Difficult Decision: Connecticut (The Americana Series Book 7)

by Janet Dailey

  As Zane became aware of her continued presence beside him, he turned and gestured to Tom to take her out of the room. His look was cold when it glanced off her, his eyes the deep arctic blue of a glacier. Deborah was stunned by his attitude.

  As Tom took hold of her arm to lead her away, she heard Zane say to his wife, "Don't be ridiculous. I have never refused to take a call from you. If anyone claims I did, they're lying. Where is Madelaine?" Ignoring Deborah's outraged look at the implication in his words that labeled her a liar, Zane covered the receiver and issued a sharp order to Tom, "She says she doesn't know where Madelaine is. Try the other estate number. If you can't get anybody, patch Armbruster onto this line."

  "Right."

  Tom didn't take any notice of Deborah's stiffness as he escorted her from the conference room. Outside, Mrs. Haines had commandeered a typist's desk and was using the phone. She looked up anxiously when Tom stopped at her chair.

  "I can't get any answer at the other number," she informed him.

  "Keep trying." His fingers remained firmly on Deborah's elbow as he walked to an adjoining desk. "Take a coffee break," he told the young typist and glanced at her coworkers in the room trying not to show their interest in what was happening. In a louder voice Tom ordered, "Everyone take a twenty-minute break."

  As the typing pool was cleared, Deborah muttered angrily beneath her breath, "I have never been so humiliated in all my life. She had no reason to speak to me like that. Everyone in the whole room heard what she said."

  Tom's mouth slanted in a wry smile. "Sooner or later everyone in the company will begin speculating about whether you and Zane are having an affair. Sylvia just put the thought in their minds that much quicker." He picked up the telephone and tapped out a number on the push buttons.

  Tom's reply didn't do anything to cool the heat in her cheeks. "They can speculate all they like and it will still be absurd. That arrogant—" Deborah checked the word that trembled on the edge of her tongue. "He practically called me a liar, when he had made it very plain that he wanted all calls held while he was in that meeting."

  "All calls do not include ones from his wife. They are put through to him, regardless," Tom informed her.

  "No one told me that," she retorted.

  "That's unfortunate," he admitted, then turned his attention to the receiver in his hand. "Yes, Armbruster. Sylvia's on another line. Hold on while I patch you through." After a hurried consultation with the operator, Tom made the connection between the two lines and hung up his receiver. The tense lines of concern that had etched the corners of his mouth, went away as he sighed and turned his attention back to Deborah. His gaze lightly scanned the indignant thinness of her lips and the silvery lights glittering angrily in her gray eyes. "Don't take the things Sylvia said to you too personally."

  "Too personally?" Her scoffing laugh was harsh. "I have never been made to feel so cheap in all my life. A sailor would have turned red at some of her language."

  "Yes. . . " Tom paused to take a deep breath, an action that seemed weary. "Sylvia can't be held responsible for what she does . . . or says."

  "If you mean simply because she was drunk, I should ignore—"

  "Sylvia is an alcoholic," Tom interrupted.

  "I didn't know." Deborah frowned. "I didn't guess. When she was in the officer—"

  "She happened to be sober that time." He sat his lanky frame on the edge of the desk, hooking a leg over the corner. "Zane doesn't talk about it, but I'm not telling you anything that isn't common knowledge to the other members of his private staff. Since you are now a part of the team you might as well know, too."

  "I see," she murmured, her feeling of outrage slowly dissolving.

  "I've known Sylvia almost as long as I've known Zane. She was never a very emotionally stable girl. Her moods fluctuated from very high to very low. After Ethan drowned, she fell apart."

  "Ethan? What was Ethan?"

  "Their son. He was only four years old. Sylvia was in a doctor's care for several months after his death. She blamed herself for the accident. He was out playing by the river and fell into the water. Sylvia had been reading not far away while he played. She heard him scream, but by the time she reached the riverbank he'd gone under. She was hysterical when Zane finally found her wading along the river searching for Ethan's body. That was fourteen years ago."

  "But hasn't anyone tried to—" Deborah stopped, hesitant that she might be asking questions that weren't any of her business.

  "I don't know how many times Zane has had her dried out, but it rarely lasts longer than a month before she goes on another binge. Obviously that's what happened today. Sometimes she just cries and other times she makes a lot of wild accusations against friends and relatives alike. There have been occasions when she gets drunk and doesn't say a word for days, just walks around in a stupor. It's pitiful, really."

  "Yes, I can see that," Deborah nodded.

  The conference-room door opened and Zane stepped out. He glanced around the empty and virtually silent typing pool, before his grim look stopped on Tom.

  "Have somebody bring in a fresh pot of coffee and tell the others we will resume the meeting in fifteen minutes," he ordered. His hard gaze burned to Deborah. "Come in here, Miss Holland."

  Uncertainty flickered across her expression as she glanced at Tom, but he was already straightening from the desk to carry out Zane's request. Deborah had no idea what she had done to spark his obvious displeasure, but she wasn't about to let him intimidate her with his glowering expression. Carrying herself with determined poise, Deborah walked past Zane into the empty conference room and left him to close the door behind her.

  "Would you explain to me what the hell you were trying to prove by refusing that phone call?" With hardly a break in stride, he made his tight-lipped demand and swept past her to the chair at the head of the long conference table.

  "What I was trying to prove!" Her temper ignited and she tried to bank the heat of her anger. "I was following the instructions you left to hold all calls. I wasn't aware that the restriction didn't include your wife!"

  "Now you are. I don't want a repeat of this incident,'' he snapped and picked up the opened report lying on the table.

  "You don't want a repeat of this! I can assure you neither do I!" Deborah flared.

  His gaze lifted from the papers to study impassively the storm clouds in her look. "Are you expecting an apology for what happened?" There was a menacing quality to the softly spoken question.

  "I don't think it would be asking too much," she retorted.

  "If I began apologizing for every time my wife made an ass of herself, I would be doing it the rest of my life. Now that you are aware of the type of treatment you can expect to receive from my wife, you have a choice of either accepting it or leaving," he challenged with cold indifference.

  "Just like that," she breathed in enraged astonishment.

  "I'm not about to pander to your ego, Miss Holland. If you can't take a few insults from a drunk, I have no use for you. You'd better learn to roll with the punches, even the low blows, or you'll never make it in this organization. Make up your mind. You either stay or you go. I only have room in my life for one paranoid female."

  Pressing her lips into a thin line, Deborah turned on her heel and walked to the corner table where she had left her pencil and note pad beside the telephone. With these in hand, she returned to the chair she had occupied on Zane Wilding's left and sat down. Through her actions, she gave him her decision. His expressionless blue eyes took note of the fact, but he made no comment.

  Chapter Three

  "MY, BUT IT IS HUMID this evening." The sophisticated brown-haired woman leaned closer to the long mirror and pressed powder on her shiny nose and cheeks. A huge diamond cocktail ring on her finger caught fire in the artificial light.

  "Yes, it is." Deborah was seated on one of the pink velvet-covered stools in the elegant powder room of the exclusive restaurant. She took her time freshening her li
pstick as her gray eyes flickered to the manicured reflection of Mrs. Darrow, wife of a well-known financier. He was vacationing in Florida, hence the flying business trip to Tampa to meet with him.

  "I have tried to convince Bianca that it would be much too warm to dine on the lanai this evening." The woman's glance strayed to her daughter standing next to her, fluffing her long chestnut curls. "But she thought it would be so romantic. It was a very evocative setting, but I feel so sticky now."

  "Yes." Deborah blotted her lips with a tissue.

  What had started out to be a business dinner to persuade the financier, Foster Darrow, to back a large land development project LaCosta Enterprises had in the works, had rapidly deteriorated into a social event. Instead of it being a quiet dinner between the financier and Zane with Deborah and Mrs. Darrow sitting on the sidelines, the man had brought his nineteen-year-old daughter along. She was a beautiful girl with glossy chestnut hair and golden tanned skin. Within minutes after being introduced to Zane she had made her interest in him quite obvious. At virtually the same instant, Zane had excused himself to find out what was delaying Tom Brookshire.

  To Deborah's knowledge there had been no mention of Tom's being included in the evening's discussion. Fifteen minutes later, Tom had joined them and immediately began exuding his quiet charm on the daughter, distracting her attention from Zane. It hadn't taken Deborah long to realize that her employer was using Tom as a buffer to keep the aggressive young girl at bay.

  She felt sorry for Bianca Darrow, but part of her understood the attraction the girl felt for the aloof, dark man. His remoteness and air of indifference toward the opposite sex challenged a woman to be the one he noticed. Couple that with his severely handsome looks and latent virility and it made a very potent combination.

  "I don't know how many times I've told Foster that we have no business coming to Florida in July. The climate is so tropical that it's oppressive in the summer," Mrs. Darrow declared.

  "Tonight is an exception," Deborah defended without rancor. "Usually the Gulf breezes keep it from becoming too steamy."

  "Have you lived here long?" The faintly brittle question came from Bianca Darrow.

  "I live in Connecticut."

  "How long have you worked for Zane?" A pair of youthfully haughty brown eyes swept over Deborah's reflection, as if assessing her competition.

  Her copper-tipped lashes veiled the dry humor the girl's look prompted. Deborah could have told the girl that she had nothing to worry about from her. If she had been a robot, Zane Wilding couldn't have shown less interest in her personal life. He didn't even recognize that she had one. The distantly polite smiles Bianca Darrow had received tonight were more than Deborah had seen in all the time she had been working for Zane Wilding. And none of them had ever been directed at her.

  "I've been in Mr. Wilding's employ for a little over three months now," Deborah answered and absently smoothed her dark copper hair at the sides, checking to be sure no wisp had escaped the sleek coil at the nape of her neck.

  "Did you know him before?" The young brunette wandered over to stand behind Deborah.

  "No." Deborah noticed how much her suntan had faded. The long working hours that sometimes included the weekends, had deprived her of free time to spend lazing in the Connecticut summer sun. Compared to Bianca Darrow, she looked pale, her complexion the color of golden cream framed by the burnt copper shade of her hair.

  "It's a shame about his wife," Bianca commented in a probing fashion. "Do you know her?"

  "I met Mrs. Wilding once," Deborah admitted and offered no more than that.

  "From all I've heard, she must be an ill woman," Mrs. Darrow inserted. Deborah had suspected the woman had a gossiping nature and wondered how she could get out of this conversation. "It can't be a happy marriage, I'm surprised he hasn't divorced her after all this time."

  "I image Mr. Wilding feels she is his wife—in sickness and in health." Deborah slipped the tube of lipstick into her small purse. Truthfully, she didn't know what his feelings were toward his wife, or even if he had any.

  "No one would blame him if he divorced her and tried to find happiness with someone else," Bianca stated with a faintly wistful look in her brown eyes.

  "No one would blame him," Deborah agreed dryly. "But I don't think Mr. Wilding would be concerned if they did."

  "Has Zane ever indicated to you that he was considering a divorce?" the girl questioned.

  "I am merely one of his business aides, Mr. Wilding doesn't discuss his personal affairs with me." Deborah put faint stress on the formal term of address, seeking to emphasize her point that her relationship to Zane Wilding involved only business.

  The girl turned to her mother. "I don't think he lets it show, but I'm certain Zane is a very lonely man."

  If he was, Deborah thought to herself, it was by choice. There were probably a lot of attractive women, like Bianca Darrow, who were eager to console him. Perhaps he had a mistress or two hidden away, although Deborah didn't know when he ever found the time to see them. Her own social life had become practically nonexistent since she had gone to work for him.

  Glancing at her reflection in the full-length mirror, Deborah ran an adjusting hand around the ruffed neckline of her white silk blouse. It was discreetly scooped to show off the cameo necklace resting near the hollow of her throat. Her narrowly pleated skirt in a green and white pattern almost touched the floor, belted at the waist to accent its slimness. Deborah never dressed to draw attention to herself, but the simple styles always succeeded in pointing out her natural assets rather than downplaying them.

  "It must be wonderful to work so closely with Zane," Bianca remarked with a trace of envy.

  "It's very challenging," Deborah altered the meaning without disagreeing with the young woman. She knew what a hard taskmaster her employer was. But Bianca Darrow's rose-colored view had painted him as a very romantic figure and she would never have accepted Deborah's opinion of the driving, emotionless side she had been exposed to. "Shall we rejoin the others in the lounge?" she suggested.

  "We should, yes," Mrs. Darrow glanced and laughed with shrill gaiety. "Of course, Foster is used to waiting for me, but I imagine Zane is an impatient man."

  Deborah didn't comment on that as she led the way out of the ladies' powder room to the dimly lighted lounge. A small band was playing a slow number for a handful of couples on the dance floor. At their approach, the three men rose courteously to seat them. Deborah walked around the table to take the chair between her employer and the financier. It was her usual position at most informal meetings, permitting her to take mental notes of what Zane Wilding said and the response he received. She doubted that there would be much business discussion this evening, though.

  In a strictly polite gesture, Zane Wilding pulled her chair away from the small circular table. Her absent smile was equally automatic, with no more meaning than his action. As she moved to the front of the chair and lifted her long skirt out of the way, he inclined his head slightly toward her.

  "I have already ordered you an after-dinner drink. A Drambuie," he informed her in a low tone. "Is that acceptable?"

  "Yes." She paused to answer him, turning her head to look at him when she did.

  "Listen to that music, Zane." Bianca Darrow had walked to the chair on the other side of Zane, a position that put her between him and Tom Brookshire. There was an effusive, happy sound to her comment. "Doesn't it make you want to dance?" Her question angled for an invitation.

  Indifferent to the young woman's obvious attempts to gain her employer's attention, Deborah started to sit down. A strong, male hand clamped itself on her wrist to stop the movement. Startled by the knowledge the hand belonged to Zane Wilding, her questioning eyes darted to the impenetrable mask of his dark features. His next words surprised her even more than the unexpectedness of his touch.

  "As a matter of fact, it does," he agreed smoothly with Bianca's remark. "I just asked Miss Holland to have this dance with me.
You will excuse us." The last comment was directed to everyone at the table.

  Concealing her astonishment and ignorance of any invitation, Deborah managed to close her mouth before she was led away from the table to the dance floor. Just as Tom had been used as a buffer, her presence was being utilized to keep the young woman at a distance. Deborah didn't think for one minute that Zane Wilding was doing it because he couldn't deal with Bianca Darrow's blatant pursuit. She suspected that he was avoiding any rude confrontation that might offend the girl's father. It was a rare show of diplomacy from a man whom Deborah had been accustomed to hearing bluntly speak his mind. She saw the bitter flash of jealousy in Bianca's look as Zane guided her to the dance floor.

  An odd feeling of self-consciousness attacked Deborah when he shifted his hold on her wrist and placed a hand on the curve of her waist. The other couples dancing to the slow music were almost melted together, but at least six inches separated Deborah from the leanly muscled build of her partner. His steps followed a basic pattern that was easy to follow, although the hand at her waist made sure of it by firmly directly her movements to match his.

  Deborah wasn't sure which was more unnerving—being held so firmly at a distance as Zane was doing now, or being held close to the hard male body inches from her own. Either way, the situation made her feel on edge. The warmth in the strong fingers clasping hers brought a tightness to her throat. Her gaze focused itself on an imaginary point on his right shoulder, rather than lift the few inches necessary to study his face at close quarters.

  Just the same she was conscious of his slanted jaw-line and strong chin on a level somewhere near her forehead, and the chiseled contours of his mouth above that. The clean, manly fragrance of his shaving cologne dominated her sense of smell and disturbed her breathing.