by Janet Dailey
He pushed aside the distraction of that blond vision dancing in his head. Business first, then pleasure. Bick couldn’t think of a better reward to be waiting at the end of a day.
In her office Tamara discovered she was clutching the silk folds of the multicolored shawl. She smoothed out the creases in the delicate fabric caused by her tight grip and draped it around her shoulders. This time she tied the ends in a double knot so it wouldn’t slip free again. A spicy musk fragrance of a man’s cologne had left its scent on the shawl, a provocative stimulant to nerves still tingling from the encounter.
Closing her eyes, Tamara shook her head to clear it of the frankness that had been in the male gaze of those green eyes. It didn’t do any good. She could still see that tall, broad-shouldered man in the sand-colored suit who had returned her shawl—the one whose heady scent clung to it now.
His features had been toughly masculine—browned by the sun and creased with experience. The morning sunlight had glinted on his dark brown hair to give it a coppery sheen. The strong breeze had whipped a few strands forward onto his forehead to give him an arrogantly rakish look. His mouth had been thin and firmly cut and his hand had been large with bluntly trimmed nails.
Everything about the man, from the expensive suit tailored to fit his muscled frame to the casually tamed style of his haircut, reminded Tamara of the chiseled and polished facets of a diamond. Although he showed the unmistakable stamp of refinement, it didn’t change the inherent hardness of the stone.
All male, his interest in her had been obvious, and her ego had reveled in it. When he’d asked her name, the look he gave her had practically turned her bones to water. She had very nearly told him. But what was the use? If he had contacted her and asked her out, she couldn’t have gone with him, for a half dozen reasons. So there hadn’t been any point in encouraging him. Tamara sighed heavily.
She walked to her desk and put her purse in the bottom drawer. The swivel chair creaked as she sat down in it. Resting her elbows on the desktop, she linked her fingers together and pressed them against her mouth. No solution had presented itself to clear up the discrepancy in the company’s books and the time for an audit was fast approaching. Tamara had considered altering the entry, but if that was uncovered, she would be in deeper trouble. Her empty stomach was twisted into knots of tension and had been for days, refusing food and eating her up with anxiety.
Three times she had approached Harold Stein to explain what she had done, but he had abandoned any pretense of interest in the operation of the company, from sales to accounting. He was experimenting with a new duplicating process, and he kept interrupting her to explain the significance of it if his new development worked. Unable to obtain his undivided attention, Tamara had given up without accomplishing her purpose.
What had the man wanted? The question startled her into sitting up straight. Why had her thoughts returned to that stranger? He’d asked for the sales department. Maybe he’d ordered some equipment or was planning to order some. What did it matter? Tamara took a firm grip on herself. Even if she saw him again or found out his name, what good would it do? She wasn’t free. She had too many personal problems and responsibilities.
Pushing him out of her mind for the last time, Tamara reached for yesterday’s account sheets in her incoming file basket. There was a great deal of work that demanded her attention. It was time she stopped daydreaming and started doing her job.
An hour later, she discovered a multiplication error on an invoice that had been mailed. Leaving her office, Tamara entered the large room that housed her office staff and walked to the desk of the billing clerk, Susan Dunn. The room was abuzz with whispered conversations being exchanged back and forth between desks, an undercurrent of excitement in the air.
There was a vague frown tracing her forehead when Tamara stopped at the woman’s desk. The subdued voices around her didn’t indicate the normal exchange of gossip. It was as if some secret was racing through the room.
“Susan—” she began, requesting the plump woman’s attention as she interrupted the whispering going on between the clerk and the woman at the desk behind her.
“Oh!” The woman turned to face her, pressing a hand to her heart as she laughed selfconsciously. “You startled me! Have you heard?” Susan Dunn didn’t waste any time.
“Heard what?” Tamara asked, somewhat warily, feeling uneasy and not knowing why.
“Two executives from Taylor are here, making a tour of inspection, I guess,” the woman related. “Pam was just talking to Andy in the service department and he said he had to hang up because a couple of bigwigs from Taylor Machines were there.”
A cold finger left an invisible icy trail down her spine. “No, I didn’t know,” she admitted, and attempted to show that she didn’t attach any importance to the news. She laid the invoice on Susan’s desk to show her. “You didn’t double-check when you multiplied the unit price against the amount. You will have to send a corrected invoice to the customer and adjust the total on his account.”
“I did make a mistake, didn’t I?” the woman admitted absently and rushed back to her previous subject. “Do you suppose they’ll come here?”
“I’m sure they will, but I expect we will be notified before they appear.” That is, if Harold Stein thought of it.
Susan Dunn opened her middle desk drawer to take out a tube of lipstick and a mirror. She glanced at Tamara as she applied a fresh coat of red to her mouth. “We have to put our best foot forward for the new bosses, don’t we?” She winked.
“Susan, you are incorrigible.” Tamara shook her head in wry dismay. “Instead of worrying about your ‘best foot,’ I’d worry about being ‘on your toes.’” As she started to leave, she reminded her, “Don’t forget to correct that invoice.”
“I won’t.”
Secluded in her private office once more, Tamara felt a shaking relief set in. They were here, which meant part of her waiting was over. She would be glad when this whole mess was straightened out and this sensation of dangling over the edge of a precipice would be ended.
For the rest of the morning, Tamara was kept abreast of the movements of the two executives through the various departments by her accounting staff. One of the girls had gleaned the information that Bickford T. Rutledge himself was one of the pair. Tamara was skeptical of that rumor. More than likely it was one of his many vice-presidents with the large firm.
Every time her extension rang that morning, Tamara jumped. She kept expecting to have the imminent arrival of her new employers announced. It didn’t come. Rumor had it that the tour had become stalled in the laboratory. No doubt Harold Stein had become carried away with an explanation of how his new duplicating device was supposed to work, if he succeeded.
A knock at her door brought an impatient “Yes?” from Tamara. She was really getting tired of these progress reports. At this rate, very little work was getting done because of the constant discussion of the whereabouts of their new employers.
The door opened and Susan stuck her head in. “Pam and Rachel are going to watch things while the rest of us go to lunch. Are you coming?”
Tamara glanced at her watch, surprised to find that time had finally dragged itself around to the noon hour. “No, I’m not really hungry.” She was too nervous. “And I have this work to finish.” She indicated the papers in front of her.
“Do you want me to bring you a sandwich?” Susan offered.
Common sense insisted that she had to eat something. Tamara opened the desk drawer where she kept her purse. “The vending machine in the employee’s lounge still has yogurt, doesn’t it?” At Susan’s affirmative nod, Tamara handed her some change. “Bring me back a container.”
“Right away,” Susan promised, and pulled the door shut as she left. Within a few minutes she was back to set a container of peach yogurt and a plastic spoon on Tamara’s desk. “I don’t see how you can eat that stuff,” Susan declared, making a face and shuddering. Tamara just smiled and wave
d the woman on her way.
The yogurt required little effort to eat, sliding down her throat with ease. Tamara doubted if her churning stomach would have tolerated anything more solid. She ate spoonfuls from the plastic container between posting entries in the columnar ledger.
Her door swung open without the advance warning of a knock and a puzzled-looking Harold Stein stepped in. “Where is everyone, Miss James?”
“Out to lunch.” She dipped the plastic spoon into the yogurt and had started to carry it to her mouth when she looked up. Her gaze encountered a pair of lazy green eyes belonging to the tall, broad-shouldered man framed in her open doorway. A glint of satisfaction was in his level regard, while a hint of a smile softened the firmness of his mouth. Her breath was squeezed from her lungs as Tamara slowly lowered the spoon back to the yogurt and tried not to act at all surprised to see the bold stranger again.
Harold Stein was looking at his watch with dismay. “I didn’t realize what time it was. I suppose you’d like to go to lunch?” He frowned at the man behind him in a somewhat absent fashion.
“I think Miss James has the right idea.” The man stressed her name in a silent message that said he had learned it despite her previous unwillingness to provide him with it. “Why don’t we have some sandwiches and coffee brought in? Is that all right with you, Adam?” He half-glanced over his shoulder and Tamara noticed the coat sleeve of someone behind him.
“Whatever suits you is fine with me,” the unseen man replied indifferently.
“Would you want to go back to my office?” Harold Stein suggested. “I can have Danby telephone the local deli for sandwiches.”
“This is our next stop, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Harold nodded as if uncertain of the significance of that fact.
Even before that question Tamara had put two and two together. She was certain that her calculation was correct. The two men with her employer were obviously the executives from Taylor Business Machines. Her palms became sweaty and her throat was dry. She knew her heart was not beating at its normal rate.
“Then we might as well lunch here,” the man announced, and swung his unnervingly steady gaze back to her, “unless Miss James has some objection.”
“None.” That counted anyway. She rose from her chair to walk around her desk. “We’ll need another chair,” Tamara murmured in explanation of her abrupt movement. There were only two besides her own chair in the room, one in front of her desk and a straight-backed chair in the far corner.
“Adam will bring one,” the man stated, taking charge as if from habit and turning to give the order. “Bring one of the chairs from out there when you come in.”
“I haven’t introduced you,” Harold realized with a guilty start. “Miss James, this is Bickford Taylor Rutledge, president of Taylor Business Machines and your new employer. This is Miss James, who handles all the accounting and such.” With that duty completed, he moved from between them to walk to Tamara’s desk telephone. “I’ll order those sandwiches.”
Tamara would have preferred to simply acknowledge the introduction with a nod, but Bickford Taylor Rutledge, the top man himself, was already extending his hand to her. She had little choice but to accept the polite courtesy.
“How do you do, sir,” she murmured stiffly.
No matter how “malely” interested his expression was, Tamara couldn’t visualize herself telling this man that she had borrowed twenty thousand dollars of company funds without permission and would return it as soon as her mother died. If he had been someone like Harold Stein or his brother, Art, she might have been able to confide in him. But there was a relentless quality about this Bickford Rutledge. He wasn’t a forgiving man.
“When Harold was singing your praises, he neglected to mention how extraordinarily beautiful you are, Miss James.” The compliment rolled smoothly off his tongue. It wasn’t an attempt to flatter, but to reinforce the message of personal interest his eyes were conveying.
“Thank you.” Tamara struggled to maintain a degree of aloofness. When she tried to withdraw her hand from his firm grip, he continued to hold it. But her attempt drew his glance to her hand.
“Nervous?” It was a low, one-word question, containing the inflection of an amused taunt.
Embarrassment trembled through her body at the way he had drawn attention to the moistness of her palm instead of courteously ignoring it. The backlash of humiliation stiffened her pride and permitted her to meet his probing gaze.
“Yes,” she admitted.
“You needn’t be, Miss James. Miss—” The pause was to prompt Tamara into supplying her first name. When she hesitated, he murmured, “I can always check the employee records.”
“Tamara James.” She gave it to him, along with a stiff smile.
“Tamara James.” An eyebrow was lifted as he tested the name and he verbally concluded, “I like it.”
Just for a minute, Tamara wondered if she was supposed to feel honored, but there wasn’t time for any feeling of irritation to grow. A movement in the doorway signaled the return of the man referred to as Adam. As he wheeled a swivel desk chair into Tamara’s office, she was being drawn forward to meet him by the hand that was still holding hers. Bickford Rutledge released it to let his arm curve around her waist. The action was very proprietorial and Tamara tried to take offense at it. It was as if he already owned her, body and soul. The insane part was she could summon no genuine objection.
“Adam, I want you to meet Miss Tamara James.” Bickford Rutledge made the introduction since Harold Stein was still on the telephone. “Adam Slater is your counterpart in my organization,” he explained to her with a downward glance that fleetingly caressed her features and added to her tumultuous emotions. While his hand remained heavily on her waist, his gaze turned to the man with the chair. “Be easy on her, Adam,” he advised dryly. “She’s nervous about facing her new employers.”
How much of her attack of nerves was caused by this confrontation with her new employer and the rather dire situation she was in? And how much was caused by Bickford Rutledge, the man? Awareness of the hard, male frame heating her side was licking through her nerve ends. It had been years since a man had disturbed her this way, and Tamara couldn’t recall it ever being to this extent.
She wondered if her cheeks were flushed, if she were betraying this purely physical reaction to his touch. With an effort, Tamara forced her gaze to focus solely on the man in front of her. She wished there was a mirror around so she could see if the mask of cool professionalism was in place.
“How do you do, Mr. Slater,” she greeted him, and stepped forward to politely shake hands with him. The side benefit of her action was that she succeeded in escaping the hand on her waist.
“This is definitely my pleasure, Miss James,” he countered, a wide smile splitting his face.
Adam Slater was almost as tall as Bickford Rutledge, but he was more slimly built, less muscled. His brown hair was a shade lighter than that of the president of the firm and lacked the fiery lights. His eyes were a warm brown, not the disconcerting green. There was nothing about him that made Tamara feel threatened. Not that she would describe Bickford Rutledge’s attitude toward her as menacing. The danger from him was much more subtle.
Harold Stein hung up the telephone and turned to announce, “The sandwiches and coffee will be delivered in twenty minutes.” He took a step forward and nearly walked into the chair Adam had wheeled into the small office. “Oh,” he blinked. “You found another chair. We might as well sit down and make ourselves comfortable, don’t you think?” he suggested.
As Tamara turned to follow through with his suggestion, she was facing the broad chest of Bickford Rutledge. There was very little room to maneuver around him.
“Won’t you use my desk, Mr. Rutledge?” she offered, motioning to her chair.
“I wouldn’t dream of putting you out.” He refused and stepped to one side so she could get by him. “Finish your lunch. Don’t wait for ours to arri
ve.”
To tell the truth, Tamara wasn’t the least bit interested in eating the rest of her yogurt. The only reason she picked up the cup and spoon when she sat down was because it gave her something to do with her hands.
Adam insisted that the older Harold Stein take the softly upholstered swivel chair he had brought in, while Adam sat in the straight-backed chair in the corner. That left the chair in front of Tamara’s desk for Bickford Rutledge to occupy.
In his usually garrulous fashion, Harold Stein took over control of the conversation. Tamara pretended an interest in what he was saying, although not a word was sinking in. It became harder and harder to ignore the fact that she was being studied. Bickford Rutledge seemed to take an inordinate amount of interest in watching her eat, from the way she put her spoon in her mouth to the way the tip of her tongue curled out to lick away any trace of yogurt on her upper lip and even the way she swallowed. It was as if he found her eating to be a sensual thing. The thought rocked through her senses and Tamara set the almost finished container of yogurt on her desk, not wanting to provide him with any more entertainment.
His gaze flicked from the container of yogurt to her face. “Watching your diet?” he questioned in a voice that didn’t seem to carry beyond her hearing. Almost immediately his eyes made a slow, assessing sweep of her figure, penetrating through the layers of clothes the way it had done before.
Strangely, Tamara could find nothing insulting in the look. It stripped, yes, but not in any way that was demeaning. There was its danger.
“No—it’s simply a nourishing and inexpensive lunch,” she explained.
