Adversaries and Lovers

ADVERSARIES AND LOVERS

Patricia Watters

ARMOUR PRESS

ADVERSARIES AND LOVERS

Copyright 2011 by Patricia Watters

Printed in the United States of America

Fourth Edition

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and  incidents are products of the author's imagination, or were used fictitiously and are  not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All rights reserved. The republication or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic or mechanical or other means, not known of hereafter invented, including xerograpghy, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law.

CHAPTER ONE

Kate O’Connor presented the doorman with the invitation she'd covertly taken from his tray while his back was turned, and stepped into the reception room. Now, to become lost among Portland's blue bloods, whom she hoped would be too busy mingling and imbibing to notice one unassuming woman in a plain black gown. Moving to the fringes of the banquet hall, she staked out a position from which to survey the crowd.

Slowly, thoroughly, she perused the faces until she spotted her objective: Benjamin Stassen. Although she'd never met the man, she recognized him from his strong resemblance to a man whose image graced several aged photos in her grandmother's album, a man whose name Grandma always prefaced with adjectives like
deceitful
and
unprincipled
  and
unscrupulous
.

  Kate knew there'd been a rift between her grandfather and old Henry Stassen years before, but she had no idea why. Nor would Grandma talk about it, or explain why she'd held onto photos of the man for over fifty years, other than to dismiss them as,
just a collection of musty old keepsakes
. However, the middle-aged man in Kate's line of vision was not Henry Stassen, the man in Grandma's photo album, but his son. Obviously, Benjamin Stassen was as unprincipled as his father. Only a man with no principles would
force a group of defensive old people out onto the streets
, as Grandma so disdainfully put it. And that was precisely why Kate was here tonight. To prevent just that.

While mulling over her next move, a man who looked as if he'd stepped out of the slick pages of the
Motorcycle Gazette
joined Benjamin Stassen. Not only was the man a half-head taller than anyone in the room, but instead of wearing formal attire he wore tall black motorcycle boots, black leather breeches, and a smartly-tailored leather jacket—not the stiff kind of leather with heavy zippers, but fine, soft leather that looked as if it could be fashioned into gloves. Though impressive in height and physique, it was the man's face that held Kate captive. Lines of cynicism, or perhaps shrewdness, touched the corners of his mouth, and his dark eyes held a glint of studied intensity as he relayed something to Mr. Stassen. Then, his lips curved with a grin she could only describe as Machiavellian, after which, Mr. Stassen broke into wry laughter, and Kate suspected they'd just shared an off-color joke.

The hammering of her heart and the tightness in her chest reminded her that she'd been holding her breath while staring at the man like a teenage groupie. Chastising herself for her adolescent behavior, she squared her shoulders, raised her chin, and walked toward them. The men stood in front of an easel, which displayed several advertising layouts for the company's latest line of motorcycle helmets. Off to one side, a glass-enclosed table held the architectural mock-up for the new corporate offices of Stassen Sports Gear, which was slotted to be built in the neighborhood in east Portland where Grandma lived, if Mr. Stassen got his zoning change.

Kate eyed the model with its expansive grounds, ribbon-sized walkways, and minuscule shrubs, an icon of a quiet bucolic setting. It was also the source of untold worry in a community of elderly people that included her grandmother. If the project went forward, it would replace an entire block of charming shops and stores, including the old Hayden Building with its Corner Café, an enchanting, eccentric old relic of a building that had been standing on the corner of Milstein and Giles Streets for over a century. Grandma and the others had been lunching at the Corner Cafe for half that time.

Frustrated with their failed attempts at being heard by the city council, several of the more aggressive and determined seniors had formed the Sellwood Action Committee, a body dedicated to fighting the zoning change, thus preventing the project from proceeding. Kate hoped that by approaching Mr. Stassen directly and explaining the plight of her aging friends, she could convince him to find another location for his corporate offices. It wasn't as if Sellwood was the only area in Portland with a major artery leading to the center of the city.

While waiting for the right moment to address Benjamin Stassen with her concerns, Kate studied the advertising layouts for Stassen Sport Gear’s latest line of motorcycle helmets. Each offered a different approach, but none, she mused, was in the least innovative. However, she wasn't here to exercise her skills as an advertising artist, she was here to prevent a grave injustice. Elbowing her way through the crowd, she edged closer to Benjamin Stassen and listened while he commented on the ad layouts. He was clearly dissatisfied with the presentation, which gave her the opening she needed. During a lull in the conversation, she remarked to him, "These renderings really don't capture the essence of the new line. I mean, the air vent on top of the helmet is the feature that should be emphasized, yet it's barely noticeable on any of these."

The man in leather stepped around Mr. Stassen and peered down at her, his square-jawed face and dark hooded eyes bringing to mind a tailored version of a Hell's Angel. Though smooth-shaven, his chin displayed the shadow of a beard, and his crop of near-black hair looked as if it should be wrapped in a bandana. The only thing missing was a spiked wristband and a neck chain with a skull and cross bones.

The man leveled his gaze on her. "And you are?"

"That's really none of your business," Kate said, attempting to ease around the man in order to address Mr. Stassen.

The man stepped sideways, blocking her way. "And I think it is my business," he said in a deep, rich voice that seemed to resonate right through her. "If you're going to criticize the layouts, we deserve to know who you are and where you're coming from."

Kate craned her neck to catch Mr. Stassen's eye, but her view was blocked by a gray silk shirt that hugged a broad muscular chest. She caught a wild, untamed aroma. Leather and something musky, like an exotic incense. Naturally. Any man so bold as to break the rules of decorum by appearing at a formal reception in motorcycle garb would certainly not wear commonplace aftershave. Why that made her angry, she couldn't figure, other than the aromatic man was an obstacle, one firmly planted between her and Benjamin Stassen, that she hadn't counted on. "Look, if you don't mind, I'd like to—"

"But, I do mind," he said, in a deep, controlled tone. "I asked who you are."

Kate propped her hands on her hips. She was quickly losing her patience. She was also on the verge of losing her only chance to present the plight of her elderly friends to Mr. Stassen. "And just who the dev—" she checked her Irish temper "—just who are you?"

"I test the products." A corner of his mouth tipped up in a wry smile. "I also came up with the idea for this." He proudly pointed to the layout Kate felt had the least merit.

She gave him a waggish smile. "Then that explains why it doesn't work. Anyone fool enough to ride a motorcycle isn't very sharp in my book."

The man cocked a dark brow. "You're pretty flip for a no-name critic. Why not put your name where your mouth is?"

Kate felt decidedly uncomfortable under the man's dark gaze. She also realized that, thanks to him, she'd lost her chance with Benjamin Stassen, who was walking off with several men. She glared at the irritating man. "I fail to see that my name is any of your business. Besides, I was clearly addressing my comments to Mr. Stassen."

"You were passing out opinions where they weren't wanted." The man's mouth quirked in a half-smile. "What's more, you don't know what the hell you're talking about."

Kate glared at him. "And I don't intend to stand here and be verbally accosted by a Gypsy Joker in formal attire!" Her eyes scanned the length of him. “I assume that's formal for you."

Before she could turn and stalk off, a hand grasped her elbow from behind, and a no-nonsense voice said, "Excuse me, Miss."

Kate turned and looked into the eyes of a hard-faced security guard. Heat rushed to her cheeks, and her stomach did a flip-flop. The man's fingers tightened around her arm. "Come quietly, Miss, and we can avoid a scene."

Kate's face burned with humiliation. It wasn't enough that she was being escorted out. She was being escorted out while the abrasive motorcycle jockey looked on.

In the hallway, she asked the security guard, "How did you know?"

He ushered her into the elevator. "The invitation you presented was for a man."

When the elevator doors glided open on the ground floor, she asked, "Where are you taking me?"

"Out of the building." The security guard deposited her on the darkened sidewalk and locked the door.

Furiously, angrily, Kate marched toward her car.
Hellfire and damnation
! No thanks to the Gypsy Joker, Mr. Benjamin Stassen managed to slip away. On the bright side, he hadn't witnessed what a complete fool she'd made of herself. But the cocky man in leather had, and he'd been greatly amused by it. While she was being escorted out the room she'd glanced back and caught a smirk of pure satisfaction on the man's face. She could still see it. Ohhh, how it grated! What ticked her most was, given five more minutes, she was certain Mr. Stassen would have listened to her appeal. He could not be so heartless as to force a group of helpless old people from their homes. Well, not all of them were helpless. Frank and Thelma and Dora and the other members of the Sellwood Action Committee were about as pugnacious a bunch of old folks as she'd ever had the pleasure of knowing. But then, they were fighting for everything they held dear: houses they'd built over fifty years ago and a neighborhood that had grown old with them. Of course, the zoning change wouldn't necessarily mean that the houses would be leveled along with the fine old buildings, only that property taxes would skyrocket, forcing the old people out.

Kate also knew that the day Grandma would be obliged to give up the house Grandpa built for her would be the day she'd slowly start to die. The house held too many precious memories. Grandma even claimed she felt Grandpa's presence there. So, whatever it took, Kate would see that Grandma stayed in her house. It was the least she could do for the woman who’d been both mother and father since Kate was thirteen.

She yanked open the car door, slipped into the driver’s seat and shoved the key into the ignition. Her fingers tightened on the wheel, then relaxed, as an idea began to take form, an idea that included a raccoon coat and a hodgepodge of aged and yellowed photos.

***

Ben Stassen set aside the helmet he'd soon be testing and fixed his gaze on the black-haired, hazel-eyed woman standing in the doorway to his office, lips parted in surprise, cheeks flushed a rosy pink. In fact, she was blushing like a nun caught in the nude.

So this was the mysterious Kate O’Connor who’d come to deliver some photos and a keepsake, which he assumed was in the large box she held clutched to her chest. He had no idea what she was up to this time, but it was obvious she hadn't expected to find him there, though he had to admit, he was glad she'd come. After her less-than-gracious exit from the reception two nights before, he'd thought of her often, and wondered who she was. She'd been amusingly innovative in her failed attempt to crash the reception, and although their encounter had been brief, she'd stirred his blood, which was more than he could say for any of the other women in and out of his life of late.

Leveling his gaze on her, he said, "For someone who had all the answers the other night you're very quiet. In fact, I'd say you're downright speechless." At first she seemed too shocked to be angry.

Then her mouth compressed in a harsh line and she pinned him with irate hazel eyes and said, in a cool, crisp tone, "I'm here to see Mr. Stassen, and I want to speak with him alone."

"Whatever the lady says." Ben walked around her and shut the door.

She looked at him with a start. "Why did you do that?"

"I'm just doing what you asked."