Читать книгу A Long Hot Christmas - Barbara Daly, Barbara Daly - Страница 10

SNUGGLED IN HER CAPE, standing on the crescent-shaped entryway to her apartment building, Hope said, “Tonight worked out pretty well, didn’t it?”

“Don’t sound so surprised.” He smiled reminiscently. “When Charlene’s toes were climbing up my leg and you attacked them with your foot…that was your finest hour.”

“It was a stretch from where I was sitting.” She watched his smile widen. It set her heart to pounding. “I think I gave Ed a little thrill with my knee, but it was worth it.”

“That look you gave Charlene.” He shifted into a generic-female falsetto that didn’t sound a bit like her, but did sound pretty cute coming from him. “‘Find your own leg to climb, you hussy.’”

She remembered the moment entirely too well. She’d had to work steadily at her computer all the way home to distract herself from the sensation that had climbed up from her toes as they caressed Sam’s muscular calf beneath the table, a tingly feeling that had made her wriggle against the seat of the dining chair. “Yes. Well worth it,” she murmured. “But she does do great orchids.”

His low laugh was like warm syrup in the cold night.

“So thanks for a really interesting evening,” she said.

He took her hand, held it lightly. “I hope we’ll have more of them.”

She hesitated. “Let’s take it a step at a time, okay? Tonight was successful. Now let’s try my milieu.”

His smile grew warmer. “Sure. When?”

“Next Wednesday night. My boss and his wife are having their big holiday party then.”

“Will you be wearing a mask?” His mouth twitched at the corner.

She really wished he’d stop doing that. It had a strange effect on her, made her twitch in turn somewhere deep down inside in a way that was distracting and unnerving. “Of course not. What do you mean, a… Oh. The masque.” The pressure of his hand sent an arrow of heat up her arm. From her shoulder it would spread to her throat, across her breasts. “No,” she said abruptly. “The masque is Thursdays and Sundays.”

“But…”

“Don’t start with me about my schedule.” There had to be a way to get her hand back without making a scene. But his hand felt so warm around hers. “So good night, Sam. See you Wednesday.” She tugged a little, got free, felt relieved, then deserted and a bit chilly.

“I’ll pick you up here.” He paused, looking thoughtful. “You did a great job tonight. I don’t suppose there’s a manual on arm-candy skills…” He took a look at her face. “No, I guess not.”

With a wave he slid back into the limo. Before he vanished behind the tinted glass, he flashed her a thoroughly wicked smile.

Hope turned toward the apartment entrance. Her feet were killing her. Funny, she hadn’t noticed while Sam was still around.

“Night, Rinaldo,” she said to the doorman as she hobbled into the lobby and summoned the elevator. Almost home, such as it was.

She hadn’t been acting. It had been fun being Sam’s clinging vine for an evening. He was a hunk with charm and brains and a goal in life. He’d been a sparkling conversationalist during dinner. The boss’s wife wasn’t the only woman to send an envious glance in Hope’s direction.

She felt she was close to agreeing to the arrangement, throughout the holiday season, at least.

But only if she could keep her emotions under control. When their knees accidentally touched, when he cradled her elbow or she took his arm, when their shoulders brushed and a warm, fuzzy feeling began to fluff up inside her, when his utterly charming smile came in her direction, seeming to be for no one but her, she’d wondered if she could keep her quick response to him in perspective. What woman wouldn’t respond? He was a very good-looking, a very masculine man.

But when he’d put his arm around her, caressed her shoulder, whispered words into her ear… Even now, she could feel the warmth of his breath, the ache that had spread through her, had made her snuggle into him, wanting more. The sense of urgency she’d felt had led her to ditch wondering about perspective and leap directly to worrying. Especially about the sex thing. He hadn’t brought it up again. Maybe it had slipped his mind. She wished it would slip hers.

As soon as she opened the door of her apartment, the night view of the New York skyline greeted her through the windows across the room. It always calmed her, made her feel serene and happy. Actually, what it did was justify the savings she’d plundered for the down payment, her huge monthly mortgage and the maintenance expenses.

She didn’t turn on the light at once. She wanted to relish the quiet of the moment, give herself time to think about the evening, to think about Sam.

She tossed her briefcase over the top of the sofa as she always did, then reached down to pull the shoes off her aching feet and heard the heart-stopping, stomach-clenching, career-ending clang of a five-thousand-dollar-extra-long-life-battery laptop hitting a hardwood floor.

With a shaking hand, she flipped on the light switch and screamed. An intruder was in her apartment, a creature swathed entirely in black!

A second later she slumped against the door. What a relief! It was herself she was seeing, reflected in the mirror that hung beside the window, a mirror which hadn’t been there this morning.

The sofa was gone, though. No, the sofa wasn’t gone, it was just in a different place.

Maybelle had made a preemptory strike. But it didn’t look as though she’d stolen anything. It looked like she’d added stuff.

Hope came to sudden attention. How could she have forgotten her laptop for even a second? Kicking off her shoes, she grabbed up the briefcase, whipped out the injured team member and ran with it to the sofa. She put it down on the coffee table, sent up a brief prayer and turned it on.

The computer did all its usual beeps and lights, and there was her marketing presentation, safe and sound. The breath she’d been holding whooshed from her lungs. She thanked her lucky stars she’d sprung for the optional two-hundred-dollar computer case with the shock-absorbing extra padding built in. With her next breath, she almost suffocated from the scent that rose from her briefcase.

The laptop had survived, the bottle of Shalimar in her makeup kit had not. But what was a quarter-ounce of Shalimar compared to the product of fifty hours of work?

Strong, that’s what it was.

With a feeling of having survived an attack from all sides, Hope collapsed against the sofa. Ummm. She wiggled her toes. Then she looked at the room.

She frowned. The sofa was on the diagonal, facing the little foyer. That was dumb. People came to her apartment to see the view, not the front door. The two squashy taupe armchairs flanked the sofa, also facing the front door.

At least the other two chairs, the antique ones the dealer had called fauteuil, the ones he’d warned her were not really for sitting in but were a terrific investment, faced the view. Great, Maybelle, just great.

Feeling rebellious, Hope struggled up from the sofa, which seemed to cling to her just as she’d clung to Sam. She crossed the room to sit in one of those chairs whether it liked it or not. Yes, the two chairs faced the view. It was also true—she moved to the other chair just to be sure—that each one looked directly into one of two mirrors that flanked the huge picture window. The mirrors not only reflected her, but also the front door. And the kitchen door. And the bedroom door.

What was this door fetish?

For a minute she sat there, bolt upright, which she’d assumed was the only way you could sit in a fauteuil, then felt herself start to settle in, lean a little against one of the sculpted wooden arms, rest her head against the faded, faintly dusty, original needlepoint upholstery.

What did the antiques dealer mean, a fauteuil wasn’t for sitting in?

Enough of this. She was exhausted. She emptied her briefcase and set everything out in her office, a small alcove off the living room, to air. The Shalimar had to fade by Monday. If it didn’t, she would have to announce a new marketing trend—the scented memo.

The message light was blinking on her phone-fax-copier-scanner-answering machine—next year’s model would probably have a built-in curling iron. She pushed “Playback.”

“Hey, hon! Maybelle!”

Maybelle was one person who didn’t need to identify herself on the phone. Hope reeled at the screech, then turned down the volume.

“I made a good start today,” the shrill voice continued. “Didn’t get no further than the parlor, because I was wanted by the police…”

Hope stiffened.

“…department to juggle the Chief’s office around a little.”

Hope relaxed. The New York Chief of Police was into feng shui? She hoped the Daily News didn’t get wind of it.

“Anyhoo, I got them mirrors at the Housing Works Thrift Shop, so you’re only out fifty bucks so far. Don’t give it a thought. We’ll settle up later. I sure hope you’re not one of those people who throws stuff onto the sofa soon’s she walks in the door, because I moved it. Throwing stuff on the furniture isn’t good for you speeritch-ully anyways. We’ll talk more about that later.

“Well, you try to get some rest. Soon’s I get the Chief and a coupla other clients squared away I’ll be back to work on your bedroom, have you sleeping good pretty soon. Oh, would you puh-leeze tell that doorman of yours to let me in next time without putting me through all that hassle?

“Night, hon.”

The message had come, her machine-which-never-lied said, at 11:00 p.m. Maybelle sounded like a woman who’d had a whole lot of fully leaded coffee.

Hope went to her bedroom, took off her clothes and hung them up. She’d left her daytime black-and-white tweed jacket at the office. Thank goodness. If she hadn’t, it would be permanently Shalimarred just like her briefcase.

She put on a soft flannel granny gown, washed her face, brushed her teeth. She turned down the bed, then stared at it. It stood against the wall just inside the door, facing the view. Nighttime Manhattan twinkled at her from a picture window like the pair in the living room. Already, the week after an early Thanksgiving and not even December yet, the Empire State Building was red and green for Christmas.

About to slip between the sheets, she paused. As tired as she was, it would be lovely to wake up to coffee set on a timer and already made. Yes. She’d sit on the sofa in the living room and have coffee while she read the newspaper.

And stared at the front door.

She tried it out on the way to the kitchen. Weird.

She passed the sofa again on the way to her bedroom, walked over to it, plumped it with her hand.

Maybe she’d pick up one of the magazines that had come today and just rest here a minute before she actually went to bed. She felt so wired, it might get her in the mood for sleep. She’d get that soft mohair throw to put over her feet. And a real pillow from the bed.

It seemed no more than a second later when she woke up to the slap of the New York Times against her door and the smell of freshly brewed coffee. Her body buzzed a little with sleepy warmth and something else, something deeper, something achier. She realized she’d been dreaming of Sam.

WHEN SHE ran into Benton in the hallway on Monday, he got as far as, “Morning, Ho—” before deep coughs racked his body and he hurried away with his face buried in his white handkerchief.

At noon on Tuesday, when she went into the executive café in search of an iced tea, she discovered a sign posted on one side of the dining area: “Perfume-Free Zone.”

At two that afternoon, a group of her colleagues made shadows outside her door without really showing their faces. “Has to be Hope’s office,” one said much too loudly. She recognized the oily-smooth tones of St. Paul the Perfect.

“She does have a certain aura about her,” said a feminine voice, which then dissolved into a giggle as the shadows vanished.

Ha, ha. Now that she’d become the office joke she’d have to break down and buy a new two-hundred-dollar padded case. The current one had soaked up Shalimar like a femme fatale dying of thirst in the desert.

It was only good-natured kidding, of course. But Paul Perkins, his real name, wanted this vice presidency as much as she did, and Palmer vice presidents were not office jokes. If she told them what happened—she’d brought the perfume to the office because she was spending the evening being arm candy, then broken the bottle because she’d tossed her briefcase onto a sofa a Texas-born-and-bred feng shui decorator had moved—she could think of that vice-presidency as nothing more than…

Ah. Yes. A pipe dream.

But perfume problems faded from her mind in the middle of the afternoon when her computer, which had performed several random tricks during the day, gurgled twice and froze. So much for the two hundred dollars worth of padding. Resigned to the inevitable, she picked up the phone.

“Tech Support.” The voice was laconic, sending the message, “Just try to get tech support out of me.”

“I’d like to report a homicide,” she said briskly.

“Desk or laptop.”

“Laptop.”

“Bring it down.”

“Wait!”

Silence. “Yes?”

“I can’t just hand it over to you. I need it. I can’t do without it.” She was having a panic attack just thinking about it.

“Then you shouldn’t have beaten up on it.” Sigh. “Bring it down, we’ll put your stuff on a zip disk and give you a loaner to use.”

“Oh. Oh, well, okay. Wait!” she yelled again.

“What!” Testy this time.

“Aren’t you supposed to do the traveling around the building with the computers and the zip drives and the…”

“How soon do you want it?”

“Immediately.”

“You better come on down.”

She wouldn’t take this kind of cavalier treatment from anyone else in the company. But the tech support group—an ungovernable collection of green-haired, jeans-clad cretins, some of whom had yet to be persuaded that deodorant is our friend—were different. They were geniuses. The entire company relied on them totally and treated them rather like rebellious can’t-teach-them-a-thing-but-we’d-never-give-them-away pets.

Grumbling, Hope slid back into her shoes, straightened her black skirt and cream blouse and picked up the laptop. Forget the case. She couldn’t take the kind of grief the tech group would give her about the Shalimar. Peeking into the Marketing Department reception area, she found the shared administrative assistants looking not merely busy, but somewhat harried. Okay, she’d take it down herself.

“THIS IS THE LOANER?” she said, gazing in disbelief at the battered object Slidell Hchiridski had just shoved across a counter toward her. The case he shoved along next, which must have cost in the neighborhood of fifteen dollars, appeared to be covered in cat hair. But with an instrument like this one, she supposed it didn’t matter.

“Yep,” Slidell said. “Works fine. Abusers can’t be choosers. Your computer looks like you threw it at somebody.” He gave her an accusing glare.

“It was a terrible and tragic accident resulting from circumstances beyond my…” Oh, shut up, she told herself. These were hardly the pearly gates and Slidell was hardly St. Peter. He’d gelled his hair into purple spikes, for one thing, turning himself into a Statue of Liberty with attitude. The company had assigned him to the front desk because of his interpersonal skills. It made Hope shudder to think what lurked behind the double doors that hid the computer lab where the real work got done.

“It’s twice as heavy as mine,” she protested. “It’s a generation older.”

“Mr. Quayle didn’t gripe when he used it.”

“Benton Quayle used this computer?”

“Yep. Until his new one came in.”

“Was it in this case?” Hope picked gingerly at the cat hair with two Sunday-night-manicured fingertips.

“Nope. The cat had her kittens in this case.”

“You have a cat back there?” She peered around Slidell hoping to get a peek at it.

“Want to make something of it?”

“No.” She paused. “I just wanted to see it.” She paused again. “I’m thinking of getting a cat. If yours has kittens…”

“The kittens have been assigned to caring homes.” He removed a zip disk from the drive, slapped it into a case and shoved it at her. “Person treats a computer like you do shouldn’t be trusted with a cat.”

Thoroughly humiliated, Hope slunk back to her office to engage in the subclerical task of copying files from the zip disk onto the loaner.

The words of her favorite professor in the MBA program came back to her verbatim: Turn each challenge into an opportunity.

Not a day went by that she wasn’t grateful to Professor Kavesh. Those words alone had pressured her through more than one elbow joint and whooshed her up to her present level in the company. So instead of griping about her broken computer, she’d take this opportunity to look at her old files and delete the ones that were just using up space.

A directory titled “Magnolia Heights” caught her eye and she opened it first. The file in front of her now was her part of a presentation to the City of New York, the general contracting firm and a major plumbing contractor—Palmer’s bid to supply the pipe to plumb the Magnolia Heights Project.

Magnolia Heights was a middle-income housing project in the Bronx. Palmer had examined the situation in the thorough, plodding way Benton favored and had come to the conclusion that lowering their bid in order to win it would bring the company enough public relations points to offset the reduction in profits.