by Janet Dailey
"He couldn't get a furlough, but he has his fingers crossed for Christmas. I'd love to talk longer, Deborah, but since you are on your way home, I'm sure you don't want to stay around the office much longer in case your slave-driving boss finds you something else to do to keep you later."
"You are right." Partly, anyway. "I'll be there the Saturday before so I can help you with dinner."
"If you patch up your differences with your man friend, bring him along."
"Don't count on that, mom. See you."
"Take care."
As Deborah hung up the phone, she turned to find Zane watching her, a lighted cigarette between his fingers. He glanced at the smoke curling from the tip, his expression unreadable. "I take it one of your brothers is coming home. Or is Art an old boyfriend?"
"My brother. He has a furlough over Thanksgiving, so we're all getting together for a family dinner the Sunday before." She didn't know why she was telling him.
"The weekend after next."
"Yes." So soon, she thought.
"You can have the Friday before off."
"There's no need," Deborah started to protest.
"It will give you time to pack whatever clothes and belongings you'll need for a month." Her mouth opened at the statement but Zane didn't give her a chance to ask where she would be going for a month—or why. "Instead of reporting back to work here on Monday morning, you can go directly to my country estate. Here are the directions.'' He ripped off a sheet of paper from the scratch pad on his desk and crossed the room to hand it to her.
"Your country estate?" Deborah looked at the directions blankly. "But why there?"
"Since my marriage, I have made it a custom to spend the holidays there. I don't see any reason to alter that tradition at this late date. Everything in this office will be transferred and we'll carry on our business as usual from there. A room is being prepared for you in the guest wing, since it would be impractical for you to drive back and forth. It is as spacious as your apartment, to assure you of maximum privacy while you're there." He paused in his aloof explanation to cast a cool glance in her direction. "Naturally, your meals will be provided. Do you have any questions about the arrangements, Miss Holland?"
"Not if you don't." The two of them under one roof for a month would be flirting with danger. Deborah knew it. Zane had to, as well. But if he was prepared to take the risk, she wasn't going to appear weak by running.
"Very well." He turned away and walked back to his desk. He never gave her another glance as he said, "Good night, Miss Holland."
Tight-lipped, she didn't return the salutation as she gathered up her briefcase and purse and walked out of the office. This air of strictly business was a farce. One of these days it was going to blow up in their faces. Deborah had the feeling the explosion wasn't very far away.
IT WAS TEN O'CLOCK that evening before she put aside the report she was compiling. It was a demanding task to organize the data from three sources into a comprehensive and highly detailed summary. When the typescript began to blur, Deborah knew she had worked too long. But it had kept her mind off more disturbing subjects—like her boss.
Tense from all that concentration, she filled the bathtub with hot water and scented bubbles. She had barely relaxed in the luxury of a leisurely bath when the telephone rang. Deborah listened to the summons of the first half dozen rings and tried to be the kind of person who could ignore the telephone. On the eighth ring, she gave up the attempt and sloshed out of the tub to dash hurriedly to the kitchen wall phone. She didn't even stop to grab a towel, thankful she had closed the drapes previously.
"Hello?" She picked up the phone and waited for a response. When none came, she swore angrily at the unknown person who had hung up. "Damn!" But as she started to slam the receiver back on its hook, Zane's voice came over the line.
"Hello?"
The anger went out of her with a rush. "Yes."
"I didn't get an answer so I started to hang up, thinking you were gone," he stated.
"I was taking a bath," Deborah explained, a little of her irritation returning. "The trail of bubbles dissolving on my carpet would prove that."
His sharp intake of breath came clearly over the line. "Dammit to hell, Deborah! Why did you have to say that?" Zane muttered.
"I wasn't trying to be provocative, Mr. Wilding." She gave him a taste of his own formality, paying him back for all the times he had squelched her familiarity. "Why did you call?"
"Did you work on that report this evening?" At her affirmative response to his question, Zane informed her that there were two points that he wanted highly detailed. He went over them briefly, and asked if she had any questions.
"No. I believe I've already covered the specific areas you mentioned," she said, matching his crisp tone. "But I will check to be certain. Is there anything else?"
His pause lasted no longer than a heartbeat. "No. Nothing."
"Then, good night, Mr. Wilding." It helped the ego to be the one who dismissed him for a change. She heard his clipped response just before the receiver settled onto its hook.
The evaporating bathwater had raised goose bumps on her skin, the scented bubbles drying and dissolving on her body. Shivering, Deborah hurried back to the bathroom. The water was only lukewarm. She rinsed the film of dried bubbles from her skin and toweled herself dry. There was nothing left but to go to bed.
Chapter Eight
THE DIRECTIONS Zane had given her were easy to follow. It was midmorning when she saw the black iron and red brick fences that marked the roadside boundary of his Connecticut estate. On one side of the road were pastures and the plowed ground of tobacco fields. Beyond the grillwork barrier there was the rolling expanse of a lawn splattered with the bright autumn colors of fallen leaves.
Red brick pillars towered on either side of the entrance. The scrolled iron gates stood open, as if waiting for her. Deborah followed the road that led through the trees to end in a cul-de-sac in front of an old colonial manor house. The sprawling two-storied house was built of red brick with white window and door casings. The front entrance was an impressive portico with white columns.
There was a narrow driveway that branched off the cul-de-sac; it apparently went to the rear of the house. Deborah debated whether she should take it, and decided instead to park in front of the house for the time being. She had barely stepped out of the car when the large white front door, with its brass knocker, was opened. A dark-haired woman in her late thirties stepped out. Dressed casually in slacks and sweater, she walked to the head of the short flight of steps leading to the porticoed entrance to greet Deborah.
"Hello. You must be Deborah Holland." The woman's smile was quick and ready, but there was a no-nonsense quality about her that earned Deborah's immediate approval. "I'm Madelaine Hayes."
Madelaine. Deborah remembered Zane mentioning that name, and always in connection with his wife. She climbed the steps and accepted the hand outstretched to greet her. Looking into the darkly intelligent eyes, Deborah had the feeling she was going to like this woman.
"I am Deborah Holland." She confirmed her identity. "And I'm glad to finally meet you. Mr. Wilding has mentioned you many times."
"But you don't know exactly who I am?" Madelaine Hayes guessed shrewdly.
"No," Deborah admitted with equal candor.
"I suppose you could say I'm a general factotum around here. My main responsibility is to look after Mrs. Wilding. I'm a psychiatric nurse." Those sharp brown eyes closely studied Deborah for a reaction to that announcement. It was unlikely that she expected Deborah to be surprised by her purpose in the house. Therefore, she must have expected that she suddenly might be treated as a servant. When there was no such reaction, she continued with hardly a break. "I also dabble in the housekeeping end, just to keep everything running smoothly for Zane."
Briefly Deborah wished she could refer to her employer with such casual familiarity, but there wasn't anything casual about their relationship. She preferred t
o change the subject entirely rather than respond.
"Should I leave my car parked there or drive it around to the back?"
"Leave it there. Frank—my husband—can drive it around to the garage after he's carried your luggage in." Madelaine dismissed the need for Deborah to move the car with a shrug of her shoulders. Guessing that Deborah probably didn't know her husband's role, she explained, "Frank manages the farm for Zane. Come on. I'll take you inside and show you your room." She turned toward the door she had left standing open. "Did you have any trouble finding the place?"
"None at all. Mr. Wilding's directions were very precise."
"They usually are. Do people call you Deborah or Debbie?"
"Deborah. I was never tagged with a shortened version, even as a child." Deborah crossed the threshold into the formal entryway of the manor house.
She looked around her with interest. The marble floor was enhanced by the rich luster of the hardwood wainscoting. Instead of the clutter of antiques that Deborah had expected, the foyer and wide hallway were simply furnished. Nothing detracted from the natural beauty of the house.
"I didn't have a nickname either. But what would they have called me? Maddy?" Madelaine Hayes joked and shuddered expressively.
A hand-carved, solid walnut door opened onto the foyer. Deborah turned toward the sound just as Zane stepped out. A different Zane than she had seen at the office. Instead of the elegant suit and tie he usually wore, he had a heavily ribbed sweater of ivory wool and black pants that hugged his muscular thighs. So blatantly virile, this new Zane had an immediate and devastating impact on her senses. He stopped abruptly when he saw her. His expressionless mask slipped, permitting her to see the leap of fire in his blue eyes. Much too quickly the look was gone.
"I see you have arrived safely, Miss Holland," he observed with apparent disinterest in the fact.
"Yes." Her heart gave a sickening lurch as Zane figuratively slammed the doors of welcome in her face.
"I was just taking Deborah to see her room," Madelaine explained. "I hope you aren't planning to put her to work until after she's had a cup of coffee and a chance to relax after her drive. You and Tom can hold the fort for a little while longer."
Deborah envied the brunette's ease in asserting herself. True, she, too, did speak out on occasions. Meekness was certainly not one of her qualities, but she lacked Madelaine's casualness. But obviously Madelaine had known Zane longer than she had. Plus she was married, which meant she didn't have the inner conflict of emotional attraction.
"An hour will be soon enough for you to report, Miss Holland," Zane stated after consulting his watch.
"In an hour," Deborah agreed stiffly.
"I'll make certain she doesn't get lost trying to find her way back to the study," Madelaine promised. "Did you want something?"
"Yes. Have Jessie bring us some fresh coffee." He started to turn to reenter the room he had just left when his wife's voice stopped him.
"Why wasn't I informed that a guest had arrived?" She spoke from the hallway, drawing all eyes to her.
A puzzled frown knit Deborah's forehead as she watched the petite blonde walk toward her. Sylvia Wilding held herself so stiffly, so erectly, putting one foot precisely in front of the other as if walking a tightrope, all the while facing straight ahead.
It wasn't until she heard Zane mutter in an angry underbreath to Madelaine, "Where the hell did she get the whiskey this time?" that Deborah realized the woman was drunk and trying very hard not to let it show.
"I don't know," Madelaine whispered back to him with a faintly incredulous note. "She must have some hidden that I haven't found yet."
"Welcome." Sylvia carefully walked to Deborah, ignoring her husband and Madelaine. "I'm sorry I wasn't here to greet you when you arrived."
"That's quite all right, Mrs. Wilding," Deborah assured her.
At the sound of her voice, uncertainty flickered across Sylvia's expression. "I have the feeling I should know you." Her face was devoid of makeup, exposing a sickly yellowish cast to her skin. Her blue eyes, glazed with drink, darted to Zane. "I should know her, shouldn't I?"
"This is Miss Holland, my assistant," he introduced them again.
"Oh. You aren't a guest then." She seemed to give up her pretense of sobriety and swayed unsteadily.
Madelaine was instantly at her side to put a supporting arm around her waist. Her attitude now was strictly professional. "I'll help Sylvia back to her room. Will you show Deborah where she will be staying?'' she asked Zane.
"Yes." A nerve twitched near his eye, but it was the only indication that he wasn't pleased by the request. Without looking at her, he ordered, "This way," and started down the hallway.
Deborah had difficulty keeping up with his long strides, but she refused to ask him to slow down. Doors stood open along the way. She had a glimpse of a formal living room and a Tiffany lamp above a polished dining-room table. Zane made a right-angled turn to guide her into a different wing of the rambling house.
"You have a beautiful home," Deborah remarked, liking the little of it his hurried pace had permitted her to see.
"Fourteen years ago it was a home. Now it is just a house." His voice was hard and cold, rejecting her compliment. He stopped and pushed open a door. "This will be your room while you are here, Miss Holland." He stepped aside to let her walk in, but didn't follow her inside.
When Deborah realized that, she stopped and half turned. "Thank you for taking the time to—"
Rudely he cut her off. "If you want some coffee, the kitchen is the second door after the right turn. I'll expect you in the study in one hour."
"Yessir!" Her temper flashed at his flint-hard attitude.
He seared her with a narrowed look and pivoted away from the door. After he'd gone, Deborah stood in the center of the room looking at the empty doorway.
"Damn you!" she breathed in the curse. It was hardly a whisper.
Turning from the door, Deborah forced herself to look at the room. It was spacious, with a color theme of pale lavender and blue. Besides a double bed and dresser, there was a sofa, armchair and a small desk. Near the window stood a small, circular table with two chairs. Of the two doors in the room, one led to a large bathroom, and the second was a walk-in closet.
"Hello." A man's voice called attention to his presence in the doorway. A tall, spare man smiled as he nodded to the suitcases he carried in his hands—her suitcases. "I would have knocked, but—"
"Come in. Let me help you." Deborah hurried forward to take one of the smaller cases he was juggling. "You must be Frank."
"That's right." He walked into the room and set her luggage on the floor. "I see Zane abandoned you to explore on your own."
"Yes." Her assessing gray eyes ran over the thatch of brown hair on his head, and the friendly, open expression of his thin face. She changed the subject. "This is a lovely room."
"The best we have. Zane insisted on that." His hazel eyes flickered curiously at her sudden tensing at the mention of Zane's name.
"That was thoughtful of him." Deborah was stiff. She knew it, but she couldn't seem to make herself indifferent to the subject.
Frank Hayes tipped his head to the side in a studying manner. "We knew Zane had a new assistant, but he never mentioned you were . . . so attractive. To be perfectly honest, we were expecting someone with thick glasses and about forty more pounds," he grinned.
"Intelligent is ugly." She tried to respond to his humor.
"Something like that, I suppose. Did Zane give you a rundown on the layout of the house?" he asked, turning his attention to more serious matters.
"He told me where the kitchen was so I could get some coffee."
"The house is U-shaped and the hallway runs the full length of it upstairs and downstairs," Frank explained. "All the rooms open onto the hall. You'll get confused by the number of doors, but just keep opening them until you find the right room. All the bedrooms are on the wing sides. There are only two rooms on this
side that are occupied. Yours and Jessie's. Jessie is our cook and takes care of the house, along with some day help. Madelaine and I have our bedroom in the other wing where she can be close to Sylvia. Naturally, Zane's room is on that side. So is Tom's."
"I see," she murmured.
"There's a courtyard inside the U, and a heated swimming pool beyond it that we keep open all year."
"But what about when it snows?" Deborah gazed at him incredulously.
"As I said, it's heated. It's quite a sensation to go swimming when there is snow piled on the ground," he admitted.
"It must be," she agreed with fascination.
"Be sure to try it while you're here." Frank started toward the door. "I'll be putting your car in the garage behind the house. You can't miss it. It's the only building behind the house."
"Thanks for bringing my luggage in."
He shrugged away her thanks. "See you at lunch."
DEBORAH ADJUSTED QUICKLY to her changed environment. Everything from the office—every file, report and memo—had been transferred to the large study. Before the first day was over, she had everything organized and at her fingertips. The study was large enough to hold desks for her, Zane and Tom with room left over. Tom's presence helped to soothe the atmosphere, and the heavy work load helped assure that her attention wouldn't often get a chance to wander in other, disturbing directions. Everyone in the house, with the occasional exception of Sylvia Wilding, ate together, which offered a further buffer between Deborah and Zane.
By the time Thanksgiving morning dawned, Deborah had settled in so comfortably that it seemed as if she had been at Zane's country house longer than three days. Although it was a legal holiday, Deborah worked in the morning—as did Zane and Tom.
The midday meal wasn't served until one o'clock. The formal dining-room table was set with the best crystal, china and flatware. The centerpiece was a fruit-filled cornucopia. It was a lavish feast complete with stuffed turkey, sweet potatoes, two kinds of vegetables, three salads, and homemade rolls.
