by Diana Palmer
She leaned forward. “Where are we going—besides for a ride?”
“To my office,” he said with a rough sigh.
She smiled secretly. That would be the biggest step he’d taken since the accident, and she couldn’t help feeling proud that she’d had a part in it. She lifted her fork and stabbed a piece of country ham from its platter.
When they finished breakfast, she held his arm, half guiding him out to the garage where the family cars were kept.
Inside were a Mercedes, a Fiat and a big black Lincoln town car.
“Which one is yours?” she asked uncertainly.
“Guess.”
She studied his lofty face. “The Lincoln.”
He cocked an eyebrow and smiled. “Should I be flattered that you know my taste?”
She laughed. “I don’t know.”
His arm reached around her shoulders, holding her close to his side. “I need a big car, honey. There’s a lot of me to squeeze in it.”
She nudged him playfully. “I’ll vouch for that,” she agreed, tugging him toward the car. “Well, I just hope I won’t rip off the fenders getting us out of here. I drive a Volkswagen, you know.”
“My God,” he said, laughing. “You are going to have some adjusting to do. I’ll trust you, though, Maggie. With the car at least,” he added in an undertone that bothered her.
He paused as she was trying to put him in the passenger side. “Just a minute.” His hands ran from her shoulders down to her waist, making her tremble with the unexpectedly sensual exploration. “What are you wearing? Describe it to me.”
She did, her voice straining from the sudden contact with his big hands as he held her; Maggie realized their bodies were almost touching.
“What kind of sweater is it?” he murmured, and reaching up, traced the V neckline with one long, probing finger. “Soft skin,” he murmured gently.
The exploring finger eased inside the neckline to trace the slope of her breast. “Very, very soft.”
She caught his trespassing fingers and held them in her own. “Shame on you,” she told him.
He only laughed. “Are you blushing? I’m sorry I can’t see you, Maggie, I have a feeling your eyes are giving away the whole show.” His face clouded suddenly, and he let go of her with a sigh. “We’d better get on the road.”
She moved away from him, feeling both relief and disappointment. If only she could trust him not to hurt her. But she still didn’t know if revenge was motivating him, and until she found out, she didn’t dare let him get too close.
CHAPTER SIX
THIS PART OF western South Carolina was largely foothills leading to the majestic Blue Ridge Mountains. Now, with autumn painting them in carnival colors, the view was so breathtaking that his blindness seemed faintly obscene.
“It’s cool out today,” Saxon remarked, his sightless eyes facing forward while Maggie drove the big car down the highway.
“Yes, it is. I only wish you could see the mountains,” she remarked gently. “They look as if some overeager artist has taken a palette of gold and red and orange and amber and flung each color at them with the tip of his brush.”
One corner of his wide mouth curved. “You do that very well—the description. Where are we?”
She named the highway. “It’s very long, and there isn’t much traffic right now. The mountains are ahead of us in the distance and we’re driving through what used to be hills. There’s love grass curling down the banks.”
“Love grass?” he asked with a cocked eyebrow.
“Truly,” she said, and laughed, “that’s what it’s called. Our soil conservation people in Georgia plant it to keep down erosion on high banks, just as they put rock riprap on streambeds to keep the banks from washing away. I suppose your own soil conservation people are responsible for doing it here.”
“We ought to be near Jarrettsville now,” he remarked, changing the subject as he shifted in his seat.
“Just over the hill,” she agreed, watching the small city come into view against the colorful backdrop of the mountains. “It’s bigger than I remembered,” she murmured. “But just as lovely.”
“I’ve always thought so,” he said. “It’s not as big as Anderson or Spartanburg or Greenville, but it’s still a formidable textile center.”
“Your corporation is the most formidable member, I recall,” she said with a smile.
“We started out small,” he told her. “But we’re still growing, despite the economy. Where are we?”
She told him. “As I remember, we turn right here,” she said.
“Yes, and then left.”
“But does that go behind the plant?”
“It goes to the computer center,” he said. “Where my main office is. You’ve never been there.”
She followed his directions in silence, recalling that period in her life that had ended in such tragedy. She remembered several visits to the gigantic Tremayne Corporation’s mills, but somehow the computer center had never been on the agenda. At the time she and Saxon had been concerned mainly with the production end of the business. He’d mentioned the place where the corporation’s nerve center was located, but she’d never really been that interested. She’d been far more interested in the man himself, and his publicity department had provided her with all the photos of the operation that she’d required for her disastrous story.
She parked the car near the entrance to the computer center and cut off the ignition. But when she started to get out, he was sitting rigidly in his seat, staring straight ahead with a scowl above his sightless eyes.
“Coming in?” she asked gently.
He drew in a deep, impatient breath. “I don’t know if this is a good idea.”
“Why not?” She eyed him mischievously. “Afraid of swooning female employees tripping over you?”
He looked startled for an instant, and then laughter burst out of him and washed away the taut lines in his broad face. “God, you’re good for my ego,” he chuckled.
“Anytime,” she told him. “Now, shall we get out, or would you rather sit here and brood for the rest of the morning? Just think how suspicious it would look if any of your executives happened to see us sitting here.”
“Oh, I don’t think it would look suspicious,” he murmured, and before she realized what he was planning, he reached out and caught her, jerking her across the seat and onto his lap.
“Saxon...” she breathed jerkily.
His face was somber, unreadable, as his warm fingers Brailled her face, lingering on the soft curve of her mouth. “Nervous?” he murmured. “There’s no need. What could I do to you here?”
“Would you like a list?” she asked. “We’d better go in, hadn’t we?”
“I don’t want to go in yet,” he replied. His fingers tilted her chin so that she could feel his warm, smoky breath against her lips. “I could eat you!” he breathed, bending.
She felt the hard crush of his mouth with a wild aching in the most improbable places. She didn’t even try to fight. The feel of him was too exciting, like an aged wine that she craved. Her body lifted into his arms as if it was the most natural thing in the world. She’d never cared so much about another human being—not even members of her family. He was the light of her whole existence, and denying him was impossible for her. Blind or not, he was still Saxon.
Her mouth gave him back the kiss. Her arms reached around his neck, and she clung to him. She could hear the hard sigh of his breath, feel the rough hunger in his big body as he pressed her hips into his with a grinding motion.
“Oh!” She gasped into his mouth at the unaccustomed intimacy.
He heard the tiny sound and smiled against her lips. His hand pressed harder at the base of her spine, and he lifted his head, alert to the tiniest sound, the smallest movement.
“Why, Maggie,
did you think blindness had made me impotent?” he asked outrageously.
She struggled up and away from him, aware all the time that she’d never have got away unless he’d wanted her to. He sat there, delighted with himself, and she glared at him from a face frankly red with embarrassment while he laughed softly.
“Will you hush?” she grumbled as she struggled to restore some kind of order to her appearance in the rearview mirror, uncomfortably aware of the lingering desire in his broad face that matched the desire she’d felt for the first time.
“I can’t help it. I’m not used to dealing with nervous virgins. It’s...intoxicating.”
“I’m not nervous,” she denied shortly.
“You’re definitely unsophisticated,” he returned softly. “You make my head swim with the possibilities.”
“Just you forget about the possibilities and concentrate on being a successful businessman, will you?” she muttered.
“I think I’d rather be your lover, Maggie,” he returned in a tone that made her knees wobbly.
“Can we go?” Was that tiny squeak really her voice? she asked herself.
He grinned. “If you’re afraid to pursue this very interesting conversation, I suppose we can postpone it until later.”
“That’s what you think,” she mumbled as she got out of the car and went around to guide him toward the building.
The Tremayne Corporation’s main office sat on several acres of beautifully landscaped grounds and easily filled two tremendous buildings and two smaller ones. Maggie remembered the biggest as being the main mill, where fibers became fabric. The other large building was the sewing plant, where garments were made and finished. The two smaller buildings were the distribution center and the computer center.
She noticed the Tremayne Corporation logo on the computer center, with its distinctive oversize red T, and smiled. It suited Saxon, that bold color. If he’d been a color, he’d have been red, because he was so vivid.
His fingers tightened on hers as they went up the few steps and into the modern building. The lobby was filled with potted trees and plants, making it spacious and welcoming.
“I like this,” she murmured as they walked toward the redheaded receptionist. “It’s like an Oriental garden, complete with miniature waterfall,” she added, noting the lush vegetation surrounding the small artificial waterfall against one wall.
“I had it designed that way,” he said curtly. “The girl at the desk—is she about your age and a flaming redhead?”
“Yes,” she agreed, watching amusedly the look of surprise on the redhead’s face when she caught sight of the big dark man and his companion.
“Mr. Tremayne!” the secretary exclaimed, rising, her face smiling and excited. She rushed from behind the desk with an apologetic glance at Maggie and grinned at Saxon. “Well, it’s about time you made an appearance,” she teased. “All this work piling up, and Randy carrying it off and losing half of it.”
Saxon chuckled softly, visibly relaxing. “He’d damned well better not lose any of it. How are you, Tabby?” he asked.
“Well, it’s pretty dull around here without you,” she sighed, winking at Maggie, who smiled back. “So peaceful. No shouting, no cursing...”
“It may not last long,” he told her. “I want to know what’s been going on. Randy’s hardly forthcoming, and to be truthful I’ve had my mind on other things.”
“I’d hate being called an other thing,” Tabby told Maggie. “I’m Octavia Blake—Tabby to my friends.”
“Maggie Sterline,” she replied, shaking hands. She liked the tall redhead already. “Which way do we go?”
“I’ll show you. Coffee, boss?” she asked Saxon.
He nodded. “Black and strong, and put some cream in Maggie’s.”
“Will do,” Tabby said, while Maggie caught her breath at his phenomenal memory. All these months, and he even remembered how she took her coffee!
Tabby left them in a huge immaculate office with a massive oak desk, leather furniture and what looked like a microcomputer on a table beside the desk.
Maggie helped Saxon to the chair, and when he sat down behind it, it was like old times. The first time she’d ever seen him was behind a desk—at the sewing plant one building over. He’d been visiting his plant manager when she came in to ask about doing the feature story. And afterward they always seemed to meet in one plant or the other, or in town. She’d never seen this particular office.
“It suits you,” she said, watching him lean back in the swivel chair.
“What does?” he asked.
“This office. It’s solid and dependable and a little overpowering.”
He laughed. “I feel a little overpowered myself right now.” He clasped his hands behind his head, and the shirt strained sensuously against the hard muscles of his chest. “I used to take my sight so much for granted,” he murmured. “Can you imagine how it feels to sit here, in this chair, with the responsibility that goes with it—and be blind?” His face hardened; his eyes glittered.
She closed her eyes on a wave of pain. “You’ll cope with it,” she told him firmly. “You’ll manage.”
“Manage,” he scoffed. “If it hadn’t been for that damned article of yours, I wouldn’t have to manage!”
“And if you hadn’t been speeding...” she began hotly, but before she could get out the words, Tabby came in with a tray, stopping her in midsentence.
“Here you are,” Tabby said, smiling, oblivious to the dark undercurrents. “I filched a few doughnuts from the cabinet to go with them. I don’t imagine you ate much breakfast—as usual,” she said to Saxon.
“Efficient as always, Tabby. Maggie, will you amuse yourself for a few minutes while we talk business?” he added curtly, taking his coffee from Tabby after Maggie had picked hers up. “Turn on the computer, honey,” he told his secretary, “and put in the file on the Bilings account. Randy said there was a problem.”
“Problem isn’t the word,” Tabby murmured, taking out a floppy disk from its container. She turned on the computer, waited for the load signal, and slid the disk into its slot with a flick of her finger.
“Here you are,” she said. “The biggest obstacle is their union. The workers are concerned about their jobs, and there’s some crazy rumor that you’re going to replace the older workers immediately so you won’t have to pay retirement benefits. Isn’t that incredible? The union is fighting the merger tooth and nail, threatening a walkout as soon as the papers are signed.”
“Oh, hell,” he said curtly. “It isn’t the union, it’s that vice president of Bilings’s—he wants the presidency of the company, and he’s stirring up trouble deliberately to blackmail me into putting him in the executive chair. If he’s promoted, no strike—he laughs off the rumor to the union, assures them that the older workers will be retained if he’s made president, and uses that against me.” His face darkened, but his eyes sparkled with challenge. “There’s only one thing he hasn’t counted on. I don’t like blackmail. I’ll go down there myself tomorrow and call a meeting with the union on the spot, and I’ll make damned sure the plant’s vice president is there to hear every word.”
“Going to fire him?” Tabby grinned.
“That’s too easy,” he replied, leaning back to sip his coffee. “I’m going to demote him to the ordering department and make his life hell for a few weeks. If he sticks it, I may give him the presidency. Read me the résumé on him.”
Maggie, angry and frustrated at having to hold it all in, took her coffee and wandered around the room while Tabby read the file to her boss. There were photographs all around the room, showing every phase of the vertical mill operation from fiber to finished goods. Maggie recognized each phase of the operation from selection of fibers through carding, combing, the forming of the sliver (which, she remembered, rhymed with diver), drawing and roving. It was fasci
nating to watch the fibers—either cotton, nylon or polyester or blends of each—formed into the sliver, the loose rope made from the fibers, and then to watch the slow narrowing of the sliver through each process until it became yarn or thread. The sewing plant held as much fascination. It reminded Maggie of puzzle pieces: Each seamstress was responsible for a different operation as garments were slowly assembled from pieces cut in the cutting room to finished garments inspected by quality-control people.
Other photographs showed early days at the cotton mill, with wagons full of just picked cotton being unloaded in bales.
Finally, when she’d looked at each one twice, and Tabby was still reading, Maggie paused by the window, which faced the mountains. But she wasn’t looking at the autumn splendor. Her mind was still on Saxon’s unfounded accusation. She wanted to hurt him, as he’d hurt her.
She wasn’t even aware that Tabby had finished speaking, or that Saxon had been barking out orders in his deep quiet voice, until he called her.
“Maggie, have you gone deaf?” he growled.
She jerked at the sound, turning. “There are times when it’s better not to hear,” she returned pointedly, joining him at the desk. “Are you ready to go?”
He tilted his head, aware of the bite in her tone. “What is it?” he asked.
Tabby murmured something and left them alone, closing the door behind her.
“Well?” Saxon persisted. He stood up, one big hand resting on the desk. “Maggie?”
She glared at him. “I’ve told you until I’m blue in the face that I didn’t write that article,” she said harshly. “What do I have to do to convince you?”
His face relaxed, but only a little. “Come here.”
“We need to go—”
“For God’s sake will you come here?” he ground out. “Maggie, don’t make me stumble all over the room trying to find you!”
She hesitated, but only for an instant. She didn’t really want to humiliate him. She moved forward.
