by Francis Ray
A grimace crossed his face. “Record keeping.”
“Maybe I can help.” She came around the desk and placed one hand on the back of his chair to keep him in place, then placed the other hand beside the ledger. “What seems to be the problem?”
The problem was he couldn’t breathe. She was too close. “That’s all right.”
“Don’t be macho, Rafe,” she chided. “I had to keep a budget at the museum. What’s the problem?”
The problem was that her hand was small and delicate next to his large, calloused one. The problem was they had nothing in common. The problem was he kept forgetting she wasn’t for him. He closed the book, and then blinked when she just as quickly opened it again.
Her beautiful face was inches from his. Her soft lips even closer. “I was thinking this morning that slipcovers would do wonders for your sofa.”
“Don’t you dare,” he told her and watched her smile widen. She wasn’t the least bit intimidated by him and she scared him to death.
“Stripes or plaid? Or we could do both in the same color scheme of robin’s egg blue.”
“The figures don’t match,” he said, flipping back to the column of numbers he’d been wrestling with for the past thirty minutes. “It’s time for me to pay my quarterly taxes.”
“Let’s check to make sure all the entries are entered in the right column and then go from there,” she suggested, leaning over to slide the book closer to her.
Her long, silky hair brushed across his cheek. Her shoulder gently bumped his. She was too close and too tempting. Rafe came out of his chair awkwardly. “You sit here.”
Concentrating on the ledger, Kristen took his seat. “Pull up the other chair and let’s get started.”
Rafe pulled up the chair and sat.
Ten minutes later, Kristen discovered the problem and corrected it. Extremely pleased with herself that she’d been able to help, she closed the ledger triumphantly. “Now you can go to bed and sleep peacefully.”
Something hot flared in Rafe’s eyes, then it was gone. Kristen felt the lingering effect. Her body heated. She was aware of Rafe, inches away from her, as she had been aware of no other man. She gripped the book to keep from reaching out to him.
“If you want, I can check it every couple of weeks for you,” she told him a bit breathlessly.
He came unsteadily to his feet. “I can probably manage. It’s late. You better start home.”
Since she could think of nothing to prolong her visit, she stood as well. “I’ll see you Saturday morning at eight.”
He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I’ll walk you to your car.” The sudden sadness in her face tore at him. He always seemed to make her sad. She picked up her purse hanging on the back of the chair. “Wait. I almost forgot again. It’s in the truck. I’ll be right back.”
Puzzled, Kristen watched him leave, then waited anxiously for his return. He came back shortly, carrying the same small, handled shopping bag with the name of an upscale department store he’d brought into the gallery with him that afternoon. Without a word, he held it out to her.
Accepting the bag, she looked inside. Puzzlement turned to undisguised delight. “Rafe!”
“It’ll fit in your purse so you can always have it with you,” he told her, his handsome face a mixture of embarrassment and pride.
Setting her large, black tote on the table, she removed the black umbrella from the heavy plastic container and slipped it into her bag. “I won’t get soaking wet again.”
His expression changed abruptly. He gulped. “Yeah.”
The room that had been comfortable suddenly became very hot. “I guess I’d better go.”
He almost ran to the door and opened it. Kristen didn’t waste time going through it, then getting in her car and driving off. Despite how hard both of them were trying, sexual awareness was growing between them. So far they were both resisting, for different reasons.
As she pulled onto the highway and headed home, she couldn’t help but think about what might happen if they stopped resisting.
* * *
“Damien, are we keeping you from an appointment?”
Damien raised his head to see Claudette peering over her half-glasses at him from the other side of her desk. “No.”
“You keep looking at your watch,” she said, her face concerned rather than annoyed. “We are working a bit late.”
Three and a half hours was more than a bit, but neither Damien nor Floyd Barrett, vice president of sales who was sitting next to him, would point that out. They were both salaried, not hourly, employees. It wasn’t usual for them to be at the office long hours after the rest of the employees went home.
Since Claudette’s marriage, she’d left with the office staff at five. But ever since Monday she had reverted to her old schedule. Office gossip was running high as to the reason.
“It’s important we get the kinks worked out of these health contracts,” Damien said, aware that it would be too late to put his plan to see Angelique tonight into action. “There are several other firms bidding.”
“I’d hate to lose this one,” Floyd said, his craggy face lined with worry. “Tetaco has over twenty thousand employees.”
“We won’t,” Claudette said, studying the papers spread out over her desk. “We’ll be ready next week. Where are the bids from Whitmore Insurance?”
Damien shared a look with Floyd. They’d both hoped she’d end the meeting before she realized the firm’s data was missing.
When there was no answer, Claudette glanced up. “Floyd?”
He cleared his throat, then shifted his considerable bulk in the chair. “Maurice hasn’t gotten the paperwork back to me.”
Claudette adjusted the glasses on her nose, then glanced down at the contracts. “My husband has been busy with other projects. Perhaps you should have considered this and assigned another agent.”
Floyd bristled at the reprimand. “I suggested that to your husband and his response was that he didn’t need a sitter.” There was just enough distaste in Floyd’s voice to bring Claudette’s gaze back to him. “I left several messages with his secretary and at your home, and they were not returned.”
“Where is the file folder? I’ll take care of it myself.” Claudette adjusted her glasses again.
“Another agent has it,” Damien said quietly. No one was going to cover for Maurice. He was hurting Claudette and jeopardizing the company. “I was going over the contracts this afternoon with Floyd in preparation for this meeting and learned of the situation. When it became apparent that we were not going to be able to locate Maurice, the Tetaco file was given to Stevens. He left shortly thereafter for Connecticut. The people at Tetaco want to be in on the bids just as much as we want them to be.”
“You took the file off Maurice’s desk without his permission?” There was censure in her voice.
“I would have if his secretary knew where it was.” Damien said, meeting her gaze squarely. “We loaded the backup files on a disk. Stevens will go over them on the flight out there. He’s sharp. He’ll be ready.”
Suddenly, Claudette felt every bit of her fifty-five years and then some. Whatever happened to her personally, she couldn’t allow Thibodeaux International to suffer. Gathering the folders, she stacked them neatly. “Please call Stevens and ask him to convey my personal apology to the Tetaco executives, and my assurance that his company will receive my personal attention in the future.”
“I’ll call as soon as I get back to my office.” Floyd picked up the folders. “I have the president’s personal number.”
Claudette nodded stiffly. “Good job as usual, gentlemen. Good night.” She wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold it together.
“Good night.” Floyd closed the door behind him.
Damien remained, feeling utterly helpless. Her eyes were too bright. “Claude left the company in good hands, Claudette.”
She blinked rapidly. “Thank you. Good night.”
I
t was difficult seeing a woman he’d admired all his adult life so near to shattering. He sensed she wanted to be alone, wondered if telling his father would help either one of them. “Good night,” Damien murmured and left.
Claudette held herself perfectly still: then, with an iron will that would have made her father proud, composed herself and removed her glasses. Honor above all else. Going into her bathroom, she freshened her makeup, straightened her long, green linen jacket, then picked up her shawl and briefcase on the way out the door.
The Rolls waited at the curb of the five-story downtown office building. Whenever she or her father had worked past six, the car always waited at the curb. Tradition was something you could hold on to, be proud of.
“Evening, Ms. Thibodeaux.”
She didn’t bother correcting him. “Good evening, Simon, Thank you.”
The door closed and she was cocooned in luxury and loneliness. She sat without moving during the twenty-five-minute drive to her home. Getting out, she walked up the white, wooden steps to the veranda. Three proud generations of her family had walked these same steps. In all that time there had never been a hint of a scandal connected to the name … until she was born.
The door opened. “Good evening, Mrs. Laurent,” the maid greeted. “Would you like dinner now?”
“No. Thank you. Good night.” She continued toward the wide, spiraling staircase, her hand resting heavily on the mahogany balustrade as she climbed to the second floor.
Honor above all else.
She opened the door to her bedroom, closed it behind her, then sank to her knees. Sobs racked her slim body. She cried for herself, for the loss of her dream.
* * *
Damien sat in the living room of his high-rise apartment with his fingers steepled beneath his chin and stared at the phone as he had been doing for the past thirty minutes. He wanted so badly to call his father and tell him what had happened at the office tonight. Damien had never seen Claudette so shaky. She hadn’t been able to ignore—or make excuses any longer for—Maurice’s deplorable work habits which, if not corrected, could seriously damage the company’s reputation.
Claudette, like her father and his father before him, put the family business first. They also kept their personal business private. So it was anybody’s guess what she’d do next. If Damien called his father and hinted that it might be a good idea to call her, would it help or make matters worse for him? If he were in his father’s place, he’d want to know if the woman he cared about was in trouble, but it would eat at his gut if he couldn’t do anything to help.
Hell, Angelique had needed money years ago, yet hearing it the other night, he’d ached for her and he was only sexually attracted to her. How much worse would it be for his father, who cared deeply for Claudette?
Yanking at his tie, he came to his feet and to a decision. He’d say nothing for the time being. His father was supposed to attend an art council fund-raising meeting at Claudette’s house on Wednesday night. Knowing the deteriorating situation of her marriage would only make the meeting more difficult for him. He’d want to help, but Claudette had to help herself. It was rough enough for his father not to be able to tell Claudette how he felt. Damien understood that as well.
But unlike his father, he had no intention of snoozing. Angelique would be his.
Tomorrow, come hell or high water or late meetings, he was going to see her.
thirteen
Unpleasantries were often unavoidable. Unfortunately, they were a part of life. The best one could hope for was that they ended quickly.
Claudette was sitting at the breakfast table sipping café au lait when Maurice entered. From the sudden widening of his eyes, she knew he hadn’t expected to see her. It was almost ten. She might leave the office with the hourly employees in the afternoon, but she had always followed her father’s example by arriving no later than eight each morning.
“Good morning, sweetheart.” He kissed her on the cheek, then took his seat across from her and spread his napkin.
“Good morning, Maurice.” Despite coming home shortly after two that morning, he looked refreshed and handsome in a single-button, tobacco-brown suit she didn’t remember seeing before.
She waited until the maid filled Maurice’s coffee cup, took his order for breakfast, then left. “The Tetaco account was reassigned.”
His reaction was instant and expected. “That’s my account!” he raged.
Claudette set the delicate china cup in the saucer. “Bids are due to Hughes on Monday, two business days from now. When had you planned on meeting with the Tetaco representatives?”
He didn’t even blink before he said, “Floyd must have given me the wrong date. I’ve never missed a deadline.”
“Unfortunately, you’ve missed several in the past couple of months.”
He picked up his cup and drank. He liked his coffee strong and hot. “I told you I don’t like you checking up on me.”
A week ago, even two days ago, she would have tried to soothe. But her father had taught her something else: clean up your own house. “It’s not my habit to check up on employees.”
The mark hit home. The cup clinked against the saucer. “I’m more than an employee! I’m your husband.”
She clasped her surprisingly steady hands, then propped them on the edge of the Chippendale dining table and waited until the maid set down his breakfast of oysters Benedict, then withdrew. “And because of that, Floyd was more lenient with you than any other employee.”
“Like he’s going to fire me,” Maurice sneered, picking up a fork that had been part of the place setting given to her parents as a wedding present from her father’s parents.
“He has the authority if he so chooses,” Claudette informed him.
Maurice’s head snapped back up. He stared at her in stunned amazement.
Placing her ecru napkin on the table, Claudette stood. “Thibodeaux International must come first. I thought you understood that. I thought we could run the company together.”
“Together.” His eyes widened. “Are you saying you’d make me a full partner?”
Claudette chose to see his enthusiasm as ambition, not greed. “I always wanted us to work together.”
He quickly went to her, holding her just as tenderly as he had when they first began going out. “Please forgive me, my precious darling. All I ever wanted was your love, for you to need me. Hearing that you do makes me the happiest man in the world.” His knuckles caressed her cheek. “I love you, and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep your love.”
She didn’t want to hope, but found she was unable to help herself. “You mean that?”
“Of course I do.” He pulled out her chair. “Eat your breakfast, then we’ll go to the office. We have a company to run.”
Claudette sat and then picked up her coffee cup, trying to remember if Maurice had had the same bright light in his eyes when he talked of their running the company together as he had when he said he loved her. She was terribly afraid he hadn’t.
* * *
Maurice could hardly contain his glee as he rode beside Claudette in the Rolls. A full partnership. He’d be rich. Independently rich. Richer, if he were able to stick it out until she died—then the company would be his. Just his.
He could live, travel, and do as he pleased. He’d finally be able to put Atlanta and that sniveling Ann Young behind him forever. He wasn’t screwing this up. If Claudette wanted the dutiful, loving husband back, that’s what she’d get.
At least for the time being.
* * *
“Ms. Fleming, you have a visitor.”
With the phone in one hand and a ballpoint pen in the other, Angelique made a notation on the chart of the twenty-year-old woman who’d just left. An addict since the age of twelve, she was seven months pregnant, and saying all the right things to get out of rehab early. Angelique wasn’t buying it. She’d make sure her baby would have a chance.
“Ms. Fleming?” prompted the recept
ionist, who, after working with Angelique for over a year, knew she often became caught up in what she was doing and needed a nudge. “He’s waiting. You haven’t taken your lunch break yet, and your next appointment is in an hour, at 1:15.”
“Sorry. Please send him in.” Angelique wrote faster, trying to keep it legible. Relatives often stopped by to ask about the progress of family members. Unless the patient had signed a release, she couldn’t divulge the information, but that never stopped them from trying.
The door opened at the exact moment she finished. With a smile, she lifted her head. The smile vanished. “Leave.”
“Aren’t you interested in why I’m here?” Damien asked, carrying a large, red shopping bag as he crossed to her.
“No.” Feeling at a decided disadvantage, she came to her feet. He made her small office shrink.
He stopped when he could go no further. “Not even if I came to apologize?”
She couldn’t help her start of surprise. She’d be a fool to miss the voice dipped in moonlight, and the seduction in those dark eyes of his. “I still think you’re overly opinionated.”
“I think you’re exquisite.”
Her heart actually thumped. Time to retreat—and fast. She placed her hand on the phone. “Leave or I’m calling security.”
The mouth that she’d lost precious sleep over curved enticingly. “I don’t think you want to do that.”
She put her hands on her hips. It was better than putting them around his stiff neck and dragging him closer. “Threatening me will get you tossed out of here.”
“There are many things I want to do to you—threatening you isn’t one of them,” he said, his eyes dark and hot.
Her knees decided to join her thumping heart. She had to get him out of there. “Seeing me at the club got you worked up, huh?”
His eyes went flat and hard.
“Leave, Damien.” She wouldn’t feel bad if she’d wounded him.
He almost smiled. “Since you finally called me by my name, I’ll forgive you and show you why I came.”
She was about to tell him she couldn’t care less when he pulled out the largest and by far the most hideous pair of five-inch heels she’d ever seen. The red sequins didn’t help.
