Good Guy Heroes Boxed Set

by Julie Ortolon

  “Just a one-man office,” Darla said with a hint of a sniff.

  “True, but he has pull with Centurian. He’s our first contact with them, and you know what a prestigious account that would be. That could open a lot of doors.”

  In her overall plan, Bette had targeted such large corporate clients for her fifth year in business. Having the opportunity this soon felt like winning the lottery. Although she wouldn’t trust luck to make the most of it. She’d already drafted a proposal of what she could offer Centurian.

  But first Top-Line had to impress Paul Monroe enough that he’d recommend her company.

  Darla gave an almost silent click of disapproval, but started to open the door.

  “He doesn’t look like any important client I’ve ever seen. At least not for our kind of business.” She hesitated with her hand on the doorknob and glanced back at Bette, a glint in her dark eyes. “Funny business is what he looks like he’s best suited for.”

  The soft chuckle Dada left behind puzzled Bette as much as her words.

  Neither prepared her for Paul Monroe, who started talking the minute he came through the door.

  “Hi. What a day. And it’s only the middle of the week. I don’t know if I’ll make it to Friday at this rate. Hard to believe when people spout off about you-really-should-have-a-family they’re talking about putting you through this two-and-a-half times. Once is enough to cure anybody.”

  Before Bette could rise from behind her desk to greet him properly, he’d crossed the room and flopped into the padded armchair.

  Eyes closed, legs extended, arms dangling over the arms of the chair, he looked as if he didn’t have a bone in his compact body. At least not a self-conscious bone.

  He did look as if he’d had a rough day. In fact, he looked as if he’d spent it re-enacting most of that old movie she’d caught late one sleepless night, Romancing the Stone.

  His dark gray suit was top quality, but the slacks bore multiple creases and were oddly wrinkled at the knees, as if grasped repeatedly by fists. His jacket - now critically rumpled - dangled from two crooked fingers. The knot of his silk tie rested at midchest, and his limp shirt showed a coffee stain on one rolled-back sleeve. The third button from the top had been matched with the second buttonhole, giving him a lopsided air.

  His shining chestnut hair would do a racehorse proud, but any self-respecting Thoroughbred would demand a better brushing than this mane seemed to have gotten, she thought with a private grin.

  “Sure, go ahead and laugh at someone who’s been through eight of the nine levels of hell today,” he said.

  At his voice, she stifled a start and killed the grin. Nothing like laughing at a new client to impress him.

  He’d opened his eyes, but only halfway, as if he could manage no more.

  When she met his look, she saw his eyes were dancing. She’d always thought that was only a figure of speech, but his truly did. The green flecks that showed against a gray background performed something lively and agile.

  If he’d been through eight levels of hell, well, she could believe he’d brought a bit of the devil back with him.

  “You’re the most cheerful martyr I’ve ever heard,” she surprised herself by saying.

  His grin widened in satisfaction - with himself, or her, or both, Bette didn’t know. “That’s the only way to go - singing at the stake.”

  “A variation on singing for your supper, I suppose.”

  “For my sup -? Ah, I get it. Stake turns to steak, as in charbroiled. I see why Jan picked you. I’ll have to mind my P’s and Q’s - and I’m not talking vegetables.”

  Bette shifted at the reminder of why he’d come. “Yes, well … How is Jan? And the baby? Your call ended rather abruptly.”

  “Both doing fine. A boy. Edward, Jr. Eight pounds eight ounces, all parts fully operational. Especially the lungs. Although his father’s a little worse for wear at the moment.” He held up a palm as if to forestall her, his first movement other than raising his eyelids. “And yes, he does look worse than me.”

  “You mean he was there? I thought …”

  His eyes narrowed and she felt as if she had a spotlight trained on her. “Of course he was there. And what did you think?”

  “From your appearance, and from what you said, I thought …” Hesitating, she met his gaze and came to the conclusion that evasion was not a viable option if she wanted to stay on good terms with this man. “I thought you must have been in the delivery room.”

  His eyes popped wide open. “The delivery room? Good Lord, woman, are you crazy?” His body seemed to sag in reaction to the energy he’d expended in astonishment. “It was bad enough in the waiting room. I never would have made it in the delivery room!”

  She tried not to laugh. She really did. It was no use.

  In the end, she had to wipe moisture from her eyes and take three deep breaths to get her voice under control.

  “I see.” Another deep breath might get rid of the final quiver of amusement in her words, so she gave it a try, avoiding Paul Monroe’s gaze. She had a feeling his dancing eyes would surely pave the road to relapse. “I imagine the hospital personnel wouldn’t let you in there.”

  One eyebrow rose in a quizzical expression that invited her to share his amusement.

  “Actually, they all presumed I was Jan’s husband at first, and for once in her life Jan was too preoccupied to straighten out the mess. I filled out some forms they shoved at me, then they kept telling me to follow this corridor and turn that way and check in with this desk and see that nurse.

  “Ed arrived just in time. I tried to explain, but they were making threatening noises about my scrubbing and joining my wife in the labor room when he showed up. When they realized he was the father, they got all huffy, as if I’d been trying to worm my way in when I’d been doing my best to get out, and they sent me to spend the rest of the miserable afternoon in the waiting room.”

  “That must have been very difficult for you.” Bette clamped down on the laughter, but from his expression the straight face she’d assumed didn’t fool him.

  “It was,” he said in a tone that had just enough humor to escape self-pity. “I can see you think I had the easy role in this whole thing, but let me tell you, waiting rooms can really take it out of you.”

  She fought another grin. Business. Get back to business. “I’m sure they can. I’m glad everything went well in the end. It all turned out fine. Now -”

  His groan cut her off. “Went well? Are you crazy? Midway through my day I had a woman walk into my office and tell me she was in labor, and it went downhill - fast - from there. Went well?”

  “I see your point. One expects one’s assistant to better arrange such matters.”

  She regretted the teasing words as soon as they were out.

  Nine out of ten men didn’t appreciate having their egos pricked by a sharp tongue, even in jest. Not the best way to win prospective clients. She could feel her hopes for entree to Centurian fading as fast as the October daylight. Then she saw the glint of appreciation in his eyes. Paul Monroe, apparently, was the tenth man.

  Still, she’d be on safer ground if she got the conversation back to the matter at hand.

  “That’s right,” he said mildly. “An assistant should do this sort of stuff on her own time.”

  “I can guarantee you that none of the six candidates I have selected for you to choose from will pose a similar problem for you - at least not for the next few months.”

  He sat up, and she became aware of the way his chest filled the misbuttoned shirt and his forearms swelled below the rolled-back sleeves. She swallowed, and remembered the things Jan Robson had told her about this man.

  Not her type. Not her type at all.

  “I sort of hoped you’d be my assistant.”

  Words to slash his presumption that any woman in an office was automatically an assistant welled up in her throat.

  She caught the gleam in his eyes just in time. The sort
of gleam a kid’s eyes had as he waited for the teacher to open the desk with a frog hidden in it.

  He’d baited the hook and cast it out there like an expert. And she’d almost fallen for it.

  “I don’t have the credentials to join the next Mission: Impossible sequel,” she said smoothly. She tapped the folder on her desk. “But these people do. Why don’t you look at the profiles tonight and let me know in the morning whom you would like. Someone will fill in there tomorrow, then your selection should be available, say -” She checked the appointment file on her screen. ” -Monday morning. Is that satisfactory?”

  “Very efficient.” He said the right words, but his tone didn’t have the note of appreciation she might have hoped for. She could feel the “but” coming before his mouth formed the word. “But I don’t think I’m in any shape tonight to give these profiles the consideration they deserve. I’d hate to gloss over them, but I’m afraid that’s what would happen.”

  Despite his politely tailored words, Paul Monroe was being a smart aleck. She could be irritated at him for not taking her work seriously, but he obviously didn’t take himself any more seriously.

  “What do you propose, then?”

  He grinned.

  Uh-oh.

  He sat up, slinging his jacket over one forearm and tucking the folder under his elbow. “As long as you asked, I think it would be a wonderful service of Top-Line Temporaries if you came and told me all about these candidates over dinner. An oral report instead of making me wade through the written report.”

  “Dinner?”

  “Dinner.” He stood, and tipped his head as he examined what she feared was her incredibly stupid expression. “You eat, don’t you?”

  “Of course I eat.”

  “Yeah, I guess you don’t look really anorexic, but you do look a little thin. My mother would love to get her hands on you and fatten you up some.”

  “Your mother?” What was he doing talking about his mother? He was a client. A client. He’d proposed a business dinner. A little unorthodoxly, perhaps, but a business dinner nonetheless.

  “Yeah, Mom’s a throwback to the old days. You’d think a Lake Forest matron who does charity luncheons and supports the symphony would have followed the trend into alfalfa sprouts and organic tomatoes, wouldn’t you?”

  Bette was vaguely aware that his hand under her elbow, warm and firm and so very much there, was supposed to encourage her to rise from her chair. She rose. He handed her her briefcase and she accepted it. He steered her toward the door and she followed.

  So he was from Lake Forest, from the North Shore, where suburbs were pristine and upbringings well-to-do.

  “But no alfalfa sprouts for Mom. She got fed up on that sort of thing as a kid herself.” Surely alfalfa sprouts hadn’t been big when his mother was a girl, so he must mean something else, but she had no idea what. Though she could swear she’d seen something like a grimace flicker across his face before being replaced by a grin. “She sticks to the basics of my childhood. And I’m happy to say my childhood was filled with double chocolate brownies and triple-decker sandwiches. All my buddies used to come to my house after school, just for the food. I don’t think she’s ever served granola in her life. Thank God. G’night.”

  He waved to Darla, who stared as they made their way through the outer office. “You’re leaving, Bette?”

  “She’s leaving,” Paul Monroe answered firmly. “We’re going to dinner.”

  “Great!”

  Bette cringed a little at Darla’s enthusiasm, which made it sound as if Bette hadn’t gone to dinner with a man in a year. And she had. Doug Burton, last winter. Once.

  She tried to slow her pace against the tug on her elbow.

  “Uh, maybe I should wait … lock up.”

  “Don’t you worry. I’ll lock up.” So much for Darla’s help. Her dazzling smile lit her face. “You two go on and have a nice dinner. Have fun.”

  The last two words might have qualified as an order.

  “We will,” Paul promised.

  *

  PAUL LIKED THE smooth scratch of Bette Wharton’s wool tweed suit jacket against his palm, which he’d cupped under her elbow to guide her footsteps. To him the contact seemed all the stronger for the silence that rested easy around them.

  Top-Line Temporaries occupied a neat, efficient suite in a neat, efficient building in the area bounded by Michigan Avenue and Lake Shore Drive, the Chicago River and Oak Street Beach. He was heading to a different neighborhood, not many blocks away, where the mood could swing from class to crass, glass to grit in the time it took to walk from one door to the next.

  That variety drew him to the Rush Street area. You could wait to make up your mind until the very last minute and still be within walking distance of just about anything. And if something more appealing came along before you got there, so much the better.

  But he knew exactly where he was going to take Bette Wharton tonight. He’d known it nearly from the start.

  When he walked in and saw the cloud of dark hair, the eyes as deep a blue as Lake Michigan and the individualistic mouth with its tilted-back top lip, he’d liked her looks, but not the expression of stern concentration she’d worn. He was all too familiar with that look.

  Then he’d seen her grin when she thought his eyes were closed. It changed her.

  That intrigued him.

  Nobody with a mouth like that should be so serious.

  She obviously didn’t agree. One bit of flippancy escaped her and she looked appalled. He’d watched her stiffen into seriousness, and had become determined to lure out that spark of mischief again.

  That was when he knew he’d take her to Mama Artemis’s Restaurant. Bette Wharton’s exterior, with her conservative suit of gray wool heathered by faint blue, sensible heels and frivolous gold lapel pin, might match her office’s neighborhood, but that glint in her eye screamed of Mama Artemis’s.

  “Do you know where we’re going or are you making turns at random?” she asked as they rounded yet another corner.

  They could have walked four blocks straight west then five north, but he preferred to mix it up with a turn here and a turn there.

  “I know where we’re going.”

  He frowned.

  He did know where they were going, had set out with that destination in mind. That wasn’t like him.

  “I could have sworn we passed this store before,” Bette remarked.

  His frown disappeared. He liked the edge of amused skepticism in her voice.

  “I said I knew where we were going. I didn’t say we were taking the most direct route.”

  She muffled a splutter of laughter, but he heard it and liked that, too.

  “Trying to throw me off the track so I can’t find the place again? If this is a secret hideaway, wouldn’t it be easier to blindfold me?”

  “Aw, you know how nosy people are these days. I was afraid somebody’d stop us or call a cop. Besides, I gave up my handkerchief to the noble cause of mopping Ed Robson’s brow hours ago, and I didn’t want to risk my good tie. You wouldn’t believe how many ties I’ve ruined blindfolding women wearing mascara.” He stopped and turned toward her as if scrutinizing her in the glow of a store’s lights. “Unless you’re not wearing mascara? It’s not too late to use the tie …” He let his voice trail off hopefully.

  “Your tie would be ruined. I’m wearing mascara.” Beneath the words lurked a chuckle. “But all this talk of ties reminds me …”

  Her hands rose to just above where the well-loosened knot of his tie rested.

  Glancing down, he saw he’d misbuttoned his shirt at some point in this frenetic day. But that didn’t interest him nearly as much as the revelation that occurred when Bette Wharton’s index finger brushed his chest as she finished pushing the third button through its proper hole.

  She’d hardly touched him. Considerably less skin had come into contact than in a business handshake, but no one would ever mistake the bolt of heat that tightene
d his muscles and kicked the breath out of him.

  In the uneven light of the store displays, he saw color rise along her neck and sweep into her cheeks. The instant before she could pull her hands away, he caught them in both of his and held them, not quite pressed against his chest.

  If he brought her hands back to where her finger had brushed, he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d do. But if he let her pull away now, there’d always be a barrier of awkwardness between them.

  So he simply held her hands.

  Long enough so that both of them could regulate their breathing and convince themselves nothing had happened.

  When she took a long breath and looked at him with a smile tinged with wryness, he knew she’d succeeded before he had.

  To mask that, he spoke the first words that came to his lips.

  “Thanks. I told you those waiting rooms are rough. I think that happened when this guy grabbed me by the collar. He was one of those chicken fathers.”

  He saw the question flit into her eyes, shoving aside some of the confusion and discomfort, and he felt a spurt of relief almost as strong as the disappointment.

  “The fathers too chicken to go into the delivery room,” he continued his explanation. “Although this guy had no trouble grabbing me by the shirtfront and demanding what in the hell was taking so long. As if I knew.”

  Her chuckle assured him her recovery was complete.

  “The worst afternoon of my life. Thank God Jan was nearly as efficient in having a baby as she is in everything else. The nurse kept telling me Jan was having an incredibly short labor - as if she thought that should make me feel better.”

  “Poor Paul.” She smiled, apparently unaware it was the first time she’d used his name. She slipped her hands away from him. “What you need is food to fortify you after such a long day.”

  “Yeah.” He pretended to believe the sympathy.

  “So maybe we should get to the restaurant.”

  “Okay.” But he didn’t move, enjoying the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, intrigued by the way her thoughts were alternately revealed and hidden. With eyes like that, teasing was irresistible.

  “So …” she said again.