Authors: Diana Palmer
All the way home she thought about Wentworth Carson, and her teeth ground together. Horrible, humorless man, he must be the world’s worst lover. He couldn’t even kiss. Of course, he hadn’t wanted to kiss her back. She flushed, remembering the hardness of his closed mouth. He seemed like a lonely man. She shook herself.
She
even felt sorry for squashed spiders, she reminded herself forcibly.
She went back to the sink in the small kitchen of the efficiency apartment she rented from a kindly couple in a residential area near the beach. It was really a garage apartment, but it had the advantage of being like a real house. She had the family, the Kennedys, nearby if she needed help, and she could walk to the beach. She had a phone of her own and even shared the family cat, Khan, a puffy Siamese-Persian, who visited her whenever she had chicken. She’d changed into a comfortable caftan and was just putting the finishing touches to tuna-salad sandwiches when her doorbell rang.
She frowned. Nobody ever came calling except Marla, and Marla went out with Andy practically every night now. It could be one of the Kennedys, of course, except that they were an elderly couple and never bothered her. Perhaps it was a salesman. She grinned, thinking up ways to get rid of him. Her social life was so dull that even a salesman became a welcome pest. It was great fun deciding how to get rid of them tactfully.
The last one had been selling subscriptions to an underwater publication. She promised to send a check as soon as her sunken living-room pool was finished. She’d closed the door on a face like a mask as he tried to decide between going meekly away or calling the nearest sanitarium on her behalf.
She opened the door as far as the chain latch would allow—it was night, after all—and came face to face with the enemy.
Her pale blue eyes glared at him through the crack. “I do not give private performances,” she informed Wentworth Carson.
“Thank God,” he returned. “Are you going to open the door, or would you like it removed?”
Heavens, he was the size of a battering ram! The Kennedys would surely throw her out if he put his shoulder to it….
With an angry sigh, she opened the door and let him in. He was wearing a trendy blue blazer with an unbuttoned white shirt and white slacks, and a dark pelt of hair showed in the opening at his olive tan throat. He looked different than he had that afternoon in his office. Big and broad and oddly sensuous for a cold fish. He made her nervous.
He stared down at her with a frown, his eyes on the blue-green-and-gold striped caftan she was wearing, with bare feet, no makeup and her dark hair still in its neat French twist.
“Are you Amelia Glenn?” he asked as if he couldn’t quite believe it.
“Surely you don’t make mistakes, Mr. Carson?” she asked with a false smile. “I’d never believe it!”
“You look more mature,” he said.
She glared at him. “You mean I look older. I was twenty-eight last month, in fact,” she said. “About half your age…?” she added pointedly.
“I’m forty,” he replied.
“Twelve years your junior,” she corrected smugly. “I do feel a mere child by comparison.”
He scowled blackly. She wondered if he ever smiled. He put his hands into his slacks pockets and stared at her openly.
“Miss Sayers tells me you don’t work for her.”
“No, I don’t.” She turned back toward the kitchen. “You’re welcome to join me if you like tuna fish,” she said over her shoulder.
He closed the door and followed her into the kitchen, pulling out a chair at the small table. “Is this called Southern hospitality, or do I look underfed?”
She couldn’t help the laughter. “Underfed, my foot. I’d hate to have your grocery bill.”
“I have to watch what I eat,” he said frankly. “Even then, I work out at the gym to keep from looking like a walking beer barrel.”
She laughed again, and reddened. “Sorry.”
“No offense taken. What do you do for a living?”
She poured coffee into two handmade pottery cups, her eyebrows asking if he drank coffee, and he nodded.
“I’m a clerk typist for an agricultural equipment firm,” she said.
His eyebrows arched.
“Well, I am,” she grumbled. “What do I look like?”
He actually smiled. Or it could be a muscle spasm, she thought wickedly. “I expected a more exotic occupation,” he returned.
“I grew up working in a print shop. The most exotic thing I’ve ever done in my life I did this afternoon, to help Marla out.”
“Andy Dedham started working for me last month,” he said as she sat down and shoved a platter of sandwiches between them on the table. “He doesn’t know me very well yet, but he’ll learn. I am going to pay him back in kind, and you’re going to help me. In costume, of course.”
She froze. “How?”
“His mother,” he replied, toying with his cup of black coffee, “is from Boston. She is a saintly widowed lady with impeccable manners, and once a month she comes to town and takes him to La Pierre for an elegant dinner.”
“Oh, no.” She shook her head. “Oh, no, I couldn’t, not there! All those people…! And Marla would never forgive me!”
“Where’s your spirit of adventure, Miss Glenn?”
“Under the table, hiding,” she returned. “I can’t! Furthermore,” she added with hauteur, “I won’t!”
He considered that, watching her with pursed lips. “Suppose I had a male stripper appear for you, at your sainted place of work?” he asked pleasantly.
She went violently red, gaping at him. “Oh, no, you couldn’t. Mr. Callahan would fire me on the spot!”
He smiled, very slowly. “Would he, really?”
“You wouldn’t!”
“Get in your rig, Cleopatra, be at La Pierre tomorrow night at exactly 7:00 p.m. and ask for Carlos when you get to the door,” he said. “Everything will be arranged. If not,” he added, studying her carelessly, “the morning after, you will have a particularly nauseating visitor, G-string and all.”
She buried her face in her hands. “I’d die!”
“My, my, aren’t you a paradox?” he murmured on a deep chuckle. “You seemed to enjoy your role enough, when the shoe was on the other foot.”
“I didn’t embarrass you,” she countered. “That can’t be done!”
“That’s true enough,” he affirmed. He leaned back in his chair, all blatant masculinity, big and dark and frankly sexy, with that shirt unbuttoned just enough to make her wonder what was under it. Dark hair peeked out of the opening, and a deeply tanned throat. He was as sensuous as any man she’d ever encountered, and twice the size of most of her dates. She would have found him fascinating under other circumstances.
Her quiet eyes were frankly appraising, and he lifted a dark eyebrow.
“Do I fascinate you, Miss Glenn?” he asked on a laugh. “Or are you looking for an appropriate place to plant a dagger?”
She raised her chin to show him she wasn’t intimidated. “I was just thinking how amazing it is that the chair hasn’t collapsed under your weight.”
He laughed softly, laughter that had a frankly predatory sound. “Were you? I’m not that big.”
“No,” she said with mock sincerity, “you’re just a small mountain, that’s all.”
His dark eyes narrowed as they appraised her, and she wanted to back off and run. He disturbed her.
“I am not on the menu,” she said boldly.
“Pity,” he murmured. “You might taste better than you look.”
She lifted her cup and cocked her head to one side.
“I wouldn’t,” he said calmly. “You’d have to spend the evening washing up.”
She sighed angrily. “I don’t like you.”
He smiled slowly. “If I hadn’t learned so much about your sex the hard way, I might be tempted to make you like me,” he said very quietly. “But fortunately for you, I’ve lost my taste for it. An occasional night out satisfies me very well these days.”
He sounded and looked as if women held no more secrets for him, and she felt vaguely grateful that he wasn’t interested in her. A man like that, with his obvious experience, could make mincemeat of her.
“Excuse me while I get down on my knees and give thanks for that saving grace,” she told him and offered him the sandwiches.
He took one and studied it carefully.
“Looking for something?” she asked as she lifted one for herself.
“Arsenic,” he said bluntly.
She burst out laughing. “I used the last on the bus driver who let me off a mile from my stop,” she promised. “Honestly, it’s safe.”
He bit into it, finished it and smiled. “Not bad. I didn’t know tuna could taste so good.”
“It’s the pickled peach juice,” she murmured dryly. “Dad taught me how to make it. He does most of the cooking. My mother can burn water.”
“What does she do?”
“She sets type for my father, who runs the print shop. She’s very good at that, and dealing with customers, but she isn’t domestic. I learned to cook or starve at an early age.” She finished her own sandwich and took a sip of coffee. “How long have you been in construction?” she asked politely.
His broad shoulders shrugged as he finished his second sandwich. “I think I was born doing it. My parents died when I was just a child. My grandmother raised me, pushed me into finding a profession I liked instead of just one I took for money.” He smiled faintly. “I found I enjoyed building things. She prodded me until I called up a cousin who was an architect and asked him point-blank how I could get into the business. He was impressed enough to hire me on the spot. I worked for him between college classes. When I graduated he gave me an executive position.” His eyes grew wistful. “He had no immediate family, and he hated most of his distant relatives. When he died, I inherited the company. I’ve expanded it, enlarged it. Now it’s almost too big for me. I have a board of directors and every damned decision I make, I have to fight for.”
“I’m glad I’m just a tadpole,” she said with a sigh. “I’d hate that.”
“I enjoy it,” he murmured, dark eyes smiling at her across the table. “I like the challenge. It keeps my blood pumping.”
At his age, surely a family would help. She studied him for a long moment, unaware of the blatant curiosity in her eyes.
“Well?” he asked. “Spit it out.”
She shifted in the chair, feeling her nudity under the caftan as if he’d reached out and touched her. She hadn’t been self-conscious with him before, but now she wished she was dressed.
“I just wondered why you weren’t married.”
“Because I don’t want to be,” he replied. His dark eyes sparkled mischievously. “Or did you think I was over the hill? I assure you, I’m not. At least, not in the respect you’re mulling over,” he added, watching her fidget nervously. He finished his coffee. “Are you going to La Pierre, or do I make a phone call?” he asked.
She sighed defeatedly. “I’ll go. But I’ll never forgive you.”
“That won’t matter,” he said. “We won’t see each other again.” He stood up. “Thanks for the meal.”
“You’re welcome.”
She walked him to the door, expecting him to go right out it. But he didn’t. He turned and suddenly put his big hands on either side of her face and tilted it up to his dark eyes.
“Just to set you right on something…” he murmured, and bent his head.
His mouth came down on hers roughly, a warm assault that quickly parted her set lips and searched them with a pressure that was demanding and frankly expert. Within seconds, she was his, a victim turned coconspirator, a willing victim with a frantic heartbeat. She’d been kissed before, infrequently, but it had never been like this. She wanted it to go on forever. Her eyes were closed, her fists clenched tightly by her sides, her body throbbing even though he didn’t touch it or bring her one inch closer. She savored the rough pressure of his lips on hers and tasted him in one wild second with all the sensual curiosity she’d ever experienced for a man.
His head lifted a fraction of an inch and he looked into her drowsy, dazed eyes. “Why, you little fraud,” he breathed. “It was pure bravado this morning, wasn’t it? You don’t even know how!”
She almost said “teach me,” she almost reached up to him. But sanity came back just in the nick of time. She eased away from him, her eyes nervous but steady on his face.
“Are you through?” she asked through lips swollen from the pressure of his mouth, which had, at the last, been formidable.
“Yes.” He studied her with a ghost of a smile on his broad, craggy face. “Odd how things happen. I’m sorry we come from such different walks of life. I’d have enjoyed teaching you. A twenty-eight year old innocent,” he added with a visible twinkle in his dark eyes, “is an intriguing proposition.”
“You just take your propositions and go away and play with your building blocks. I’ll do your dirty work. And you keep that male stripper away from my office, please, I need my job.”
“Seven sharp,” he returned. He opened the door with a last, lingering look. “You could make your living as an exotic dancer,” he said quietly. “I’ve never seen a more exquisite body.”
He turned and left her standing there. It was a full minute before she could close the door again. Cold fish, indeed! More like a dormant volcano….
Three
M
r. Callahan was around sixty, had a bald head and narrow little eyes, wore glasses and was half Amelia’s size. He could out curse any sailor in port on a spree, and his compassion stopped at the door of his plant. He did not give leaves of absence, he did not like illness, and if there had been another job going anywhere, Amelia would have taken it on the spot. But openings were so hard to find in the raw economic times that she gritted her teeth and did what she was told. The only thing worse than this would be going back to Seagrove, a small town on the coast near Savannah, Georgia, and helping her parents run the print shop. That would take her close to Henry Janrett, who still expected her to come home and marry him when she got big-city living out of her blood. Henry ran the small town’s sole newspaper. He wrote a column about beekeeping, when he wasn’t lazing around local officials’ offices jotting down notes. He was a sweet man, just about Amelia’s own age, and she supposed someday she might even give in and do it. But Henry seemed a desperate last chance, and meanwhile she was still hoping for a crack at an exciting occupation in the big city. She didn’t know why she’d picked Chicago. Perhaps because her Navy veteran mother had been stationed at a naval base near Chicago during World War II and had come to Chicago on leave, and Amelia had heard such fascinating things about the Windy City. Perhaps it was its ancient gangster history. She’d come here a year ago in a last-ditch attempt to find something her life lacked, before she went over the hill completely. She’d been hoping for excitement and adventure. And she’d found Mr. Callahan.