Authors: Donna Richards
She nodded, then realized he couldn’t see her through the phone line.
Funny, she imagined she could see everything about him, just by the sound of his voice. “At least.”
“Well, I appreciate it and I won’t let you down. I promise, Angel.”
She couldn’t even get the words past the lump in her throat to correct him. His nickname for her hung in the air between them.
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“I guess I should let you get some rest. I’m looking forward to Thursday. I can’t promise I’ll buy in to the additional services, but I will enjoy seeing you again. Good night. Sweet dreams.”
“Good night,” she said, cradling the receiver in her hands as if his essence lingered there, not a plastic handset. Reluctantly, she replaced the receiver and snuggled deep beneath a layer of quilts. Her dreams most likely would be sweet, now that he had called. She hugged her pillow, letting her imagination take wing. Just a few nights ago she had called herself a modern-day Cinderella.
“And, like it or not, that makes you, Hank Renard,
my
Prince Charming.”
Damn. Raymond ducked behind a low shrub. The whole
neighborhood looked ablaze with lights. He hadn’t missed the increasing police surveillance every three hours, either.
That’s all right, Miss Angela
Blake. You go on thinking bright lights will save you. I can wait. I have
time. And when you least expect it. I’ll be there with a razor at your throat.
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Wearing her power suit for luck, Angie flanked Falstaff as they waited in the conference room for Hank. The door opened and Wilson and Burroughs walked in together. Surprised, she forced a cordial smile on her face.
“Gentlemen” Falstaff boomed, extending his hand. “I’m sure you remember Ms. Blake here.” Angela held her hand out as expected.
“Of course, Ms. Blake.” Wilson took her hand in both of his. “So good to see you again.” He glanced quickly down at her ankle brace. “I’m glad you recovered from Saturday’s near slip.”
Near-slip my eye. More like a flagrant push.
Angie held a tight smile and pulled her hand from Wilson’s grasp. Resisting the urge to rub her palm down her skirt, she diverted her attention to the open conference room door. Hank entered, wearing a power suit of his own. At least it had a power over her. The Italian cut spanned his broad shoulders, then neatly tapered, emphasizing his trim waist and flat abdomen. His crisp white shirt contrasted nicely with the charcoal gray jacket and set off his handsome facial features to perfection. She nearly drooled. Falstaff looked like an out-of-step drudge next to Hank.
“Good morning, everyone, sorry to be the last to arrive.” He turned to Falstaff, “I’ve asked Pete and Tom to attend as I believe you’re proposing to focus on their areas.” He gestured to the conference table, inviting everyone to sit.
“Excellent idea,” Falstaff replied, taking a seat at the side of the table.
Angie selected the chair to his left, opposite from Tom Wilson. Hank assumed the seat at the head of the table. “Let’s start with the letter of www.samhainpublishing.com 149
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recommendations and then move on to the proposal for additional services. Shall we?”
For the most part, the meeting was uneventful. Angie listed control violations, Wilson and Burroughs aggressively rebutted each of the points. However, she struck a nerve when she mentioned direct ships.
“You have no proof,” Wilson debated. “So a few invoices have been misfiled. Big deal. That doesn’t prove anything.”
Angela looked to Hank. He didn’t say a word.
“In a test situation, the absence of an invoice does indeed prove something.” Falstaff said. “Perhaps, you’re right. Perhaps it only proves the existence of a poor filing system, but it could also be a sign of something more important.” He took off his glasses for emphasis.
Angela had seen this ploy before. Without the distorting glass in front of them, his eyes appeared old, experienced and wise. That, she supposed, was the point.
“It would be a mistake to ignore or downplay the significance of missing invoices,” he said. “Especially without collaborating receiving reports as in the case of direct ships.”
Burroughs cradled his weak chin and scribbled something on the legal pad in front of him. Wilson glared at Angela. A cold shiver slipped down the small of her back.
“Well now.” Hank broke the silence. “I assume your additional services are designed to probe further into the matter of missing invoices and direct ships.”
“Yes, an audit focuses primarily on the capture of financial information, but we’ve designed some procedures to thoroughly explore these areas and provide the kind of answers any dynamic management team needs to operate productively.” Having delivered the standard additional services rhetoric, Falstaff returned the glasses to his nose. “We can go over each procedure if you like.”
Hank held up his hand. “Not necessary. I’m sure Ms. Blake has put together an efficient and effective program.”
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His tight smile in her direction expanded ten-fold in her heart. She struggled to suppress visible signs of her gratitude. Maybe that promotion wasn’t totally out of reach after all.
“However,” he continued, his voice dripping with authority. “This company can ill afford to invest a lot of money only to learn we need to improve our filing system. So I’ll make a proposition to you.” He shifted slightly toward Falstaff. Angie’s skin prickled at the shift of tension in the room. “If your additional services can explain why my accounts payable ratios are so lousy compared to the rest of the industry and why my costs of production are so high, I’ll be happy to pay the freight for your investigation. But,” he held up his hand to stall Falstaff’s reply, “if you come back and say my dynamic management team is operating
productively and things are as they appear on the surface, just a few missing pieces of paper, then I pay nothing and you pick up the cost.”
It was a gamble. Angie knew Falstaff viewed the purchase of new office wallpaper as a risky venture. Disappointed that she’d have no excuse to return to Hayden Industries until the inventory count at year-end, she slumped in her chair. Still, Falstaff couldn’t blame her for failing to sell additional services if he, himself, turned the proposal down.
“So, what do you say?”
Falstaff glanced at her. She smiled in sympathy. Poor guy, it must hurt to leave money on the table like that. He turned back toward Hank.
“You’ve got a deal.”
What? What just happened? Angie straightened while Falstaff and Hank shook hands. When was she supposed to fit this in? She already had new assignments to attend to.
“I want to go on record as saying this is a mistake.” Wilson rose from his chair. “This will just be a waste of my time.” His eyes narrowed specifically at Angela. “You won’t find a thing.” He stormed out of the conference room with Burroughs dragging behind.
“Well, I guess this means we’ll be seeing more of you, Ms. Blake,”
Hank said, coming around the table to shake her hand. He held her www.samhainpublishing.com 151
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hand firmly in a formal gesture, then his grip gentled and lingered. Her gaze lifted to his. “I look forward to that.”
Warm honey spread through her veins. “Yes,” she said. “I do too.”
“Come along now, Angela.” Falstaff’s hand pressed against her back.
“We have much to discuss. Scheduling and all that.”
Hank looked over her shoulder to Falstaff. “Call me with your time frame.” His glance shifted back to Angela. He squeezed her hand briefly before releasing it. “Goodbye.”
“Goodbye,” she answered, but he was already out the door.
Falstaff glowered over his glasses. “I’m betting a lot of money on your hunches, young lady. You know that, don’t you?”
She swallowed, suspecting this was more of a threat than a compliment. “Yes sir.”
“Good. Then don’t let me down.”
That evening, she raced through her front door and grabbed the ringing phone before the answering machine engaged. Expecting to hear her mother’s voice, she was delighted to hear Hank’s.
“You did good today, Angela. Did you get the promotion?’
Her jaw dropped. “You knew about that?”
“I suspected as much. You kept dogging me about additional services even after I said no. I thought something had to be up. What do you say we do something to celebrate?”
“I see,” she smiled. “First you get me promoted, then you get me fired.”
“You got yourself promoted.” His enthusiastic praise made her tingle all over. “I made that proposal in my own self-interest. Given the market, we should be making hand over fist in profits. Unfortunately, we’re not and I can’t find the problem.”
“So you’ve delegated the quest to me.”
“In a manner of speaking. It’s a no-risk proposition. I’ll gladly pay if you find something significant. So,” his voice changed from that of a 152
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business associate to a friendly confidant, “what shall we do to celebrate?
You could come over here for dinner.”
“Thank you for the invitation, but I’m already committed this evening.
Stephen wants me to meet his new driver, Raymond, so the three of us are going to Timothy’s. Besides, no one’s promoted me yet.”
But they will
soon
, she thought with unexpected confidence. She was scheduled for a performance review at the end of the month, right after the Halloween ball.
“It’s only a matter of time,” Hank assured her. “How about tomorrow night?”
“Sorry. Walter and I are going out to a movie.”
“Walter? You’re going to a movie with the zombie? When did this happen?”
“You shouldn’t be so hard on him,” she scolded, knowing full well she said the same things herself not so long ago. “He’s really a sweet, lonely guy.”
“There’s a reason that guy is lonely.”
“Ssh,” she said trying not to laugh.
“So I won’t see you till Saturday?” He sounded disappointed, and that lifted her spirits.
“Guess not.”
“Will you come over early enough for dinner?”
“I’ll try.”
“Good. Then I’ll make us something special. See you then.”
“Bye,” she replied, before hanging up the phone.
* * *
Although traditionally packed on the weekends, Timothy’s
maintained a moderate dinner business on weekdays. Angela found a parking spot with very little problem. A small limousine with the license www.samhainpublishing.com 153
Donna Richards
plate PICKFORD straddled a couple spaces. She smiled; she wasn’t the first of their party to arrive.
“Angela,” Stephen called, waving her over to the table. He didn’t rise when she approached the table, but his handsome companion did.
“Angie, I want you to meet my new driver, Ray.” She extended her hand to the stranger with the smug smile. “Ray, this is my kid sister.”
“So pleased to meet you.” He took her offered hand, shocking her with his cold, bloodless touch. Goosebumps formed on her arms. She released his hand immediately.
“Come, sit down.” Stephen waved her to an empty seat that placed her at the table between them.
“With all Stephen has told me, I feel I know you already.” Raymond shifted his body towards hers. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”
He had beautiful features—long, thick eyelashes, a strong, compelling chin, black, wavy hair. However, his cold black eyes gave her the willies.
She shifted uncomfortably. “No, I don’t think so. I’d remember you.”
She ordered from the hovering waitress while reminding herself not to prejudge Raymond. Look how mistaken she had been about Walter.
Stephen babbled on about the livery business and his plans for the future. Angie paid more attention to her food than the conversation around her. She felt Raymond’s gaze on her, roaming, assessing and passing judgment.
“What did you do to your foot?” he asked when Stephen paused for air.
“I tripped and sprained my ankle,” she replied. “Didn’t Stephen tell you I’m a real klutz?”
“No, but he did say you had a sheltered childhood due to a physical malady.”
Darn him. She glared at Stephen, but he studied his food with great intent.
“Are you well now?” Raymond asked.
“Yes,” she answered, no need to go into details with nosy strangers.
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“You’ll have to be careful walking your dog with your foot in that cast.”
Silent alarms sounded in her head. “How did you know I had a dog?”
she asked, laying down her fork. Suddenly, she had lost her appetite.
He reached over and removed a long, curly hair from her sleeve.
“Your pet travels with you.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
She wrapped her hands around her forearms and rubbed. “Isn’t it cold in here?”
“Oreo sheds on everything.” Stephen inserted himself back into the conversation. “She’s a good dog, though.” He smiled at Angela as if his compliment to Oreo made up for his sharing family secrets.
“I have an idea.” Stephen turned toward Raymond. “Do you know how to dance? Angie asked me –”
“It’s okay.” She grabbed his arm to stop him from saying more. “I’ve made other arrangements. I don’t think I’ll need your help in that department.” Her heart raced. The last thing she needed was that frigid thing touching her in an effort to learn to dance. She’d take her chances looking foolish with Hank on Saturday night. Stephen might be disappointed but he’d just have to live with it.
“Look, I’m not feeling very well. Do you mind if I leave before dessert?” She stood, reaching for her coat on a nearby hook.
Concern tinted Stephen’s face. “Are you okay, Angie? You’re not coming down with something, are you?” He turned to Raymond. “The slightest virus can be a serious thing to someone in Angie’s condition.”