An Act of Love

by Brooke Hastings

  He asked her to tell him about her morning and then relayed a number of experiences similar to her own. "What I don't understand," she said, "is how the manager can make such a difference. Why do so many of the people here seem so unhappy?"

  They'd ordered their meals by now and were waiting for the food. "First of all," Luke began, "it's reasonable to assume that we would have gotten better service if we'd been dressed more expensively. But to answer your question—suppose you'd made suggestions and been ignored? Or wanted to change workdays or alter your vacation schedule and been mired down in red tape? Or had difficult customers and received no help from your superiors? You can list a dozen situations where the manager decides policy that affects the salespeople. Heywood was inflexible. He seemed to think that he was commanding a regiment, not supervising a department store. When you drown people in regulations and treat them like buck privates you wind up with a mess on your hands. Your employees become resentful; they come to work because they're afraid of not finding another job, and they can't wait to leave at the end of the day."

  "How did he get the job as manager?" Randy asked.

  "Oscar put him in six months before I started. For the first few months after I came I was so busy learning the ropes that I had no time for individual stores unless a major crisis was erupting. And this situation didn't explode, it developed very gradually. Your father told me Heywood would have to go, but I was afraid that moving too fast would scare people off or build up resentment. I was also conceited enough to think I could change the guy's style of doing things. I was wrong. He sees any disagreement as a personal affront and becomes even more rigid. He does have certain strengths—intelligence and an incredible intuition about what's going to sell. That's why he was promoted in the first place, and the merchandise he'd personally brought into this store has been so attractive to customers that they'll shop here despite the changed atmosphere. But he's deadly with people. Basically he's got the wrong job. I offered him a position as a buyer on the West Coast. He'll do a lot of scouting for new suppliers. He'll be able to work on his own and I think everyone will be much happier."

  "And the assistant manager, Sheila Kane?"

  Luke shook his head. "Her record up to now was clean, but if she had been having problems with Heywood and saw what was happening in the store she should have come to me or your father. Instead she sat back and waited for Heywood to hang himself. We don't need employees like that."

  "You fired her outright," Randy stated. She hated the thought of having to do that to someone.

  Luke nodded. "I told her I'd be happy to write her a recommendation I considered fair. I'm not out to destroy her career, but I don't want her working for C & D."

  By the time lunch arrived they were discussing plans for the afternoon. Luke intended to talk informally with the store's employees, both the salespeople and those in the office, in order to let them air their grievances to someone from headquarters and to provide some reassurance. He already knew what he would hear, he admitted.

  By the end of the afternoon it was apparent to Randy that Luke's assessment of the situation had been accurate. One salesman, a veteran of men's suits, was blunt to the point of brusqueness. "It's about time you people did something about this," he said. "There are salesmen here who could write their own ticket at other stores, but they stick it out out of loyalty to C & D, and"—he nodded at Randy—"your father and grandfather. Of course, we knew you were trying to work with Heywood, but we could have told you you were wasting your time."

  "Next time, Mr. Corelli, I hope you'll sit down and write me a letter. Although I trust there won't be a next time." Luke shook the salesman's hand and started wearily toward the next department.

  Later, as he and Randy walked out of the store, he said with a grimace, "I really got raked over the coals today. I'll bet you enjoyed every minute of it."

  "Raked over the coals?" Randy repeated, puzzled. "They were complaining about Heywood, not you."

  "He was my responsibility. I should have come out here months ago, but I knew he was a smart guy and I was convinced I could make him see the light. It's probably the toughest lesson I've ever learned—that my judgment is so far from infallible."

  It was nice to know that Luke admitted it. Since he was obviously a little depressed it was the wrong time to bring up their personal situation, but Randy assumed that over an intimate dinner for two that evening they would talk honestly about the past and make a decision about the future. Everything was suddenly so clear in her mind that she couldn't understand her confusion of only a few weeks before. Naturally she and Luke would continue to see each other—it was obvious that neither of them could stay away from the other. It would be wonderful if they eventually decided to marry, but if not, she'd manage to survive the pain. She was no longer so afraid of being hurt or of making a mistake that she needed to play it safe. She realized that she couldn't live her life that way.

  The only thing wrong with Randy's scenario was that Luke had entirely different plans. Once they'd checked into separate rooms a few doors away from each other he informed her that he was sorry that he couldn't have dinner with her because Don Jacoby was flying in from New York to meet with him that evening, and that he was already late for the airport.

  "But this afternoon you said we'd talk later," Randy reminded him. "It's later, but you're still putting me off. Why?"

  They were standing in the middle of the corridor outside their rooms; Luke waited while a young couple and their two children passed by. "I told you it wasn't going to work," he said. "Why can't you just accept that?"

  Randy told him exactly why. "Because five hours ago you grabbed me and kissed me like you were dying to throw me down on that canopy bed and make love to me. Doesn't that count for anything?"

  "It only proves that I have trouble keeping my hands off you. I've always had trouble keeping my hands off you—in Maine, in New York, even in the damn furniture department here in Philadelphia. But I don't have any choice, Miranda. If we start seeing each other and things don't work out, I can kiss the presidency of C & D goodbye. And I'm not about to put myself in that situation, even for you."

  Seeing that Randy was about to argue with him, he went on firmly, "And don't tell me that your father won't find out. The last time some guy broke your heart you lost thirty pounds." Before she could say a word he was striding away from her.

  She started to go after him, then stopped and turned back to her room, wiping away a tear. There was a limit to how far she'd chase a man and she'd just reached it. For the next thirty minutes she sat in her room and stared out the window, thinking about Maine and trying not to cry. Then she remembered that it was dinnertime and realized that she had absolutely no appetite.

  Suddenly she was furious with herself. She wasn't going to put herself through six more months of hell over a man; not eating, not dating, driving herself crazy with feelings of remorse and rejection. One gradual decline was more than enough.

  The hotel had dining and dancing nightly, and she decided that she'd be a masochist not to take advantage of them. Within an hour she was dressed in the brightly colored sundress she'd brought along for dinner with Luke, waiting for the elevator to come. A couple of middle-aged businessmen walked up a moment after she did, talking about whether the hotel restaurant was any good.

  "Have you tried it?" one of them asked her.

  Randy shook her head. "I'm here on business myself, but I just got in today. I didn't feel like sitting alone in my room, so I thought I'd go downstairs to eat."

  In the end one of the men went over to talk to the desk clerk, who steered them to an Italian restaurant about twenty minutes away by car. Randy didn't hesitate to accept an invitation to join them for dinner—she recognized the name of their company, and both of them looked completely respectable.

  Given her troubles with Luke she didn't expect that the evening would turn out to be particularly pleasant —especially not with a pair of computer salesmen as compan
ions—but she wound up eating more than she should have and laughing at impossibly corny stories. After dinner the three of them went for a ride around the city, so that it was close to eleven by the time Randy thanked them and said goodnight.

  She was in the middle of undressing when the phone rang. Luke? she wondered. Or perhaps her father, checking to make sure that she was sleeping in her own room.

  Her uncertain, "Hello?" was met by a peremptory, "I've been calling you every ten minutes for the last hour. Where in hell have you been?"

  Never had a fit of temper been so welcome. "At dinner," Randy said matter-of-factly. Her lips curved into a triumphant little smile.

  "I checked downstairs. You weren't there."

  She couldn't resist handing Luke back some of the grief he'd given her lately. "I went out," she said.

  "Where to?" he demanded.

  "An Italian restaurant. It's about twenty minutes away by car."

  "By car," he repeated. "You took a cab?"

  "A rental car. It belonged to the man I was with."

  "Oh." It was the curtest "Oh" that Randy had ever encountered; it was obviously time to explain.

  "Actually there were two men, Luke. I met them by the elevator on my way downstairs to eat. I happened to mention that I was alone and they invited me to join them. Both of them were my father's age. Now what have you been calling me about?"

  "I wanted to make sure you were okay." He sounded nettled that he'd cared. "I thought that maybe you'd be upset."

  How perceptive, Randy thought. "And if I was?" she asked aloud. "What did you plan to do about it?"

  "I—I don't know. Apologize, I guess."

  Suddenly Luke's reaction was no longer either amusing or exasperating. His tone was filled with such uncharacteristic defensiveness and uncertainty that Randy's heart softened, then completely melted. The least she could do would be to offer him some help. "I could phone room service for some brandy for two," she said softly. "It's a little cold and lonely in here."

  There was a strained silence lasting a good ten seconds before Luke finally answered. "I can't," he muttered. "You know I want to, but I can't." He hung up the phone.

  Randy could cheerfully have ripped her own phone out of the wall, carried it down the hall to Luke's room and thrown it at him. What was a woman supposed to do with a man who checked up on her like a jealous lover and then refused to even touch her? Did he really believe that they could continue to work together without the sparks of mutual attraction flaring into passion? Perhaps they could, Randy admitted, but only if she were willing to play the game Luke's way. And she wasn't.

  She'd brought along the only really sensual nightgown she owned, a graduation gift from Linda two years before. It was white—"For purity," Linda had teased—with a lace bodice and ankle-length silk skirt. Randy's pulses were beating a little too quickly as she slipped it on and covered it with the matching robe. She grabbed her key on the way out of her room and pulled the door firmly shut behind her.

  What happened when she knocked on Luke's door wasn't entirely a surprise to her. Luke wouldn't open it up until he knew who was there, but when Randy identified herself he brusquely told her to go back to bed. Since his hoarse tone of voice all but announced that it was the last thing in the world he really wanted, Randy had no intention of listening to him.

  "Luke, please," she murmured, willing herself to sound miserably sick. "That Italian food—I must have eaten too much of it."

  "So take an antacid tablet," he said.

  "I don't have—oohhh." Randy cut herself off with a heartbreaking moan, dropping to her knees and clutching her stomach in pretended agony. That was the way Luke found her when he hastily opened the door, wearing only the robe she remembered from Maine.

  "Okay, just take it easy, honey," he said as he helped her up. They started toward the bed, Randy leaning on Luke for support.

  "Tell me what you ate," he ordered.

  "Uh, antipasto, minestrone, a pasta dish and prawns with a tomato and garlic sauce…" Randy doubled over again, as if pain precluded a further inventory.

  "No wonder you're sick," Luke muttered as he eased her down on her side. "I'll see what I can find."

  He walked off into the bathroom, returning a few moments later with a couple of chewable tablets and a glass of water. Randy, figuring they certainly couldn't harm her, gingerly sat up and accepted them, a look of adoring gratitude on her face. Fortunately the tablets tasted almost like candy, and the water washed away the chalky aftertaste.

  Luke, who was sitting beside Randy on the bed now, remarked a little irritably, "Obviously I don't affect your appetite the way Raley did."

  Randy decided to ignore that. "I feel a little better already," she said, "but it's so hot in here, Luke. Do you think I could have a fever?"

  As Luke felt her forehead she untied the sash of her robe and slipped it off. His eyes dropped to the cross nestled between her breasts and then lower, to what the lace of her gown so cleverly emphasized. "Your temperature is normal," he said in a slightly strangled voice, "but too much more of this and mine won't be."

  Randy fluffed up a pillow and lay back against it. "Would you rub my stomach for me, Luke? It hurts."

  He did as she requested, but not without a certain inner struggle. His gentle fingers, though initially quite impersonal, turned caressing as he continued to stroke her skin. The warmth of his hand seemed to suffuse the surrounding area, especially when his fingers wandered just a little too low.

  He abruptly pulled away his hand, and then, as if unable to help himself, started to finger the gold cross Randy wore, branding her in the process. "I used to think how inappropriate this was in Maine," he murmured, "but it isn't, not really. It's a beautiful piece of jewelry. Who gave it to you?" He traced the path of the chain with his index finger, then dropped his hand.

  "Lin did. It was a present for helping her with her apartment in Cambridge. I'd decided to stay instead of going to New Hampshire, and it was easier not to tell my father that I'd changed my plans because I was leaving soon anyway. Linda went on a trip with Roger the next morning, but I stayed in the apartment to wait for the last delivery—and you, of course."

  All the time Randy was talking she was wondering how Luke could manage to sit less than a foot away from her, looking at her with desire burning in his eyes, yet do nothing more than fondle her necklace. She was aching to be in his arms.

  "How do you feel?" he finally asked.

  "Okay."

  "Then you'd better put your robe back on and go."

  But you don't want me to, Randy thought. I know you don't. Totally unpracticed in the role of temptress, she swallowed nervously and shook her head. "My head just started to hurt," she said.

  "No it didn't." Luke stood up, reaching for his lighter and cigarettes, which were sitting on the night table by the bed. Randy noticed that his hand was trembling as he lit up a cigarette. "It doesn't hurt any more than your stomach did. Am I right?"

  "You're always right, aren't you?" Despite the husky statement Randy could barely think straight by now. She wanted Luke so much she was shaking from it, and if he really wanted her to leave he was going to have to throw her out.

  With a convulsive little shudder she slowly pulled down first one slender strap of her nightgown, and then the second. Luke stood and watched impassively, staring into her eyes, his only movement a jerky drag on his cigarette. When she slid down the bodice to reveal firm, high breasts and dusky, erect nipples his gaze dropped to the floor and he cursed very softly.

  He seemed to be in severe pain. "Do you make a habit of this sort of thing?" he groaned.

  Randy wanted to fling herself into his arms, but even more than that, she wanted to entice him into making the first move. "What kind of thing do you mean?" she asked.

  "Seduction." He looked up at her, the hint of a twinkle in his eyes. "Torturing helpless men." His lips twitched just a fraction. "Driving them so crazy that their common sense atrophies and every
inch of their bodies starts to ache."

  When his smile broadened Randy knew he'd given up. "Actually," she said ingenuously, "it's the first time I've tried it. How did I do?"

  "Let's just say that you're one hell of a beginner," Luke drawled, stubbing out his cigarette.

  Randy expected him to sit down next to her and pull her into his arms, but instead he walked around to the other side of the bed, lazily removed his robe, and lay down on top of the covers. "It seems to me," he said, "that the least I can do for you is to give you the opportunity to practice a little more."

  Incredulous at his self-control, Randy blurted out, "How can you stand it? I'm ready to explode, Luke."

  "It's called delayed gratification," he answered with a grin. "I know I can make love to you as many times as I want to tonight, so waiting becomes a very pleasant kind of agony." He took her wrist to coax her closer. "I'm all yours," he drawled. "Experiment all you want."

  Randy knew every hard sinew of his body by touch, but she'd never really studied him with her eyes. He was magnificent, she thought, running her fingers over his muscled arms. And he was also right about waiting. Knowing what was to come, she could manage to live through another few minutes of frustration.

  She continued to teasingly explore, massaging each calf and thigh in turn, running her fingers over his shoulders and chest, and tracing the planes of his face. Luke lay there and watched, so unnaturally still that if it hadn't been for the film of perspiration on his body and the fact that his heart was thumping like he'd just run the hundred-yard dash, Randy might have wondered whether her closeness was having the effect he'd earlier alluded to. Except, of course, that it obviously was.

  Touching him so freely had excited her as much as it had excited him. She forgot her inhibitions in her eagerness to goad him into losing his self-control and allowed her mouth to continue what her hands had begun. Luke moaned as she captured a nipple with her lips, his hand reaching out to find her breast and gently knead the flesh. As his fingers became more and more demanding the world seemed to recede, leaving only Luke's body to give pleasure to. Randy was nuzzling his stomach now, the feel of his hands on her inner thighs driving her wild, all but ordering her to continue. The more intimate his touch became, the greater the liberties that she herself began to take. And then Luke pulled her around and replied in kind, until the need to give and the need to take mingled and intensified, reaching a mindless fever pitch before both were finally fulfilled.