Holding the Dream (5 page)

No, he wasn't remotely attracted to Kate.
 

Still, the dream nagged at him as he prepared for the day. It followed him into the executive weight room, tugged at the back of his mind as he pushed himself through reps and sets and pyramids. It lingered while he finished off his routine with twenty minutes of the
Wall Street Journal
and the treadmill.

He struggled to think of something else. The house he intended to buy. Something close to the beach so that he could run on the sand, in the sun instead of on a mechanical loop. Rooms of his own, he mused, done to his own taste. A place where he could mow his grass, turn his music up to earsplitting levels, entertain company, or enjoy a quiet, private evening.

There had been few quiet, private evenings in his childhood. Not that he regretted the noise, the crowds he had grown up with. He adored his sisters, had tolerated their ever-increasing hordes of friends. He loved his parents and had always considered their busy social and family life normal.

Indeed, it had been the uncertainty as to whether he could bear to be so far away from his childhood home and family that had made him put the six-month-trial-period clause into his agreement with Josh.

Though he did miss them, he'd realized he could be happy in California. He was nearly thirty-five, and he wanted his own place. He was the first De Witt to move out of Georgia in two generations. He was determined to make it the right move.

If nothing else, it would stop the not-so-subtle family pressure for him to settle down, marry, start a family. The distance would certainly make it difficult for his sisters to continually shove women they considered perfect for him under his nose.

He had yet to meet a woman who was perfect for him.

As he stepped into the shower back in his penthouse office suite, he thought of Kate again. She was definitely wrong.

If he'd dreamed about her, it was only because she'd been on his mind. Annoyed that she continued to be, Byron turned up the radio affixed to the tiles until Bonnie Raitt bellowed out the challenge to give them something to talk about.

He was merely concerned about her, he decided. She'd gone so pale, become so quickly and unexpectedly vulnerable. He'd always been a sucker for a damsel in distress.

Of course, she was an idiot for not taking care of herself. Health and fitness weren't an option in Byron's mind but a duty. The woman needed to learn to eat properly, cut back on the caffeine, exercise, build up some flesh, and jettison some of those jangling nerves.

She wasn't half bad when she lost the attitude, he decided, stepping out of the shower with Bonnie still blasting. She'd given him a decent lead on the kind of property he was interested in, and they'd even managed to have a reasonable conversation over a shared plate.

And she had looked . . . interesting in that excuse for a dress she'd been wearing. Not that he was interested, Byron assured himself as he lathered up to shave. But she had a certain gamine appeal when she wasn't scowling. Almost Audrey Hep-burn-ish.

He swore when he nicked his chin with the razor, put the blame for his inattention directly on Kate's head. He didn't have time to analyze some bony, unfriendly numbers cruncher with a chip on her shoulder. He had hotels to run.

Kate knew it was a mistake even when she set up the appointment. It was, she admitted, like picking at a scab, ensuring that a wound would never heal cleanly. Her father's friend, Steven Tydings, was more than willing to meet her for lunch. She was, after all, his new CPA, and he'd told her he was a man who liked to keep his finger on the pulse of his finances.

She was sure she could work with him, do her job. Yet every time Kate had opened his file, she'd fought off a sick feeling in her stomach, flashback memories of her father. Bitter complaints about bills, about just missing that big break.

She had forgotten all of that, forged her memories of her parents more out of need, she realized now, than reality. Hers had not been a happy home, nor had it been a stable one. Though she had woven it as such in her dreams.

Now that it was impossible to pretend otherwise, she realized it was equally impossible not to probe, not to poke. Not to know.

She had nearly balked when Tydings insisted on meeting at
Templeton Monterey. The dining room there was the best in the area, the view of the bay superb. None of the excuses that she came up with had changed his mind. So at twelve-thirty sharp, she sat across from him at a window seat with a chef's salad in front of her.

It didn't matter where she was, Kate told herself as she picked at her meal. Laura was working at Pretenses. If anyone recognized her and mentioned it, it would be a simple matter to tell Laura she'd been lunching with a client. It was, after all, true.

For the first half hour, Kate guided the conversation to business. Strictly business. Whatever the circumstances, his account was entitled to and would receive her best. And he was pleased, telling her so often as she constantly eased her dry throat by sipping Templeton mineral water.

“Your dad had a way with numbers too,” Tydings told her. He was a toughly built, compact man in his middle fifties who beamed at her out of dark-brown eyes. Success sat as stylishly on him as his suit.

“Did he?” Kate murmured, staring down at Tydings's hands. Well-manicured, businessman's hands. No flash, but a simple gold band on his finger. Her father had liked flash—heavy gold watches, the small diamond ring he wore on his pinky. Why should she remember that now? “I don't remember.”

“Well, you were just a little thing. But I'll tell you, Linc had a gift for numbers. He could run figures in his head. You'd have thought he had a calculator in there.”

It was her opening, and she had to take it. “I don't understand how someone that good with numbers could make such an enormous mistake.”

“He just wanted bigger things, Katie.” Tydings sighed, eased back in his chair. “He had a run of bad luck.”

“Bad luck?”

“Bad luck, and bad judgment,” Tydings qualified. “The ball got away from him.”

“Mr. Tydings, he embezzled funds. He was going to
prison.” She took a deep breath, braced herself. “Was money so important to him that he would steal, that he would risk everything he risked just to have it?”

“You have to see the whole picture, understand the frustrations, the ambitions . . . well, the dreams, Katie. Linc always felt he was overshadowed, outclassed by the Templeton branch of the family. No matter what he did, how hard he tried, he could never measure up. That was a hard pill for a man like him to swallow.”

“Just what kind of a man was he that he would be so envious of someone else's success?”

“It wasn't like that, exactly.” Obviously uncomfortable, Tydings shifted in his seat. “Linc had a powerful need to succeed, to be the best.”

“Yes.” She struggled against a shudder. Tydings might have been describing the daughter rather than the father. “I understand that.”

“He just felt that if he could catch a break, just one break, he could build on it. Make something. He had the potential, the brains. He was a smart, hardworking man. A good friend. With a weakness for wanting more than he had. He wanted the best for you.”

Tydings's smile spread again. “I remember the day you were born, Katie, how he stood there looking at you through the glass and making all these big plans for you. He wanted to give you everything, and it was hard for him to always settle for less.”

She hadn't needed everything, Kate thought later when she sat alone at the table. She had only needed parents who loved her and loved each other. Now she would have to live knowing that what her father had loved most was his own ambition.

“Something wrong with your lunch?”

She glanced over, and the hand she had pressed protectively against her stomach fisted as Byron slid into the chair that Tydings had vacated. “Are you on dining room detail? I thought the brass stayed up in the lofty regions of the penthouse.”

“Oh, we mingle with the lower floors occasionally.” He signaled to a waitress. He'd been watching Kate for ten minutes. She had sat completely still, staring out of the window, her meal untouched, her eyes dark and miserable. “The chicken bisque,” he ordered. “Two.”

“I don't want anything.”

“I hate to eat alone,” he said smoothly, as the waitress cleared the dishes. “You can always play with it like you did your salad. If you're not feeling well, the bisque should perk you up.”

“I'm fine. I had a business lunch.” Under the table she pleated her napkin in her lap. She wasn't ready to get up, wasn't sure her legs were strong enough. “Who eats at business lunches?”

“Everyone.” Leaning forward, he poured two glasses of mineral water. “You look unhappy.”

“I have a client with an imbalance of passive income. That always makes me unhappy. What do you want, De Witt?”

“A bowl of soup, a little conversation. You know, I developed this hobby of conversation as a child. I've never been able to break it. Thank you, Lorna,” he said when the waitress set a basket of warm rolls between them. “I've noticed that you often have a bit of trouble in that area. I'd be happy to help you, as I'm sort of a buff.”

“I don't like small talk.”

“There you are. I do.” He held out a roll he'd broken apart and buttered. “In fact, I'm interested in all manner of talk. Large, small, meaningless, profound. Why don't we start this particular session with me telling you that I've got an appointment to view that house you recommended.”

“Good for you.” Since the bread was in her hand now, she nibbled.

“The realtor speaks highly of you.” When Kate only grunted, then scowled down at the bowl of soup that was slipped under her nose, Byron smothered a grin. Damned if she wasn't too much of a challenge to resist. “I may just solicit your services myself, as I'll be staying in Monterey. Hardly
practical to keep my accountant back in Georgia.”

“It's not necessary to have an accountant in the same location. If you're satisfied with his or her work, there's no need to change.”

“That's the way to drum up business, kid. I also have a habit of eating,” he continued. “If you need help along those lines, I can tell you that you start by dipping your spoon into the soup.”

“I'm not hungry.”

“Think of it as medicine. It might put some color back in your cheeks. You not only look unhappy, Kate, you look tired, beaten down, and closing in on ill.”

Hoping it would shut him up, she spooned up some soup. “Boy, now I'm all perked up. It's a miracle.”

When he only smiled at her, she sighed. Why did he have to sit there, acting so damn nice and making her feel like sludge?

“I'm sorry. I'm lousy company.”

“Was your business meeting difficult?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.” Because it was soothing, she sampled the bisque again. “I'll deal with it.”

“Why don't you tell me what you do when you're not dealing with difficult business problems?”

The headache at the edges of her consciousness wasn't backing off, but it wasn't creeping closer. “I deal with simple business problems.”

“And when you're not dealing with business?”

She studied him narrowly, the mild, polite eyes, the easy smile. “You
are
coming on to me.”

“No, I'm considering coming on to you, which is entirely different. That's why we're having a basic conversation over a bowl of soup.” His smile widened, flirted. “It also gives you equal opportunity to consider whether or not you'd like to come on to me.”

Her lips twitched before she could stop them. “I do appreciate a man who believes in gender equality.” She also had to appreciate that for a few minutes he'd taken her mind off
her troubles. That he knew it, yet didn't push the point.

“I think I'm beginning to like you, Kate. You are, I believe, an acquired taste, and I've always enjoyed odd flavors.”

“That's quite a statement. My heart's going pitty-pat.”

He laughed, a quick, full-throated, masculine sound that appealed, however much she would have preferred otherwise.

“Yeah, it's definite. I like you. Why don't we expand this conversation thing over a full meal? Say, dinner. Tonight?”

She was tempted to agree, for the simple reason that being around him made her think about something other than herself. But . . . She set her napkin beside her bowl. She thought it would be best to err on the side of caution with a man like Byron De Witt. “I don't want to form habits too quickly. I have to get back to the office.”

She rose, amused when he automatically got to his feet. Gender equality or not, she decided, he was southern gentleman through and through. “Thanks for the soup.”

“You're welcome.” He took her hand, held it lightly and enjoyed the faint line that popped up between her brows. “Thanks for the conversation. We will have to do it again.”

“Hmm,” was her best response as she slid the strap of her briefcase over her shoulder and walked away.

He watched her go and wondered what problem, business or otherwise, had made her look so devastated. And so alone.
 

The rumor mill was working overtime at Bittle and Associates. Every tiny, underripe fruit plucked from the grapevine was chewed lavishly at the water cooler, the copy room, the storage closet.

Larry Bittle and his sons, Lawrence Junior and Martin—just call me Marty—continued their closed-door meetings with the other partners every morning. Copies of accounts were delivered to the group by Bittle Senior's tight-lipped, sharp-eyed executive assistant regularly.

If she knew anything, went the wisdom of the water cooler, she wasn't saying.

“They're working their way through every account,” Roger
told Kate. He'd hunted her down in the stockroom when she went to replenish her supply of computer paper. “Marcie in Accounts Receivable said they're even going over internal ledgers. And Beth, the Dragon Lady's assistant, says they've been on the hot line with the lawyers.”

Lips pursed, Kate grabbed a handful of Ticonderoga number 2's. “Are all your sources female?”

He grinned. “No, but Mike in the mail room is coming up dry. What's your take?”

“Gotta figure internal audit.”

“Yeah, that's mine. But here's the question, Kate. Why?”

In truth, that very question had been on her mind for days. She considered. Smart, ambitious, ruthless people had the best gossip. Since Roger fit all the requirements, she decided to share her thoughts in hopes of priming his pump.

“Okay, we've had a couple of really good years. In the past five we've increased our client base by fifteen percent. Bittle's growing, so I'm thinking expansion, maybe a new branch. They'd put Lawrence in charge, add more associates, and give some of us the option of relocating. A big step like that would take a lot of thought and planning, and the partners would want to focus hard on the bottom line.”

“Could be. There's been noises before about opening in the L.A. area, snagging more media accounts. But I've been hearing other grumblings, too.” He leaned closer, lowered his voice, and his eyes were bright with excitement. “Larry's been thinking about passing the torch. Retiring.”

“Why would he?” Kate whispered in response. They sounded like conspirators. “He's only sixty.”

“Sixty-two.” Roger glanced over his shoulder. “And you know how his wife likes those cruises. She's always bugging him to take one to Europe, around the Med, that sort of thing.”

“How do you know that?”

“Beth. Assistant to the assistant. She got brochures for the old man. The Bittles' fortieth anniversary is coming up this year. If he retires early, there's going to be a partnership slot up for grabs.”

“A new partner.” It made sense. Perfect sense. All the meetings, the account checks. The current partners would have to weigh and judge, debate and discuss who would be most qualified to move up. She barely stopped herself from dancing a jig. She had to remember who it was she was talking to. Roger was her toughest competitor.

“Maybe.” She shrugged, though inside, glee was spreading like a lovely pink balloon. “But I don't see Larry sailing off into the sunset yet. No matter how much his wife nags him.”

“We'll see.” Roger kept a sly smile on his face. “But something's going to happen, and it's going to happen soon.”

Kate walked sedately back to her office, closed the door, put her supplies neatly away. Then she danced her jig.

She didn't want to get ahead of herself, didn't want to start projecting. The hell she didn't. Dropping into her chair, she spun herself around once, twice, and a giddy third time.

She had an MBA from Harvard, had graduated in the top ten percent of her class. In the five years she'd worked for Bittle, she had brought in twelve new accounts through client recommendations. And had lost only one. To that jerk Roger.

But even that hadn't gone out of house. She personally generated over two hundred thousand a year in billing. So did Roger, she admitted. She kept an eye on him. But when Marty had awarded her a raise last year, he'd told her she was considered the cream of Bittle's associates. Larry Bittle called her by her first name, and his wife and daughters-in-law had been known to drop by Pretenses to shop.