by Janet Dailey
His gaze slid from her to the résumé. "Twenty-six. You seem very mature for that age."
It was his attitude rather than his questions that Deborah found so probing. Her previous interviews had been grilling, but here she was being subjected to the third degree. There hadn't been a single question directly related to her qualifications for the job. He was discussing her as a person, examining her under a microscope, and Deborah was finding it a decidedly uncomfortable experience.
"I have been working, earning money since I was eleven. I've been on my own since I was seventeen," she said in explanation.
His gaze briefly flicked to the unopened folder lying on the desk in front of her, the folder carrying the report of his firm's investigation of her. "What about your parents? Are they living?"
Deborah resisted the impulse to ask him why he was bothering with these questions when he knew the answers. "My father died when I was eleven. My mother recently obtained her high school diploma and has enrolled in some night courses. At the moment she works as a hotel maid."
Her voice sounded calm, but she was raging inside. She had struggled to get where she was and she wasn't about to feel shamed by her background. The clothes she wore were modestly expensive, no more charity handouts for her. Money from her savings had provided her mother with an education that had previously been denied her. Deborah was proud of all that she had accomplished, and this arrogant tycoon would not make her feel small for what she had been.
A light glinted in his frosty blue eyes as if he was distantly amused by her surfeit of pride, but otherwise, no emotion registered on the hard features sculpted in bronze. Deborah had heard the term "poker-face" before, but his lack of expression seemed inhuman. It heightened the sensation of danger that played along her nerve ends.
"Any brothers or sisters?"
"Two brothers, both in the air force. My sister was married a month ago. All of them are younger than I am."
"Your sister's wedding—" his lip seemed to curl around the last word, "—was that the reason you quit your last job?"
"I explained my reason for resigning," Deborah reminded him stiffly. "But my sister's wedding did contribute to the timing."
Truthfully, Deborah had felt with her experience and skills she wouldn't have much difficulty in finding a new and challenging job. Instead, she had found herself losing out because she was overqualified, or else her prospective employers appeared more interested in her looks than her ability. She certainly couldn't accuse Mr. Z. Wilding of the latter.
"And you haven't found another position yet?"
"I'm not so desperate for work that I have to take the first job that's offered me." But her savings account was quickly becoming depleted. Soon she wouldn't be able to be that choosy.
"Are you currently living with a man?"
All the questions about her family and home life had lulled her into a false sense of security. Deborah hadn't been prepared for such a personal question. Her gray eyes widened in indignant anger.
"That is none of your business." The question was typical of those put to her by men whose interests were more amorous than professional. "Your only concern about me, Mr. Wilding, is my qualifications for the position." Her sharp voice attempted to put him in his place, but it didn't stir a hair.
"I have no personal interest in your love life, Miss Holland." His low voice carried the ring of steel, without altering its unemotional pitch. "The question is a legitimate one from my viewpoint. The position as my secretary is a demanding one. There are no set hours. You may work from dawn to midnight. I have a grueling schedule that involves a great deal of travel. On occasions, you will be required to accompany me with virtually no advance notice. A lover can create all sorts of complications with demands on your time that conflict with mine."
"And your demands come first," she murmured sweetly, seeing his point but resenting his callous attitude.
"Yes, my demands come first," he agreed with a complacently arrogant smile. "Which is the reason I'm prepared to pay such an exorbitant salary, and why I'm being so selective in my choice. I can't buy a person's loyalty but I can buy his time. If it's knowledge and experience you are seeking, Miss Holland, I can give you both."
Something shivered down her spine. Despite the coldness of the sensation, it heated her flesh. For a fleeting instant, Deborah thought he was referring to sexual knowledge and experience, but there was nothing in his expression or tone to give her that impression. She banished the thought quickly.
"I fully understand your point, Mr. Wilding," she said calmly.
"Good. Someone from my office will be in touch with you soon to inform you of my decision." Abruptly he dismissed her, setting her résumé aside and reaching for the next one.
Deborah sat in stunned silence. Then her natural aggressiveness asserted itself. "How soon, Mr. Wilding? I have received other job offers," she lied, "and don't want to postpone my decision about which to accept because I'm waiting to consider yours." Put that in your pipe and smoke it, she thought. Not for anything would she sound overeager for the job, even if it meant losing it.
He looked up from the résumé with narrowed eyes. "I have no idea how soon. I will not rush my decision. I'll have to take the chance that you might not be available, won't I?" His sarcasm was thinly veiled.
Deborah took a deep breath and held it, checking her surge of anger. "Perhaps you could tell me at least how I stack up against my competition?"
At the verb "stack," his gaze seemed to run instinctively over her figure. Despite the vague suggestiveness of it, his attitude was totally impersonal.
"Your skills, education, and experience exceed those of the other applicants. However—" he paused, the qualifying word stole the satisfaction his initial statement gave her "—my preference is for a male secretary. Men are more businesslike and less emotional in their approach to work than women."
"That is a chauvinistic statement if I ever heard one," Deborah retorted swiftly. "Women think more clearly, are more adaptable to new situations and have greater flexibility in their skills."
He straightened back in his chair, eyeing her with cold disapproval. "Do you always talk back to your employers?"
"I don't consider it talking back. I prefer to call it speaking out." Her fingers gripped the clasp of her purse, but she kept her response even, betraying none of her inner agitation. "If you are seeking a submissive secretary who will jump when you bark, please withdraw my application from your consideration. I am not a 'yes' person, regardless of how much money I'm paid. If that's what you want, then you don't want me."
His gaze slid upward to the glint of fire in her mahogany brown hair. "I already obtained that impression, Miss Holland. As I said, someone from my office will be in touch with you soon." This time the dismissal was final.
Gathering the shreds of her poise, Deborah walked across the length of the room, past the empty desk that shared the room, to the door. Her chance of obtaining this job hovered between slim and none as far as she was concerned. With a sour-grapes attitude, she tried to convince herself it was just as well. Z. Wilding was probably a tyrant. Deborah briefly wondered what the Z. stood for—zero, probably.
In the outer office, Bob Campbell glanced up when she walked in. He scanned her expression through the thick lenses of his glasses. For the first time, Deborah regarded him as a friendly face. His faint smile warmed her after the arctic atmosphere of her interview.
"How did it go?"
She lifted her shoulders in an unknowing shrug and continued to the door as the intercom buzzed. This time, her mouth curved in a wry smile. "Good luck." He would need it. Anyone coming in contact with Z. Wilding would need it.
Stepping into the wide corridor of the office building, Deborah paused to glance at the door. It was marked "Private" with no other identification of its occupant. The building itself did not carry a name, either outside or on its entrance doors, only it's street number. The holding company of LaCosta Enterprises kept a v
ery low profile, as did its owner, Z. Wilding. It would have been a fascinating experience to be a part of it, to learn the true power it wielded behind the scenes. She hadn't been excluded from consideration yet. If she had, Deborah was certain Mr. Wilding wouldn't have spared her feelings if he believed her unsuitable.
A wishful sigh slipped out as Deborah turned to walk down the long corridor. Outside the building she stopped to put on her sunglasses to shade the glare of the bright Connecticut sun. Her sporty Honda car was parked in the lot. The sleek, little silver and black car had been a present she had given to herself two months after she had broken her engagement to Adam Carter. She needed a job soon if she didn't want the finance company to repossess it. There was enough in her savings to make this month's payment, but next month . . .
The interior of the car was hot and stuffy from sitting in the sun. The upholstery burned the back of her legs as she slid behind the wheel and hurriedly rolled the windows down. A gentle sea breeze breathed fresh air into the stagnant interior.
Closing the door, Deborah fastened her seatbelt and started the motor. As she backed out of the parking lot and drove forward onto the city streets of Hartford, she paid no attention to the cars buzzing around her. The sporty car zipped through the traffic while its competent driver pulled the pins from her hair and shook its length free of the bun so the wind blowing through the open windows could run its fingers through the burned red strands.
At the apartment complex, Deborah parked her car in the spot reserved for her. She didn't linger in the spring warmth of the afternoon, but hurried up the outside stairs to the second-story entrance of her studio flat.
The combination living room, dining room and kitchen was decorated in blue and white and silver chrome with an accenting array of potted plants. A teal blue carpet covered the floor in the living area, giving way to white tile streaked with gray and blue in the kitchen. Chrome and glass end tables flanked the sofa upholstered in variegated shades of blue, ranging from blue green to deep peacock blue. Two chairs complemented the sofa in solid shades of light and dark blue. Semiabstract paintings of sea and sky in chrome and black frames adorned the white walls. It was a cool and breezy atmosphere, reflecting the modern tastes and forward-thinking character of its occupant.
Deborah slipped out of her high-heeled shoes and wiggled her nylon-stockinged toes in the plush carpet. The door to the bedroom invited a change of clothes, but she walked to the refrigerator instead. A gallon jar of iced tea sat on the lower shelf. She sat it, and a tray of ice cubes from the freezer section, on the blue Formica top of the kitchen counter. She paused to take the receiver of the wall phone from its hook and punched out the number of the employment agency to report the results of her interview.
While it rang, she hunched her shoulder to hold the receiver to her ear, leaving her hands free to open the white-painted cupboard door and remove a glass.
"Mrs. Freeman, please," Deborah requested when the receptionist answered. Two ice cubes clattered into the glass as she was connected with the woman. Deborah juggled the telephone for a moment. "I wanted to let you know that I had my interview."
"How did it go?" The female voice sounded as if she expected the answer to be positive.
"Not too well. They want a man for the job." She overrode her rancor with nonchalance. "I hope you have some other job interviews lined up for me." Balancing the phone on her shoulder again, Deborah filled the glass with the cold tea from the gallon jug.
"Not at the moment." The private employment agent sounded briefly troubled before she forced a brightness into her tone. "But I'm sure we'll find something for you. I'll just have to check my files."
"Of course," Deborah responded dryly. She exchanged a few more courteous phrases with the woman before the conversation ended. As she turned away from the counter, she replaced the receiver on its wall hook and took a sip of her cold drink. The telephone instantly rang. Deborah answered it with a cool, "Hello."
"I didn't know whether you would be home yet or not," her mother's voice came over light, bright and cheery. "I was going to wait until this evening and call before I left for class to find out how your interview went."
"Rotten, if you must know," Deborah sighed.
"Oh." The one word reflected the disappointment the woman felt for her daughter's sake. "What happened?"
"I have the feeling that if I was your son instead of your daughter, I'd be hired now. There is nothing wrong with my qualifications or my experience, except that Mr. Wilding—" she spoke his name with mocking emphasis "—wants a man to fill the job."
"What was he like?" Her mother quietly shifted the subject.
"Arrogant. With about as much feeling as a stone." Deborah took another swallow of her cold drink.
"He isn't the only pebble on the beach."
Deborah groaned at her mother's attempted joke. "Please." She shook her head wryly. "At the moment his job is the only one in sight. In this instance it's a case of the light at the end of the tunnel is a train. He said I would be contacted soon about his decision, but . . ." Deborah left the sentence unfinished. "So, how is my college-girl mother?"
"Scared to death that she's going to flunk her tests. I'm not sure I should have let you talk me into these night courses."
There was so much hesitancy and lack of confidence in her mother's voice that Deborah wanted to sigh in frustration. "Don't talk like that. You are very intelligent. You just never had a chance to use it. Don't tell me you want to be a hotel maid all your life?"
"I'm not ashamed of it."
"Neither am I," she asserted. "But look at the way you pushed me to make something of myself. It's my turn to push you."
"In that case you can drive over here this weekend and help me study for the final semester exams," was the answering challenge.
"To tell you the truth, mom, if I don't get a job soon I won't be able to afford the gasoline to drive from Hartford to New Haven," Deborah admitted her growing financial dilemma.
"Is it that bad?" Her mother sounded worried.
"I'll find work," she assured quickly. "It's just I wanted that secretarial position so badly that every other offer has paled in comparison. I just have to stop being so picky."
"If you need the money, I'll return that check you sent me this month. Art mailed me some money. I can get by—"
"You keep that. If I needed it, I wouldn't have sent it," she lied, and immediately seized on the mention of her brother's name to change the subject. "Did Art mention when he'll get some leave? I take it you had a letter from him, which is more than I've had."
The rest of the conversation became focused on the family; money and finances had no more part in their discussion. Her mother finally became conscious of the length of the long-distance phone call and said goodbye, before her monthly telephone conversation with Deborah became too expensive.
"Relax and enjoy your free time," her mother offered in parting.
"Yes, I thought I'd change and go down to the pool," Deborah admitted.
"And don't give up hope about that job. That Mr. Wilding might have a change of heart."
"From granite to marble."
"Deborah." Her mother's tone chided her cynicism.
"I know. I need a good dose of optimism. Bye, mom."
THE EMPLOYMENT AGENCY had exhausted its supply of job openings that would suit Deborah's qualifications. She didn't have a single interview the rest of the week. On Friday morning she went to buy some New York newspapers and consider the possibility of moving out of the Hartford area to find work. She was unlocking the door to her apartment when she heard her phone ringing inside. Naturally the key stuck. A few angry curses aided in getting it free and she rushed to answer the phone.
"Ms. Deborah Holland, please," a female voice requested.
"This is she." Part of the thick newspaper slipped from her hand and skittered to the floor.
"Please hold the line while I connect you to Mr. Wilding."
An eyebrow s
hot up in surprise. The man himself was calling her to deliver the bad news. Deborah hadn't expected that. As a matter of fact, she hadn't expected any notification about the position until the latter part of next week.
A line clicked. "Miss Holland."
It was strange how immediately familiar his voice sounded, cool and commanding, hard like frozen ice. "Yes, sir." She hoped she sounded equally bland.
"Report to my office Monday morning, promptly at seven o'clock."
"Seven o'clock?" It took a second for the implication of his statement to sink in. "This means you are offering me the job."
"I certainly wouldn't waste my time asking you to come to my office on Monday if I intended to offer the position to someone else." His dry taunt mocked her with searing indifference.
Her backbone stiffened at his chiding response. "Am I not allowed any time to consider the job offer before deciding whether to accept it?"
"You have had plenty of time to decide whether or not you would want the position providing it was offered to you, Miss Holland." His tone held little patience. "If you haven't made up your mind by now, then you aren't the person for the job." He paused, and Deborah couldn't think of a single response. "Do you want it or shall I call someone else?"
"I want it, Mr. Wilding," she admitted through her teeth, gritting them until they ached.
"Monday morning. Seven o'clock."
"I'll—" The line was already dead. There was only the hum of the dial tone in her ear.
Deborah glared at the receiver for a frozen instant before slamming it back on its cradle. The newspapers rustled noisily under her feet. There was no need to study the out-of-town classified advertisements. She had work—the position she wanted, but she didn't feel any desire to celebrate.
Bending down, she picked up the newspaper and jammed it in the wastebasket, then walked to her green and blue bedroom to choose her wardrobe for the week ahead. Deborah had no illusions about her new job. Challenging might not be a strong enough word to describe it. And she had no doubt that she would soon find a better word. Z. Wilding would see to that.
