by Janet Dailey
She was fixing a glass of iced tea when the doorbell rang. The sound startled her. It was barely five o'clock, not the hour when any of her friends might stop by to see her. She was so infrequently home lately that most of them had stopped calling. But Deborah had been so busy it hadn't mattered. A puzzled frown clouded her expression as she crossed the room to open the door.
"Tom!" She blinked in surprise at the brown-haired man standing on her threshold. "I didn't expect to see you. What are you doing here?" Remembering her manners, she opened the door wider. "Come in."
"I stopped by to see how you are." He walked into the apartment, mild brown eyes smiling at her.
"I'm fine . . . considering," Deborah qualified the statement with an offhand shrug. "I'm glad you came by. I was just pouring myself a glass of iced tea. Would you like some?"
"Sounds good." As she walked to the kitchen counter, he glanced around the modern studio apartment. "You have a nice place."
"Thank you." She handed him a glass of tea and turned to retrieve her own.
Tom noticed the way she cradled her left arm in front of her to relieve the pressure. "How's that arm?" He sipped at his tea, studying her over the rim of his glass.
"It aches." It felt as if it were swollen twice its size, which of course it wasn't.
"Have you taken the pain pills the doctor prescribed for you?" He must have guessed that she was understating her discomfort because his brown eyes narrowed in quiet speculation.
"No."
"Why?"
"Because I don't believe in taking pills. The body should feel pain when it's hurt," Deborah answered defensively. The telephone rang and staved off the argument forming on Tom's lips. Setting the glass of tea on the counter, she lifted the receiver of the wall phone. "Holland residence."
"Deborah?"
The rich timbre of Zane Wilding's voice vibrated through her. Her heart skittered across her rib cage to create a funny sensation in the pit of her stomach. The way he said her name made it sound different, not quite belonging to her. Coming from him, it was always Miss Holland. There was something decidedly intimate in the use of her first name. It strangled her throat.
"Yes." Deborah forced the word out after a breathlessly long pause.
"Has Tom arrived yet?"
She darted a look at the man in question. "Yes."
"Let me speak to him."
She couldn't acknowledge the order. Instead she shoved the receiver toward Tom and announced tightly, "It's for you."
As he took the telephone from her, Deborah grabbed for her iced-tea glass, needing something in her hands to hide her trembling. Zane could have at least asked how she was, she thought bitterly and realized she was feeling sorry for herself.
Her back was to Tom, but she heard him say, "Her color is good but she says her arm is hurting her. It goes against her principles to take the pain pills the doctor prescribed . . . I'll tell her," Tom said in response to whatever Zane had said.
The statement made Deborah turn around, curious to know what message he was supposed to relay to her. After that Tom's responses became monosyllabic. Yet the way he kept looking at her gave Deborah the impression the conversation was still focused on her.
When Tom hung up the telephone, Deborah attempted a nonchaleant inquiry. "What was that all about?"
"Zane said he didn't care what your principles were. You are supposed to take one of those pain pills. As a matter of fact, he made it a direct order," Tom smiled in a bemused way.
"Because it's a direct order from him, that's supposed to make a difference?" she mocked.
"Because it's a direct order, you are supposed to do what you always do—obey it without question," he replied half in jest and half seriously. "Honestly, Deborah, it will help you rest and relax."
"Perhaps." She abandoned her ice-tea glass and hugged her right arm protectively over her left. Bitterness crept into her voice. "But don't pretend that he cares how I feel."
"If you had seen him after he received that telephone call from the hospital this morning, you wouldn't say that. Zane was upset," he insisted gently.
"Sure, he was upset," she agreed acidly. "The accident forced a postponement of his business meeting. He had to find out whether he was going to be forced to find someone to take my place. I'm not indispensable, Tom. He made that quite clear."
"None of us is indispensable—not even Zane. I think you took whatever he said too personally."
"If I did, I certainly can't blame him, can I?" Deborah laughed and it was a derisive sound. "Nothing with him is ever personal. He must be the original iceman—with all his feelings frozen inside."
Tom swirled the liquid in his glass and watched the tiny whirlpool of brown tea. "These last few years Zane has suppressed nearly all of his emotions to lead a monklike existence. It has made him appear hard and without feeling. Don't be taken in by the facade, Deborah. He cares, but he's blocked all the outlets that might let it show."
Her head was tipped to the side in an attitude that was both skeptical and intrigued. "Monklike existence'' was the last phrase she would have attributed to Zane. There was so much raw virility about him that it defied the imagination to conceive of his taking a vow of celibacy.
"Are you trying to tell me that—" Deborah began in scoffing amusement.
But Tom interrupted, crossing the room to the sofa. "I don't have to tell you about his marriage. I'm sure your imagination is vivid enough. But when Zane took the vows 'for better or worse, in sickness and in health,' he meant them."
His words led Deborah into a mental maze, a labyrinth of thoughts that didn't offer a quick escape. She was conscious of Tom picking up her purse and exploring its contents, but it didn't really register in her mind. He crossed the room to stand in front of her.
"Open your mouth," he ordered. When she did, he placed a white pill on her tongue and handed her the glass of iced tea from the counter. "Drink."
She washed the pill down without realizing what she was doing. Tom had shown her a new facet to her employer's character. And Deborah wasn't sure it was one she wanted to explore.
"Will you feel like coming to work in the morning?'' Tom asked.
"Yes. I'd rather be working than sitting around here." Her reply was absent but truthful.
"Your car won't be fixed until Monday, so I'll pick you up in the morning. Around eight?"
"That's late."
"So? Enjoy the pampering and stop complaining," he teased.
Deborah smiled, as he intended her to do. "Eight o'clock and I wasn't complaining."
"Have you eaten?"
"A sandwich."
He grimaced at that. Her opinion precisely. "There's a great seafood place down the street. Why don't I go bring us back something to eat?"
"Sounds great." Much better than trying to eat alone.
It was eight o'clock that evening before Tom finally left. It had been a very enjoyable evening, too. Tom was easy to talk to, and a witty conversationalist, as well. Not one word of business had been spoken, which was definitely a novelty. The pain in her arm had been reduced to a dull ache by the time Deborah crawled into bed shortly after he'd left. She immediately fell asleep.
Chapter Five
TOM WAS SITTING on the corner of her desk, in the middle of telling a joke. "This fire-and-brimstone preacher finishes his sermon with a cry that all the liquor in every house should be taken to the river and emptied into it. Then he gives a baleful look at the congregation and gives them instructions to rise and open their hymnbooks to number 201—''
Deborah anticipated the punch line and began singing, "Shall We Gather at the River." They both broke into laughter.
"You've heard it before," he accused.
"No, honestly," she denied. "It was just so obvious.''
"It was, wasn't it?" he agreed and they laughed again.
At the sound of the door opening, Deborah glanced up to see Zane walk in. It was almost two weeks since the accident and her arm had healed n
icely. The only lingering aftereffect from the incident was the funny, curling sensation in the pit of her stomach when her employer appeared without prior warning. It was happening now. His impassive expression wiped the smile from her face.
"I hope the two of you have accomplished some serious work in my absence," he remarked in a searingly dry tone.
Tom turned, smiling easily. "Hello, Zane. I was just telling Deborah a joke I'd heard," he was explaining their laughter but not defending it.
The explanation didn't soften his expression as Zane stopped at her desk. "When you are sufficiently recovered to intend to serious business, bring me the geological study on the Sand-Sea project."
His attitude riled Deborah's temper. As he turned away from her desk, she muttered, "I don't know where you lost your sense of humor, Mr. Wilding, but I wish you'd find it."
He paused, half turning to give her a sidelong look of lazy challenge. "Would you like to suggest a place where I might look for it, Miss Holland?"
She had expected him to ignore her comment. For an instant, she hesitated. He was her employer, but a little voice goaded her with the reminder that he had asked for a suggestion. She lifted her chin a fraction of an inch to meet his gaze.
"Yes, I would." Deborah smiled with taunting sweetness. "Why don't you go to hell to find it?"
"I have a busy schedule. It's your job to fit these little side trips in, Miss Holland." It was impossible, but there seemed to be a glint of amusement in those usually cold blue eyes.
Tom laughed, knowing her remark had been successfully countered. "What now, Deborah?"
A suitable retort escaped her, but Zane negated the need for one by speaking first. "Now she can bring me that study. We have a lot of business to get out of the way before I leave for California, so be prepared for a long day." With the warning issued, Zane walked to his desk to begin work.
"No rest for the wicked," Tom sighed mockingly and straightened from her desk. "You know where to find me if you need me."
Deborah gave him an answering nod but didn't verbally respond. His office was hidden away in the accounting section. Over the months, Deborah had learned that Tom Brookshire was something of a mathematical whiz, an expert in accounting and computers as well as a fairly accurate economic forecaster. Plus he held a law degree, although numbers were his particular fascination.
As Tom left, closing the door, Deborah sifted through the stacks of papers, reports and notes piled on her desk. She never seemed to make any headway when it came to clearing it, only in shifting the papers from one stack to another. For all the disorganized appearance of her desktop, there was a system to it. She found the geological survey report almost immediately and carried it to his desk.
Zane barely looked up when she set it in front of him. "Get Dan Adams on the phone for me, Deborah.''
Her heart did a little flip. He had used her name unconsciously, influenced by Tom's ready use of it. It had happened a half dozen times since the accident, usually when it was just the two of them in the office. Coming at unexpected times, like now, it did funny things to her, ruffling her composure and throwing her momentarily off balance.
Deborah nodded an affirmative response to his request. Since Zane wasn't looking at her, he didn't see it. "Was there anything else, Mr. Wilding?" she asked, her voice sounding quite controlled and businesslike.
This close, she caught the lingering scent of chlorine that the soap hadn't washed away after his noon-hour swim in the pool. Deborah had never taken him up on his offer to indulge in an hour of exercise and sun on her lunch break. But there were times when she envied his invigorated glow after one of those sessions.
Zane didn't immediately respond to her question finishing the note he was jotting on a margin of report. He combed his fingers through his black hair that gleamed with the texture of rumpled silk, before lifting his head.
"Have you finished transcribing those notes on the environmental impact study?" he questioned with an absent frown.
"Mrs. Haines is typing them now."
"I want to see them as soon as she's done." It was a dismissal and Deborah returned to her desk.
THE STREETLIGHTS CAME ON outside the window, signaling the darkness of the hour. Deborah was seated in a straight chair in front of Zane's desk, taking down his rapid dictation. True to his prediction, it was turning out to be a marathon day. Tom had stuck his head in twenty minutes ago to say if there was nothing more, he was leaving. Zane had waved dismissal with barely a pause.
The rumblings of her empty stomach were growing louder. Surely, Deborah thought, he could hear them and get the message. Her fingers ached from gripping the pencil so tightly to keep up with his rapid pace. Her concentration was wavering after the long hours she had already put in. Deborah found herself unable to keep with him.
"Slow down a minute," she complained. He paused until her pencil stopped its scratching on her steno pad, then started again.
He had barely got the next sentence out when the door burst open. "I knew I'd find the two of you together!" a hysterical voice screamed in accusation.
"Sylvia!" Zane was on his feet, glaring angrily at the wild-eyed blonde weaving into the room, before Deborah had even turned around.
"Don't sound so outraged!" his wife mocked in a slurring voice. "I've finally caught you. Don't think for one minute I'm taken in by the supposed innocence of this scene. I know you've been making love to her. But you heard me coming and—"
"That's enough, Sylvia!" His voice was an explosion of anger that made Deborah cringe involuntarily, an automatic reaction to a violent noise.
But Sylvia Wilding must have been too numbed by alcohol to feel the reverberating shock waves of his anger. "You can't fool me!" she screamed in a nearly demented voice. "Just look at her face." She waved a limp hand toward Deborah. "She isn't as good at controlling her emotions as you are. Her face is red as a beet."
It was true. Deborah could feel the scarlet heat staining her cheeks, but not for the reason his wife was implying, not because it was true, but because of the disturbing picture her mind had just painted of her locked in a passionate embrace with her employer.
"If Miss Holland is embarrassed, it's because she would prefer not to witness you making a fool of yourself with your absurd accusations," Zane snapped.
"Absurd!" his wife began.
"Yes, absurd! Open your eyes, Sylvia, if you can see through that alcoholic haze," he added contemptuously. "Does it really look as if I've been chasing Miss Holland around my desk? Are either of us out of breath? Are our clothes mussed?"
His wife looked from one to the other. She seemed to crumple before Deborah's very eyes into a sobbing, tragically pathetic creature.
"You may leave, Miss Holland," Zane issued the stiff order. When Deborah didn't immediately move to obey, he added a strident, "Now!"
Normally she would have made an attempt at straightening her cluttered desk, but this time Deborah just set her steno pad and pencil on top of some papers and grabbed her purse from a bottom drawer.
All the while Sylvia Wilding kept sobbing over and over again. "I'm sorry, Zane. Forgive me. Please, forgive me."
But as Deborah walked out of the office, he had made no move to comfort the crying woman. He was still standing rigidly behind his desk. Deborah felt that old surge of resentment at his callousness and slammed the door. He had about as much compassion as one of his computers.
Halfway down the corridor to the exit, Deborah realized that she didn't have her car keys. They were lying on her desk in the office where she'd left them that morning. She'd have to go back for them. It couldn't be helped.
Reentering the outer office, she crossed the darkened room to the door of Zane Wilding's private office. As she turned the knob to enter, she heard the voices inside and hesitated. Sylvia's crying had been reduced to occasional hiccuping sounds.
"I need a drink, Zane." She sounded frantic. "Don't you have any whiskey in this place?" There were noises that suggested
she was searching the desks and cabinets for liquor.
"You aren't going to find Ethan in any bottle." His voice was like a whip, slashing and cutting, more destroying than if he had shouted. "If you keep drinking, it will kill you."
"But don't you see—that's what I want! I want to die!" His wife cried. "I want to be with my son again! I want to be with Ethan!"
"You don't know what you're saying. Come on. I'm taking you home." The fury in his harsh tone was severely checked.
Deborah hovered indecisively. Should she make her presence known or would it be better to wait in the shadows until they had left? She backed a step away from the door, nibbling at her lip as she tried to decide.
"Don't touch me!" Sylvia screamed. "I can't stand it!"
There was a crash and the sound of glass breaking. An eerie cry of terror sent shivers down Deborah's spine. From inside the room, she heard Zane's muffled curse.
"Dammit, Sylvia. Look what you've done!" he muttered savagely.
"It hurts, Zane," his wife whimpered.
"I'm surprised you can feel anything." His dry retort was particularly cutting.
Overwhelmed by curiosity, Deborah couldn't stand to remain outside not knowing what had happened. She didn't care whether her presence was wanted or not. She opened the door and stopped just inside the room. Zane was wrapping a handkerchief around his wife's hand, the white linen showing the red stains of blood. Sylvia was watching with almost hypnotized horror.
His blue gaze slashed to Deborah, pinning her where she stood. "What are you doing here?"
"I left my car keys on the desk. What happened?" She stared at him with vague accusation in her gray eyes. In her mind, she blamed Zane indirectly for whatever had happened. If he hadn't treated his wife so roughly, she wouldn't have become so hysterical.
"My wife cut her hand on some broken glass. It isn't serious." He finished wrapping the handkerchief and attempted to put an arm around his wife's shoulders. "I'll take you home."
