The Officer's Girl

by Leigh Duncan

  It had also added to her list of things to do before she headed home. After another sip of water, her feet hit the floor. A few keyboard clicks filled her computer screen with information. She picked up the phone and dialed.

  “This is Stephanie Bryant in HR,” she explained to the security supervisor when he answered. “I’d appreciate it if you called someone in to cover Paul’s shift tomorrow.” She listened to the expected response. “Yes, I realize he doesn’t have any vacation left. Give him the day off, with pay. I’ve already squared it with senior management. Charge it against this account.” She rattled off a series of numbers tied to a pool of money the home office had grudgingly set aside.

  The notifications would soon spread throughout the company. In a day, two at the most, Space Tech would reopen its doors and everyone with e-mail would know about the special leave plan. Those with significant, verifiable hurricane damage would be granted up to five days of paid personal time. Not only that, a special exemption would allow those who needed it to borrow from their retirement funds for repairs. The message was clear: the Space Tech family cared for its own.

  She had seen to it. The ladder to success might have wobbled a bit, but she was still hanging on.

  She eyed her office again. Without Brett’s sleeping bag to curl up in, the floor would be harder than hard, so staying there wasn’t an option. It was time to go home and pry off another storm shutter. She hadn’t been able to accomplish the task earlier, so how she’d manage without daylight was perplexing, but manage she would. Hadn’t she battled Corporate and won? Surely, she could take down a storm shutter or two. She powered down her laptop, shut off the lights and closed her office door.

  STEPHANIE COULD not believe her luck. Dick and Sam had returned. They’d taken down her storm shutters and left them neatly propped against the wall next to the garage. Unfortunately, her luck did not extend to cell coverage she discovered when she tried to tell Brett he’d been wrong about the duo. She tapped her phone, but service was on the fritz again and the bars refused to appear. She flipped the phone closed. The chance to tease the cop could wait until morning. In the meantime, she would spend a delightfully cool evening in her new house, where sea breezes blew in through every window.

  At work the next day, she delayed making the call until Paul’s replacement escorted her through the halls. But by the time they reached her office, it was too late. Shrill phones rang on the other side of the door.

  “Will the offices have electricity?” a caller asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “Power has been restored to all Space Tech buildings.”

  Not every business was so lucky, but the electric company had called for additional help, and contractors from all over the country were working around the clock to restore power. Top priority went to area hospitals and police stations, followed by a slowly expanding grid of homes and community services.

  She dumped her laptop and briefcase onto the receptionist’s desk before picking up another line. This caller had received an e-mail about extra vacation time and wanted to take it.

  “What kind of storm damage do you have?” Stephanie asked. She grabbed a pad of paper and a pen, ready to take notes.

  “None at all, thanks,” answered the woman. “Our neighbors had a tree fall on their carport. Can you imagine? I don’t know how I’d cope…”

  The woman rambled on while Stephanie sipped coffee from Pat’s Place. Many businesses and homes had backup generators. The convenience mart near her home was one of them, thank goodness. She shifted her briefcase to the floor. She doubted very much if she would make it as far as her office. She might not even get to eat breakfast. Her eyes flitted between a bag of doughnuts and the three blinking lights on the telephone console. Other callers were waiting. Stephanie broke in to explain that substantial, verifiable damage meant exactly that.

  “I’m afraid you don’t qualify,” she said.

  “Well, that hardly seems fair!” the caller huffed and hung up.

  The whole help-the-Space-Tech-family thing had a few flaws, but every family had its share of kooks. You still invited them to Christmas dinner. Stephanie reached for the next in line.

  “Will the day care be open?”

  Ah, sanity. She took the caller’s phone number and promised to check into it.

  By midafternoon she had guided fifteen qualified employees—including a grateful Paul—through the maze of paperwork required for additional time off. She’d explained the application process to three besides the guard who needed to tap their retirement, returned the call about the day care facility—it would be open—and reassured practically everyone that business would return to normal at Space Tech the next day.

  Some were happier with that information than others. She bit the inside of her cheek, struggling not to laugh at the woman who demanded permission to wear a halter top and shorts to work “because it’s hot outside.”

  Of course, it was hot outside. It was summer. In Florida. Where eighty-seven signified a cold front and people broke out their winter woolens if the temperature dropped to seventy. But with massive air-conditioning units pumping chilly air throughout the complex, the dress code—unlike the halter top—would remain firmly in place.

  The busy day high-stepped its way toward five o’clock when all calls would automatically reroute to the answering service. Though she loved the warm fuzzies that came with offering reassurance and help, Stephanie looked forward to a nice, long break before she tackled the glut of reports George Watson, their CEO, expected by morning. She rubbed elbows that felt raw from propping the phone to her face all day. Her suit was rumpled. Even the minimal makeup she wore had long since disappeared. So had the doughnut she’d scarfed with her morning coffee, and the second one she’d downed at lunch.

  Her rumbling tummy demanded real food, making her wonder if any restaurants were open in the sections of town where power had been restored. And if they’d still be open by the time she headed home. She reached for the Yellow Pages, but lifted her head when a quiet thumping sounded in the hall. The tall, thin man who entered the office suite ignited a blaze of instant recognition and Stephanie gulped. She fought the urge to duck behind her computer screen.

  Company founders came out of retirement only when things were truly messed up. And there was no doubt the man who stood on the other side of the secretary’s desk was the company founder. The piercing gray eyes set in a long, narrow face, the shock of white hair, the shoulders held so straight their sharp angles could cut steel—his picture graced the inside cover of every company report.

  Stephanie quickly smoothed her jacket. There was no smoothing her hair or her composure.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Sanders,” she said rising to greet him. Thinking the curt nod and accompanying grimace he shot her way were bad omens, she stiffened. Her hands dropped to her sides, her fingers gripped the edge of the desk and curled under it.

  He crossed his own gnarled hands atop a hand-carved cane tall enough to use without stooping. “Where’s your boss?” he demanded, his voice gruff.

  “I—” Her glance followed his to her darkened office. While she could claim the boss had never arrived, what would that make her? The receptionist? It was probably the position she’d land in if she missed a rung on the corporate ladder, but why give him ideas? She cleared her throat.

  “I’m Stephanie Bryant,” she said. “I am the boss.”

  “So.” Unhappy eyes ran the length of her. “It was your suggestion to create an emergency fund from company profits?”

  Though her posture would never be as straight as his, Stephanie pulled herself erect, looked the company founder straight between the collarbones and gave him the textbook answer.

  “Yes. I estimate increased employee retention and decreased turnover at ten percent. As you know, both of those numbers significantly impact profits—”

  The pragmatic approach had worked with Corporate. It didn’t go over well with Mr. Sanders. His frosty look sent a chill d
own Stephanie’s spine and she wrapped up quickly.

  “Over the long term, that is.”

  “Very generous of you. Especially with my money.” The left side of his mouth shifted into a brief scowl. When it straightened, he peered down over the tall desk separating them. “Why are you working here?” he demanded.

  “I’m sorry?” Did he mean here, at Space Tech? Or, here, at this desk? If his glare was any indication, she wouldn’t be at either long.

  “Why is my director of human resources sitting at her secretary’s desk and not in her office?”

  Stephanie practically heard the soft chime of the elevator descending all the way to the basement. She considered making something up, something practical, something straight out of an economics textbook, but she knew it wouldn’t be the truth. If her career was going to go splat, she owed herself that much. The truth.

  “I never made it that far. We had a lot of calls, and the phone in my office doesn’t have enough lines to handle them.”

  “That’s because your predecessor avoided such work. He felt direct communication with our employees was better left to their managers.”

  Her predecessor. One day the man had been sitting in this office. The next, all trace of him had vanished. His abrupt departure had triggered her promotion, one she had hoped to keep.

  “My philosophy is more…hands-on. I could have ignored the phones, but our employees needed reassurance. Giving it to them made all of us feel better.” Hearing herself, Stephanie thought she might gag. She’d been around long enough to realize that touchy-feely didn’t earn any Brownie points with the corporate mucky-mucks.

  “I take it some of our employees required a bit of hand-holding?”

  Had she really seen his lips curve? Everyone knew John Sanders never smiled, but for a second there she would have sworn…

  “You could say that. I think I spoke with every one of them. Some of them twice.”

  The harsh lines around the founder’s face dissolved. “As well you should, my dear. As well you should. Never lose sight of the fact that our employees are people and people have problems. When we can, we want to help them.”

  Stephanie blinked to hide her shock. If she wasn’t mistaken, John Sanders had just applied the brakes to her free-falling career.

  “Now, did you consider a fundraiser?” he continued. “Perhaps an old-fashioned carnival?”

  Thinking Corporate would consider the idea too “girly,” she hadn’t suggested it. She had, however, calculated the risks. Any number of factors—inclement weather, poor turnout, insurance rates—could cause such an event to lose money. “If we don’t deplete the emergency fund, we’ll throw a back-to-normal barbecue in a month or two.”

  Nodding, John Sanders scanned the surface of the desk where her laptop sat open. “And I suppose George wants a million and one reports? Don’t stay here until they’re done tonight.”

  That sounded an awful lot like an order. “No?” she asked.

  “There will be enough chaos tomorrow without adding an exhausted HR director into the mix. Go home. Have a nice dinner. Get some rest. You’ll need it.”

  Since arguing with the company founder wouldn’t enhance her career, she clamped her mouth shut before it could disagree. The reports couldn’t be ignored altogether, but a laptop made the work portable.

  “I’ll walk out with you,” she said.

  A nice, long break was just what the doctor, er, company founder, had ordered. The warm fuzzies were all her own. She gathered up her things.

  The sun was a huge orange ball sinking behind streaks of gold cloud when she pulled out of the parking lot at Petty’s. Like many businesses on the mainland, the upscale butcher shop was back in business, and a sampling of gourmet takeout now rested in a heavy paper bag on the floorboard beside her. Driving across the causeway, Stephanie inhaled deeply. The buttery smell of garlic rolls competed with the briny tang of the ocean. Both were so appealing she couldn’t decide which one she liked best.

  All in all, it had been a good day. Hard work, but no more than she’d expected. She had been able to help several Space Tech employees. And any day you made friends with the company founder, that was a good day, indeed.

  With the power still out for most of the barrier islands, intersections had become four-way stops. As she slowed to wait her turn at one, Stephanie eyed a tall drift of wind-blown sand that narrowed the road. Traffic cleared, and she was halfway through the intersection when another car barreled up behind her.

  “Hey! Watch out!” she protested as a fast-moving, black convertible drew even. The drift was right in front of her. With a split second to choose between getting sideswiped or plowing into sand, she chose the sand.

  Mired to its hubcaps, her car rocked to an immediate stop.

  BRETT WATCHED the traffic move in an orderly fashion through the intersection until he realized his heart wasn’t in the job.

  Normally, he loved the first few days after a big blow. Residents of the small town banded together. They held neighborhood cookouts so the meat in their freezers would not go to waste. They broke out their chain saws and cleared debris from each other’s driveways. They cut “the other guy” some slack. Yes, there were a few losers, such as Dick and his pal Sam, con artists who tried to take advantage. But they were easy to spot, and nearly as easy to deal with. And sure, later—by week’s end if Florida Power and Light didn’t get the electric restored—all that newfound camaraderie would fray. But the first few days after a hurricane were all wine and roses. Sort of like a honeymoon.

  Wine and roses and…who? He pictured a woman dressed in a long white gown, dark curls spilling over bare shoulders as she reclined against a thousand pillows on a wide canopied bed. The image stirred a yearning so deep and unexpected it rattled him.

  What the…? He didn’t think about honeymoons. Or getting married, for that matter. Certainly not to someone he’d barely met, even if the mere sight of her stirred him to pick up a sword and shield and slay all her dragons. Brett slugged back coffee and forced himself into an upright and uncomfortable position. He was suffering from sleep deprivation, that had to be the problem. Show him a guy whose thoughts didn’t wander after seventy-two hours of round-the-clock duty, and he’d show you a guy who…

  His head and his focus snapped to attention when a black convertible sped past his patrol car in a horn-blowing blare. Spewing sand and grit, the car made the turn off the causeway onto the main beachside road without even slowing down. Brett studied the intersection. No collisions. No cars off the road. Everyone startled, but okay. He hit his lights and siren, speaking into his mike, his car in motion before the sand settled back onto the asphalt.

  “Dispatch, this is Lincoln. In pursuit of a black Mustang convertible, license unknown. Southbound from State Road 520 on A1A.”

  Doris’s voice was all business. “Lincoln, this is Dispatch. Break off at Cocoa Isles Boulevard. I say again. Break off pursuit of black Mustang at Cocoa Isles. Hand off to Davis and Smith.”

  “Roger that, Dispatch.” He was no slouch, but Jake Davis was the finest police officer on the force. He’d have the reckless driver tested for alcohol and spread-eagled before his tires quit spinning.

  Brett allowed himself a tight smile. One more block, and he’d relinquish the chase into Jake’s good hands.

  It was one too many.

  The Mustang blasted through another crossroad. This time cars careened out of its path. One—a familiar navy sedan—swung to the side, throwing up a plume of sand as it went. The car rocked to a stop, its nose buried in a drifting dune.

  Recognition and denial warred within him as Brett’s heart did a slow roll. The one person he wanted to protect above all others was in that car.

  “It can’t be,” he whispered.

  He was out of his unit, his feet pounding against the pavement. At least, he thought his feet were pounding. Something was, but he wasn’t making any progress in his race to the sedan. It took an eternity to cover t
he fifty feet from his car to hers. Through a side window he saw a spill of dark curls. He wrenched the door open, his eyes assessing the scene, his thoughts rushing.

  Stephanie slumped, motionless, across the steering wheel. Brett froze, unable to breathe, until her hand moved. He heard a soft moan escape her lips.

  “Alive,” he whispered. “Thank heaven.”

  He took a half sip of air when Stephanie pushed away from the steering wheel and struggled to straighten herself. She tipped to one side, taking his heart right along with her. Frightening possibilities—seizure, whiplash, internal bleeding—filled his head.

  Before he could help her, she sat up, dragging a bag with a familiar logo out of the footwell on the passenger side. She peered into the sack.

  “Oh, thank goodness,” she exclaimed. “Nothing’s broken.”

  Nothing but my head, Brett thought. I should have it examined.

  His heart slowly slipped down his throat and back into his chest where it belonged. It pumped hard enough to make his breath sound harsh as he stared down at Stephanie. “You all right?” he asked.

  She looked…fine. The large paper bag blocked his view of her waist and hips but, judging from the way she swung her feet from the car, all working parts were in good order.

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  She sounded a little out of breath. That could be the excitement or she could be injured. She could have banged into the steering wheel and hurt…something. Brett zeroed in on her chest.

  “The guy who ran me off the road. He’s the one you need to worry about.”

  He jerked his focus up where it belonged before he got caught staring and spoke. “He kept on going. Didn’t stop.”

  Communication chattered through his earpiece. Jake had pulled the Mustang over and was even now reading the driver his rights. Joining them made no sense and, besides, he had something more important to tend to. Brett switched his radio off.