by Renee Roszel
Fresh anxiety sliced through her, and she coughed nervously. He was in a foul mood, and wasn’t going to take this well. Be that as it may, there was nothing left for her to do but take a deep breath and plunge in.
Reaching for her briefcase, she lifted it to the table-top. “Okay, Mr. Brand.” Snapping the fasteners open, she lifted the lid. “Bottom line.” Pulling out a batch of rumpled papers, she held them in his direction. She was tired of trying to find ways to appease this man, and was glad he’d called her on her subterfuge. She simply wasn’t cut out for deception. “As you can see, I have a problem.”
His lips curved in a sardonic half smile. “I noticed. But I understand multiple-personality psychosis can be treated.”
She frowned, then realized he’d made a small joke. Startled, she fixed her gaze on him. He had lowered his eyelids so that he could see out, but no one could see in. She resented his ability to do that. It was like trying to relate to a machine. “These are the essays I left for you to read when I was at your home the other night. If you’ll remember, I said I’d need them by the day before Thanksgiving.”
He picked them up and scanned them as the waiter served more coffee. “So?” he asked after a minute.
She stared, unbelieving. “So—today is the day before Thanksgiving. When I went by your home this morning to pick them up, assuming they’d be scored and evaluated, I found them exactly as I’d left them.”
He was thumbing through the papers. “Some look like they’ve been chewed on.”
“They may have been,” she said, trying to remain calm. “Not all of them were written in the best possible atmosphere. A few may very well have been chewed, or worse. But that doesn’t make the effort less worthy. Do you remember my telling you the ten winners would be announced at the Thanksgiving dinner? If you’ll recall, their prize was a week at the Mr. Niceguy Retreat?” She pressed, “Is it coming back at all?”
He took a sip of his coffee, then admitted with a nod, “Right. It slipped my mind.”
With blossoming hostility, Jess surveyed his unrepentant face. When she could bring herself to speak, she repeated, “It slipped your mind?” Her voice had lifted a tense octave, betraying her feelings.
There was a hardening of his features, though he retained a nonchalant half smile. “I told you I’m busy. You just witnessed how easily our project is falling into place. I have my two best men at each other’s throats, I have no software and a nonresponse glove to offer my client—and only a couple of weeks to work out the bugs. I’m human. The damned essays slipped my mind. But I’ll read them.”
“When?” she prodded, with more than a hint of annoyance.
“When I have time,” he retorted, his glance as stubborn as hers.
Mexican-standoff time. A dull throb started behind Jess’s eyes as a gnawing sense of her inadequacy shrouded her—not for the first time in her life, either. All too often her parents had made the statement, “Jess, you’ll never make anything of yourself if you can’t be a leader! If you can’t control people.” She’d tried. But ultimately she always failed. And she was failing miserably today.
Just how competent did a person have to be to persuade someone to follow through on a debt of honor? Apparently, more competent than she. Defeated, she massaged her aching temples. “Mr. Brand,” she began, “How do you feel about Norman Roxbury?” She peered up at him, hoping she wouldn’t disgrace herself by bursting into tears. “How do you really feel? Off the record. I’d just like to know.”
A troubled look stole across his face, then quickly disappeared. She waited in a silence that grew so aggressive it was cruel. Vaguely, she was aware of sounds around them—the clink of flatware against fine china, the rattle of a pastry cart, a tinkle of ice cubes, voices, the murmurs, and muted laughter of affluent patrons; even the faraway whine of a siren stretched across the tension-laden air to reach her ears. Around them the world marched on, but at their table, no movement existed; nothing was audible but the thundering of stark, expectant silence.
At length, Lucas started to speak, then looked away. When their eyes met again, his were angry, haunted. Yet, in that harsh contact, Jess felt a stab of comprehension, and grasped his unspoken message across the distance. It was very simple and very painful. The truth of it distressed him, distressed him so much he couldn’t admit it aloud. He cared. He didn’t want to, but he did.
With a gritted oath, Lucas snatched up the essays and, to her astonishment, began to read.
She sat speechless for a few minutes. Surprised that he’d once again come through—if under extreme duress. She took a sip of coffee, gaping at him. Without realizing the degree of her concentration, she allowed her gaze to trail over his broad torso, which was sheathed in an expensive black suit, silk shirt and bold-patterned tie. His dark-eyed, sullen face was staggering in its appeal.
When she realized what an unhealthy direction her thoughts had taken, she pulled her lips between her teeth, biting hard, forcing her mind back to the problem at hand—the problem of trying to turn Lucas Brand into a willing Mr. Niceguy. Apparently her despondent sigh was audible, for he cast her an inquiring glance. She felt a shudder at the eye contact, and was dismayed to discover she was actually attracted to this guy.
How strange and unfair sexual desire could be. Her whole life plan, since her divorce, had been to steer clear of the type A male, and here she was stupidly going over the physical attributes of the most outrageously A-type male in the state of Oklahoma, like some smitten teenager.
What was worse, Lucas Brand was the very man who’d caused her a great deal of personal trauma over the past several years. There were few people in the world for whom she held more contempt. He had a cold, shrewd nature, and there was no room in the man’s existence for flesh-and-blood relationships. Miss Mary Anne Brown had made that pitiably clear only moments ago. Jess knew she’d have to keep that in mind when her thoughts started to stray into fantasies involving Lucas’s broad shoulders and sensual lips.
To keep her mind safely occupied, she ordered a salad, but managed to eat very little of it. All the time he said nothing, just frowned down at the pages as he read.
Once, their legs brushed, and Jess drew away, feeling a flush heat her cheeks. Lucas lifted his gaze briefly, but none of his thoughts registered on his guarded features.
About the time she gave up on being able to eat, the redheaded Fletch and the stocky Sol stopped by their table. Fletch cleared his throat to catch his boss’s attention.
When Lucas looked up, Fletch said, “I think Sol came up with something. We’re going to check it out.”
Lucas pursed his lips, then nodded.
“You coming back to the office?” he added, casting a curious look at Jess.
“If I don’t get hauled in for murder, first,” Lucas muttered.
Tugging his collar, Fletch smiled uncertainly at the woman to whom he’d never been introduced, and headed toward the exit, trailed by Sol.
Startling Jess, Lucas thrust the pages at her. “Okay,” he said impatiently. “I’ve marked the ten best.”
She leafed through them. It appeared that he’d come to some solid conclusions. Reviewing her own notes, she found that they agreed on nine of the ten. She plucked out her choice along with his, and lifted them toward him. “Why Jack’s over Barry’s?”
His irritation at her continued intrusion into his life hung in the air between them like acrid smoke. He grabbed the two pages, scanning them both. “This kid’s thankful his mother let him keep the stray dog he found. At least Barry’s got a dog and a caring mother,” he said, more to himself than to her. “This other boy, Jack, swears he can’t find much to be thankful about. But he ends his essay with, ‘I guess I’m thankful it doesn’t cost to breathe.’”
Lucas looked at Jess. Along with the displeasure in his eyes, she saw something else. Something not quite readable. “There’s anger in this boy’s essay,” he continued, “but underneath, there’s humor, and a depth that goes beyond a
ny of these other papers.”
She saw his point but had to say, “He’s so bitter. He’s teetering on the edge of dropping out. A good seventy-five percent of these at-risk kids don’t make it through high school, as it is. Jack looks like a really chancy case at best.”
For a minute, Lucas didn’t speak, and Jess watched as a muscle twitched in his jaw. There was a stamp of stubbornness there, in the thrust of his chin, and a boldness in his black eyes. Yet he didn’t argue or snarl at her as she’d assumed he would; he merely shrugged. “You asked for my opinion, I gave it. My experience with troubled kids is—limited.” He paused. For a second, no more, his face seemed bleak. Almost before she’d registered the expression, he was wearing that unreadable mask again.
Jess sensed he’d been speaking of himself, and her heart went out to him, which astonished her. Avoiding the brush of his fingers, she took the essays back. She wouldn’t argue. It was a judgment call, and, he, after all, was Mr. Niceguy—at least for the next week.
“Okay, though I’m not sure I agree. It’s Jack,” she acknowledged without inflection. Stacking the pages, she deposited them in her briefcase before facing him again. When she did, his inspection of her seemed disapproving.
“What?” she asked, fairly sure what he had on his mind.
“You already read them.”
She nodded. “I’m your assistant. I’m helping you, remember?”
His brief, twisted grin was humorless. “Mrs. Glen, you’re going to have to look up that word. For your information, it doesn’t mean jerk around.”
“I’m sorry if you feel that way,” she retorted. Standing, she brushed at her slim suit skirt. “As you’ve repeatedly informed me, you’re a busy man. I won’t keep you any longer.”
He watched her rise, but said nothing.
“I’ll see you first thing in the morning.” She picked up her briefcase and faced him, trying to look pleasant. It was hard. Her nerves were in shreds.
“What, exactly, is ‘first thing’ to you?” he asked.
“I’ll be there at eight sharp, with volunteers to help get the place ready. The kids will arrive at ten.”
He nodded, then stood towering over her. “I’ll schedule my meeting for six and try to be back.”
Her eyes widened, and she felt a new prick of annoyance. Through a tired sigh, she said, “You just won’t give this one-hundred percent, will you?”
His gaze bore into hers for a long moment. Finally, and in a tone courteous but grim, he warned her, “Bottom line, Mrs. Glen—I can’t.”
THANKSGIVING MORNING, a truck arrived at the Brand residence with six big turkeys, a pile of pumpkins, boxes and bags of assorted vegetables, dry goods and utensils.
Instantly and with all the vivid fireworks of an erupting volcano, Lucas’s cook came down with a migraine headache that would have made Camille look like a happy little homemaker. Though Jess tried to assure her that the turkeys would be cooked outside on charcoal grills that had been delivered for that purpose, the thin, nasal woman flailed theatrically, then fumed off into the bowels of the house.
Jess hadn’t seen Lucas, but knew he must have made it back from his meeting. In the distance she heard the cook wailing that she was condemned along with the rest of his staff to endure “The Thanksgiving Dinner from Hell.”
Jess and her volunteers began moving sawhorses and planks into the large garage, emptied of luxury cars for the occasion by a good-natured chauffeur. Minutes later, she saw the cook barreling through the activity, packed suitcases clenched in both hands. It was clear that she was having nothing to do with the Thanksgiving invasion, and had thrown a fit and quit.
Uh-ohhh, Jess thought. This would be another thorn in Lucas’s side. She could see him now, somewhere in his vast house, cursing them for frightening away an employee. She wondered if any other members of his staff were packing up in a huff.
Around nine, as she was spreading paper tablecloths over the makeshift counters, in the garage, she spied Lucas. His tall, broad-shouldered form loomed in the door that led from the garage into the house—Mr. Buttoned-down himself, in a beige suede sport coat, classic gray trousers, silk tie and handsewn loafers. Not exactly dressed to spend a day scraping pumpkins and playing touch football. She exhaled despondently. What had she expected? Actual cooperation?
With a twinge of anxiety, she realized his somewhat judgmental scrutiny was focused on her. When their eyes met, she grew flustered. She was clad in jeans and a heavy, red wool sweater. Suddenly, a surge of old insecurities rushed through her, for she’d been brought up in a home where jeans were considered low-class attire.
Her parents had contended that the wearing of jeans was tantamount to a mortal sin. While her folks had had private prep-school sensibilities, they could ill afford it. So she’d had to endure attending public school while adhering to her parents’ dress code.
Each time there’d been a casual party thrown by one of her classmates, and she was the only one to show up in ruffles and ribbons, she’d been humiliated. She still cringed at the memories. Too many times she’d been driven to tears, begging her parents to reconsider. But no. “First impressions, Jessica,” her mother had preached time and again. “Never, never allow your first impression to be less than the best! Jeans give the wrong sort of image for a Ritter. Image is everything!”
Well, maybe to her mother and father, jeans were for lower-class types, but to her, ribbons and ruffles had made her the object of childish ridicule, and utterly, abjectly lonely. Nowadays, she only “dressed for success” when Mr. Roxbury’s needs required such clothing. She was most comfortable in jeans, helping troubled kids—and most uncomfortable in suits, rubbing elbows with self-important specimens like Lucas Brand.
The man studying her from beneath lowered lids would have been her parents’ ideal son. However, he was far from her ideal!
The unease she always felt around him—an unease she feared to put a name to—had returned with a vengeance. No matter how much she wanted to dart off and lose herself in the confusion of laughing, scrambling volunteers, she did need to speak with him. It was part of her job. The kids would be arriving in less than an hour, and there was no putting it off. Her adrenaline level shot up to prepare her for conflict as Jess propelled herself in his direction.
He made her come all the way to him. Didn’t even move down the three steps to the garage level. Her unease swelled. It was clear that he didn’t plan to make her job easier by giving an inch. Trying to discipline her voice to maintain the facade of nonchalance, she said, “Good morning, Mr. Brand. I hope we’re not inconveniencing you too much.”
His rough-hewn features were arresting, even in disapproval. “Don’t think a thing about it, Mrs. Glen,” he said flatly. “My house and my staff—what’s left of it—are at your disposal.”
She heard the mockery, but chose to ignore it. “Thanks. As you see, we’ll be having the kids do most of the work here in the garage to spare your house.”
“I’m gratified.”
“And though we’re cooking the turkeys outside, we’ll need the kitchen—”
“Mrs. Glen,” he interrupted, making her lose her train of thought.
“Yes?” she asked, apprehensive and not sure why.
“Where’s Mr. Glen? Is he here?”
She flinched at the unexpected question. With watchful hesitation, she tried to formulate an answer. Nothing came. Nothing smart, or casual or flip. Only the plain truth, so she simply stated it. “I—he—we’re divorced.” Divorce wasn’t against the law, for heaven’s sake, so she didn’t know why the admission bothered her so. Or did she? She glanced at him with a sideways squint. His face registered nothing in particular, no great joy or disgust. She wanted to change the subject, so she asked, “Do you own any jeans?”
He lifted a brow. “Why?”
“Because you’ll ruin those clothes. Don’t you have any casual things?”
He pursed his lips, seeming to be in sober contemplation. “Whose
idea was it?” he asked after a pause.
“About wearing jeans?”
“The divorce. Whose idea?”
Her cheeks blazed. “I hope you don’t take this badly,” she blurted, tasting bitter bile. “But that question was uncalled-for, and positively none of your business!”
He moved to lounge against the doorjamb, sizing her up with a one-sided grin. “How, exactly, would you have phrased it if you had wanted me to take it badly, Jess? I hope you don’t mind me calling you Jess.”
“To be frank,” she muttered, “I’d prefer it if you had to call me long-distance.”
He shook his head and chuckled at her. “You don’t have to be defensive about being divorced. It’s a big club.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” she retorted, wishing she weren’t defensive—or at least that it didn’t show so much. But when Bill had walked out on her, it had only served to reinforce her feelings of failure, as well as her aversion for the selfishly upwardly mobile. “What would you know about it, anyway?” she challenged.
“A little.” He smiled without humor, a rather melancholy effort. “I’ve been a card-carrying member of the club for fifteen years.
She blinked, startled. She’d never heard that he’d been married. “Oh—I—I—You must have married young…” she stuttered.
He shrugged his hands into his pants pockets, glancing away. “I’ll check with my chauffeur.”
She squinted at him, baffled. “You have to ask your chauffeur if you married young?”
His brilliant black eyes fixed on her for a split second before he turned away. “Hardly,” he muttered. “But my chauffeur’s been known to wear jeans. Maybe I could borrow a pair.”
4
Lucas sat beneath an autumn-flushed oak on the grassy bank of the lake. The mouthwatering aroma of charcoaled turkey mingled with the crisp tang of the late-November afternoon. Kids wearing bright parkas were scattered about the grounds in bunches, like fallen leaves. Giggling groups lounged at the water’s edge laughing and joking on blankets as they finished the dinner they’d helped prepare.
