Читать книгу Written In The Heart - Judith Stacy, Judith Stacy - Страница 10

She found Richard Paxton pacing the office when she returned to the house, with Stephen maintaining a discreet distance behind her.

“Miss Sommerfield, I’m terribly sorry about what happened,” Richard said, coming forward.

He was a pleasant-looking man, nearly as tall as Stephen and close to the same age. He had dark hair, and blue eyes that at the moment reflected the sincerity in his words.

“I’m to blame,” Richard said. “I didn’t make clear to Stephen exactly what my gift was.”

“Gift?” Caroline looked back and forth between the two men.

“Yes,” Richard said. “Today is Stephen’s birthday.”

“Your birthday?” She turned to him.

“Yes, and so far it’s been a hell of a disappointment,” Stephen grumbled. “Miss Sommerfield is going home. I instructed Charles to have the carriage brought around for her.”

Caroline stood across the room from the two men as an awkward silence enveloped them all. She willed herself not to look at Stephen, but her gaze darted his way just the same. He watched her. Studied her, actually, like a cat waiting at a mouse hole.

“Can I offer you some refreshment?” Richard asked.

“No, thank you,” Caroline replied.

Another silence stretched in the office. Stephen began pacing behind his desk. She tried to ignore him. In fact, she wanted desperately to ignore him, but he kept looking at her, making her uncomfortable.

After a few moments he stopped.

“You may as well go ahead and show me what this graphology is all about, Miss Sommerfield,” Stephen said. “You’re already here and have to wait for the carriage, anyway.”

It was a reasonable suggestion and, in a way, she was almost relieved to have something to focus on, rather than endure Stephen’s stares.

“Well, all right,” Caroline said. “I guess I may as well.”

Richard picked up her satchel, which Stephen had left by the door. “Where would you like to work, Miss Sommerfield? The desk?”

Caroline’s gaze collided with Stephen’s.

“No!” they said in unison.

Stephen groaned softly and sank into a wing chair in the corner.

“How about this table?” Richard suggested.

He led her to a round table with four chairs in the corner opposite Stephen. Caroline assembled her tools—several magnifying glasses, straightedges, papers and pencils—while Richard fetched several handwriting samples from a cabinet.

“You can use these, Miss Sommerfield.” He presented them to her and smiled. “Can I get you anything else?”

She glanced past him to Stephen fidgeting in the chair. He crossed one leg, then the other, then the first again.

“No, thank you, Mr. Paxton,” she said.

“Is there any way I can make you more comfortable?” Richard asked.

The question brought Stephen’s gaze around to Caroline, his face drawn in tight lines. Only a few minutes ago he had offered to make her more comfortable by undressing her.

Caroline refused to let herself blush, and deliberately turned back to the papers spread out in front of her.

“I’m fine,” she lied.

“All right, then.” Richard smiled. “Just take your time. There’s no rush.”

It was more than a little unnerving being in Stephen’s office again. Caroline wasn’t sure she could concentrate. A strange sensation vibrated through her, stirring her senses to a sharper awareness, making everything seem more intense.

She glanced across the room once more and found Stephen staring at her again. He looked away sharply. Caroline drew in a calming breath. She got out her magnifying glass and went to work.

Faint strains of music drifted from upstairs and a clock ticked somewhere in the house, then chimed the hour. Caroline lost herself in her work, as she usually did.

She wasn’t so absorbed, though, that she didn’t notice Stephen every time he moved. He seemed agitated. He squirmed in his chair, then paced, then sat again. Beside him in the matching wing back, Richard read a stack of papers, oblivious to them both.

Caroline worked steadily, and when she was finished she looked over her notes one final time, then rose from her chair.

“All done?” Richard asked, coming to where she stood, smiling at her again.

He was a nice man and Caroline felt at ease with him. Like a brother, she guessed, though she didn’t actually have a brother to compare him to. But Richard had been equally pleasant at last Saturday’s party where she’d met him, and so far, he’d been the only amiable thing about tonight. She was sorry she’d slapped him.

“Yes, all done,” she said.

“Maybe you could tell Stephen a little about graphology?” Richard suggested.

He was in the chair now, his legs crossed, his fingers propped together in front of his chest. When he looked up at her a little ripple of something passed through Caroline. Nerves, she decided. What else could it be?

“Graphology is the study of handwriting,” she said. “It’s been researched primarily in Germany and France. That’s where I learned the skill.”

Stephen rose from his chair and began pacing, hands thrust deep in his trouser pockets, eyes studying the tips of his black shoes.

Caroline went on. “Handwriting is unique. Because there are so many different writing styles, it’s unlikely that any two people would write precisely the same. By studying an individual’s style, many things about the writer can be determined.”

“Like what?” Richard asked.

“Personality traits, mostly,” Caroline said. “Age can be determined to some degree. But no absolute distinguishing style can differentiate a man’s and woman’s handwriting. Sometimes samples indicate if a writer is left- or right-handed. It can’t, however, tell things like nationality or race.”

“Miss Sommerfield,” Richard said, “at the party last week you mentioned that graphology is being used in Europe for criminal investigations.”

Caroline nodded. “Yes, it’s used for verification of signatures, for example, and in forgery cases.”

Richard’s smile broadened. “Come over here, Stephen. Let’s see what she’s come up with.”

Stephen ventured closer, looking over Caroline’s shoulder as she sorted through the handwriting samples Richard had given her. Heat from him caused her heart to thump a little faster.

She held up the first one. “This writer, I would say, is unimaginative, rather boring and preoccupied with money matters.”

“Jenkins wrote this. He’s Stephen’s head accountant,” Richard said. He turned to Stephen. “Dead accurate analysis, I’d say.”

Caroline was pleased with herself, though Stephen only grunted noncommittally. She turned to the second sample.

“This person is a worrier,” she said. “Indecisive, I’d imagine, and a little materialistic.”

She glanced up at Richard, who smiled.

“Aunt Delfina,” he said.

Stephen’s eyebrows drew together, and Caroline guessed that analysis was correct as well, whoever Aunt Delfina was.

“The writer of this,” she said, turning to the final sample, “is confident, enterprising and ambitious. But also obstinate, pigheaded and…sexually frustrated.”

Stephen glared over her shoulder. “That’s my handwriting.”

He jerked the paper away from her and crumpled it up. Caroline saw crimson creep up from his shirt collar as her own cheeks warmed.

“Excellent demonstration, Miss Sommerfield,” Richard said. “I think it’s obvious that you have extraordinary talent in this field.”

Stephen mumbled something and shoved the ball of paper into his pocket.

“Excuse me, sir.” Charles spoke from the doorway. “Your carriage is at your disposal.”

A little pang of disappointment thumped in Caroline’s stomach. She hadn’t wanted to be here, had been on edge since arriving, yet now was reluctant to go.

But it was for the best. She chanced another look at Stephen. He was again watching her. Yes, she decided, it was for the best that she leave.

She loaded her tools into her satchel.

“I’ll walk you out,” Richard said.

At the doorway, Caroline glanced at Stephen one last time. He stood staring out the dark window, his back to her.

“Happy birthday,” she said.

He spun around, obviously surprised.

“Sorry you didn’t get the gift you wanted.” She glanced at the desk. “But the day’s not over.”

Stephen leaned forward slightly, then plopped into his chair.

How was he ever going to work in his office again?

Stephen stepped behind his desk and squared the ledgers and stacks of papers Richard had replaced while he was chasing down Caroline. But he didn’t see the work that awaited him. He saw a naked woman. On his desk. His two favorite things in the whole world, together.

Stephen sank into his chair. Of course, the naked woman he imagined on his desk wasn’t just any woman. It was Caroline Sommerfield.

He pulled loose his tie and popped open his collar. What a hell of a birthday.

“So, what do you think?” Richard asked, striding back into the office. “Isn’t she wonderful? Isn’t she everything I said she was?”

That and more. If only Richard knew.

Stephen leaned back in his chair. Richard was his assistant, and would have been a partner if he’d had the required financial backing. Still, he was indispensable. Stephen listened to him, trusted him, confided in him. And Richard had never let him down.

“I don’t know…” Stephen said.

“You saw her evaluation of those handwriting samples,” Richard said. “She had old Jenkins cold.”

“That’s true.”

“And Delfina?” Richard grinned. “I like your dear, sweet aunt Delfi as much as anyone, but you have to admit that she is indecisive, just as Caroline said.”

Stephen shrugged. He couldn’t argue with Caroline’s assessment of his aunt.

Richard chuckled. “She did a good job on you, too, Steve.”

He sat forward, not the least amused by Caroline Sommerfield’s determination of his own personality. Not that she wasn’t accurate. He just didn’t like being analyzed like a bug in a jar.

“Sexually frustrated.” Richard laughed again. “Maybe I should have sent you a whore for your birthday.”

“I can find my own women.”

“Then why don’t you?”

Stephen shifted in the chair. “I don’t have time.”

“Yes, you do,” Richard said. “You have plenty of time. But you spend all of it working.”

“I have a lot to do,” Stephen grumbled.

“You don’t have to prove anything to anyone,” Richard said softly.

Stephen glanced up at him, then looked away.

“No one equates you with your father and what he did,” Richard said.

Stephen dismissed his words with a wave of his hand. “Let’s stick to business.”

Richard just looked at him for a moment, then went on. “As I see it, Caroline can analyze the handwriting on Pickette’s document and prove that it’s fraudulent,” he said. “The agreement he claims is genuine will be exposed as a hoax. Pickette will be gone, out of your hair, and should consider himself lucky if he doesn’t end up in prison. Your problem will be solved.”

“But can she prove that?”

“She’s an expert in her field,” Richard said. “She has letters of recommendation from Germany and France.”

“Will anyone believe her here, in this country, in this city?” Stephen asked. “This graphology. Has anyone here even heard of it? Do they respect it? Believe in it?”

Richard shook his head. “No, not like in Europe.”

“Then what good is it to me?”

Stephen pushed himself out of the chair and began pacing again. He rubbed his chin and stared at the floor. He did some of his best thinking like this.

He turned suddenly to Richard and snapped his fingers. “We could make her an expert.”

“Make her one?” Richard asked. “How?”

“By giving her other work to do,” Stephen said. “I’ve suspected for a while that someone on the warehouse crew is stealing. What if I put Caroline on the case? I’ll get handwriting samples from all the employees and have her look for traits such as dishonesty, untrustworthiness.”

Richard nodded slowly. “Yes, I see what you mean.”

“We can’t fire a man over a handwriting sample,” Stephen said. “But we can determine the employees with those traits and have them watched. We just might turn up our thief.”

“You could be onto something here,” Richard said.

“I can use her to screen prospective job applicants. Weed out the questionable ones.” Stephen gripped the back of his desk chair. “Once I’ve established her credibility here, I can loan her to other prominent businessmen in town.”

Richard frowned. “That sounds like we’re just using her.”

“I’m giving her a chance to use this graphology thing she’s so proud of,” Stephen insisted. “Once the other businessmen see what she’s capable of they can testify to her credentials. And when the Pickette case gets to court, Caroline will be the leading graphologist in Los Angeles and her word will be accepted.”

“I don’t know…”

“She wants to use this graphology skill of hers, doesn’t she?”

“Yes,” Richard said. “She applied with Pinkerton but they turned her down. She was very disappointed. She wanted that job. Her father sent her here from Europe to find a husband, but she wants to work instead.”

“Well, then, you see? I’m doing her a favor.”

“You’re doing yourself a favor, Steve.”

Stephen’s face hardened. “I’m not going to let Russell Pickette make a fool out of me.”

A few moments of silence passed before Richard slapped his knee and rose from the chair. “All right, we’ll do it your way. And it just might work, as long…”

“As long as what?”

“As long as you’re sure Pickette’s document is really a forgery,” Richard said.

Stephen started pacing again. Russell Pickette had been a pain in his side ever since he’d shown up two weeks ago waving a document that claimed he had title to a two-hundred-acre farm belonging to Stephen.

Stephen didn’t know Russell Pickette personally. Had never met him. He recognized his name from the ledger book his accountant used to keep track of the semiannual rent Pickette paid on the acreage he farmed. It was a small amount. Insignificant, really.

Pickette didn’t look like a con artist, or a thief, just a worn, weary farmer. But he was trying to defraud Stephen, just the same. Cheat him out of a prime piece of real estate, just when Stephen was about to pull together a large business deal involving that property.

Pacing behind his desk, Stephen got angry again just thinking about Pickette. Then, as it always did, humiliation surged through him, deep in the pit of his stomach.

Pickette claimed the document had been written by Stephen’s father, George Monterey. Stephen cringed at the memory.

George had died when Stephen was a boy, and Stephen still remembered what that felt like. Uncle Colin had agreed to take in him and his little brother, Thomas. Even now, standing in his office in the West Adams Boulevard home, Stephen remembered the day he and Thomas had arrived at Uncle Colin’s home. Colin hadn’t wanted them to forget, either. He’d had a photographer on hand that day to mark the occasion.

Still pacing, Stephen rubbed his hand over his chest. What his father had done still made him sick, all these years later.

He stopped, realizing Richard was speaking to him.

“What?” Stephen asked.

“I said, do you want to go ahead with this?” Richard asked.

Stephen was tired, but restless, too, for some reason. Memories of his father, that Pickette bastard, Uncle Colin—they filled his head tonight. But something else nagged at him, too. Something he couldn’t pinpoint.

“Get her in here tomorrow,” Stephen said. “Put her to work. I want to resolve this issue with Pickette.”

“It might not be that simple,” Richard said. “I don’t think Caroline was all that happy to be here.”

Stephen waved away his concern. “She’ll take the job.”

“All right. I’ll talk with her first thing in the morning,” Richard said, and headed for the door.

“Richard? I want you to keep this Pickette problem to yourself,” Stephen said. “Miss Sommerfield doesn’t need to know what I have planned for her just yet.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Richard said. “When she finds out, she’s bound to think you set her up just so she’d testify on your behalf.”

“I’ll take care of Miss Sommerfield.”

“Caroline Sommerfield looks like a handful,” Richard said, grinning. “Are you sure you can handle her?”

Stephen sank into his desk chair. Of course he could handle her. But it would be a hell of a lot easier if he could stop thinking about her naked.