”

  “Sure. Why not? It’ll do you good to get to know some of the people you speak to on the phone. And I know there will be plenty of good food there so you won’t have to bring your own like you do around this place.”

  She wasn’t sure whether or not he was serious. “What about…” Racking her brain, she tried to remember the name of the romance du jour. “Gloria?”

  “I’m not looking for a date,” Tim said. “I want an intelligent companion who knows this business as well as I do.” He smiled. “Or nearly as well.”

  “Nope. No way.” Dawn was shaking her head so emphatically her blond hair swung against her cheeks. “Can’t do it.”

  “Why not? The stockholders won’t bite. And I’m not bad company, am I?”

  “Of course not. It’s not you. I…I don’t have anything to wear to a formal dinner.”

  “What’s wrong with what you have on right now?”

  “Oh, sure. It’ll be fine. I’ll run right home and sew sequins all over the frilly ruffles on this blouse.” The look of incredulity and condescension she sent Tim’s way was enough to make him hesitate.

  “Sarcasm? Right. Sarcasm. I get it.” He rounded his desk and picked up the phone. Instead of dialing out, he pushed a button for interoffice communication and was immediately connected to his sister, downstairs in the Nashville Living office. “Heather? Tim. Listen, we have a fashion emergency in my office. Can you come up here for a second? Yes. Right now.”

  Dawn didn’t know what his sister had said in reply but there was a definite look of smugness on Tim’s face when he hung up and turned his attention back to her. “Okay. Problem solved. Our Makeover Maven is on her way.”

  “I don’t need a makeover,” Dawn protested.

  “I don’t think you do, either, but Heather’s great with clothes, especially since she was made over herself. If you two put your heads together, I know you can come up with something suitable for you to wear to the dinner. I think she gets a lot of her clothes at Engel’s Department Store.”

  “What part of ‘no’ don’t you understand?”

  “It’s not in my vocabulary.”

  “You can say that again.”

  He began to do so. “It’s not in—”

  Dawn’s “Arrrgh” was forceful enough to silence him but it did nothing to wipe the self-satisfied grin off his face.

  “Okay,” she finally said, pacing across the office and back. “Listen carefully. I can’t buy anything at Engel’s, period. I couldn’t even afford one of their silk scarves. I know. I looked once. And I’m certainly not going to embarrass us both by wearing a dress I got at the local discount store. There’s a world of difference. Believe me. Men might not be able to tell quality like that, but women can. I simply won’t do it.”

  Tim had opened his mouth to answer when his younger sister breezed into the office. Heather’s confidence had grown so much since her makeover it never ceased to amaze him. She had definitely come into her own and it was evident Tim was as proud of that blossoming confidence as she was.

  “Heather! Boy, am I glad to see you,” he blurted.

  She scanned the office, looking confused. “I thought you said there was an emergency.”

  “There is.” Tim palmed a credit card and Dawn saw him pass it to his sister as he headed for the door. “Use that. I’ve got to run.”

  Dawn made a face and called after him, “Chicken!”

  When she turned her attention back to Heather, the
look of astonishment on the poor girl’s face was so funny she couldn’t help smiling. “It’s a long story.”

  “Take as long as you need,” Heather said. “Anything that has my oh-so-perfect big brother this flustered has to be worth hanging around long enough to hear.” She perched a slim hip on the edge of Dawn’s desk. “Okay, give. And don’t leave anything out. I want to hear all the juicy details.”

  Tim lay low until he saw both women leaving the building. Together. Smiling and chatting. That was a good sign. It also meant he could return to his office without encountering either of them or having to explain what urgent, imaginary errand had taken him away in the first place.

  Women. Can’t live with ’em, can’t live with ’em, he rephrased inaccurately, much to his own amusement. Boy, was that the truth. It seemed as though the more he tried to relate to Dawn, to understand her, the more trouble he got himself into.

  A lot of their conflict had to do with finances, he assumed, given her negative reaction to his suggestion that she accompany him to the dinner at Opryland. Who would have guessed she’d think she had to have different clothes? All the other women he knew, his mother and sisters included, had everything they needed in their own closets at home. Of course, that didn’t mean they didn’t buy a new outfit at the drop of a credit card. Dawn probably could have worn a dress she already owned, too, if she hadn’t been so stubborn. He’d never seen her in anything that didn’t make her look attractive—including the jeans she’d worn the night she’d shown up with the pot of soup.

  That kind of personal reflection brought him up short. Since when was it appropriate for a man to think of his executive assistant as a beautiful woman?

  When she was, he answered easily. Dawn Leroux was beautiful—inside and out. The way she cared about others was part of her charm. And it was what made her so good at her job, whether she was working at Hamilton Media or volunteering in the community. Her pure heart shone through and colored whatever she did.