Nordic Heroes: In the Market and a Wholesale Arrangement (29 page)

She looked away. He moved too fast. She didn’t have a prayer of outthinking or outmaneuvering him. She could only stall. “I need time.”

“I’ll give you forty-eight hours. After that, I’ll assume you plan to sell. According to my contract, I have to give seven days’ written notice of my intent to terminate. Unless you agree to my suggestion, that notice will be on your desk first thing Wednesday morning.”

Andrea bowed her head. “Why, Thor?” she whispered. “Why are you doing this?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

She gave a watery laugh. “Maybe it’s something in the air. This is my second proposal today.”

His voice remained even, though she suspected she’d angered him. “Mine’s the better one. Marriage to Milano wouldn’t work. He loves women too much to stay faithful to any one.”

She couldn’t argue. “Ironic, isn’t it?” She lifted her chin proudly. “No matter who I marry, I’ll still end up divorced.”

He gave no quarter. “Life’s tough.”

L
ate that evening, Andrea climbed the back warehouse steps to a tiny storage loft located above the offices. She leaned against the door, exhaustion sweeping over her. After Nick’s death, she’d put their home on the market and sold most of its furnishings. Last week, the escrow closed and today she’d mailed the check from the proceeds to the bank in an attempt to lessen her debt. All that remained of the home she’d shared with her father for almost twenty-seven years were a few personal possessions she couldn’t bear to sell or leave behind. Few people knew about the sale and she preferred to keep it that way.

She unlocked the loft door and pushed it open. Home wasn’t quite what it used to be, but it would do. It had taken massive amounts of cleaning and a lot of imagination to turn the tiny, dark hole into a pleasant hideaway.

Switching on the overhead bulb, she stepped inside, welcomed by the glitter of hundreds of dancing prisms hanging from every conceivable fixture. Dodging the sparkling bits of glass, she hurried over to a small window and opened it. Seattle’s hot July days left the loft of the cavernous old building stuffy. Fortunately, with only one room to cool, an electric fan solved the problem. Sort of.

In no time at all, she’d boiled water for coffee on the hot plate that served as a stovetop. Eggs out of a miniature refrigerator followed, accompanied by a salad overflowing with assorted vegetables. She grinned. With a built-in produce market two floors below, at least she wouldn’t starve.

The only drawback to her new accommodations was the necessity of going downstairs to use the bathroom and to refill her thermos jug whenever she needed water. Considering she lived rent free, she couldn’t complain. Besides, it was temporary. As soon as she turned the business around . . .

“Ms. Constantine?” a voice called from the stairwell.

She opened the loft door and looked into the anxious face of her night security guard. “Yes, Willie?”

“Thought I’d check to see if you’re okay. I’ll be outside, if you need me. You, ah, sure you should stay here by yourself?”

“I’m fine,” she said firmly.

He cleared his throat. “I spoke to Marco today.”

Andrea winced, wondering if Willie let anything slip about her new residence. Except for the guard, no one knew she’d moved into the warehouse, and she preferred to keep it that way. For some reason, her employees had become very protective of late. If they discovered she lived in the loft, not only would they worry about her safety—not that there was anything to worry about—they’d also wonder why she’d sold her home. She couldn’t afford to start rumors concerning Constantine’s financial position. Not now. Not ever.

“What did you tell Marco?” she asked.

“Nothing! Not a word, just like I promised. Only . . .”

“Only?”

He yanked at the brim of his hat. “Marco’s my cousin, you see.”

Andrea closed her eyes and counted to ten. It didn’t help. “I’m sorry,” she said carefully. “I realize I’ve put you in an uncomfortable position, but I’d appreciate your continued discretion.”

“Sure thing. It’s just . . .”

“Yes?”

“Watching over a few bananas and apples isn’t no big deal.” He tugged significantly at his belt, his sidearm bouncing against his thigh. “A crazed desperado puts a few bullet holes in a bag of spuds, and you can up and buy some more. But I’d feel real bad if you were to ah . . .” He shrugged. “You know.”

“Become bullet-ridden while in your care?”

“Yeah.” He sighed in relief. “I’d feel real bad if that happened. It would cause big trouble for both of us. Major big trouble. And . . .”

“Yes, Willie?”

He stared at her earnestly, his devoted puppy-dog face beaded with perspiration. “This is temporary, like you promised, isn’t it Ms. Constantine?”

“Of course.” She smiled, positive all her woes would pass before too many more months. “And I’ll do my very best not to get shot. All right?”

“I guess that’ll have to do,” he agreed unhappily. He retreated down the steps. “You’ll remember to bar your door?”

“I’ll remember, Willie.”

He paused at the landing. “And keep that crowbar I gave you real handy. Under your pillow, okay?”

“I will.” She choked on the lie. Not even for Willie’s peace of mind would she sleep on top of a lump of iron.

“And call me if you hear anything peculiar.” He disappeared around the landing, then peeked back at her. “Anything at all.”

“You’ll be the first to know.” He vanished again and she stepped into the loft.

“’Night, Ms. Constantine. Sleep tight.”

“Good night, Willie,” she replied, and started to close her door.

His mournful voice drifted up with a final admonishment. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

A
ndrea awoke the next morning to a room flooded with rainbows. Sunshine, streaming in from the skylights above her bed and from the tiny porthole windows along one wall, caught each of the hundreds of prisms and filled her room with the promise of a better tomorrow. At least, she’d always attributed the prisms with such a wondrous ability.

She wrapped her arms around her bent legs, gazing at the sparkling bits of glass suspended amongst the dust motes. So pretty and simple, yet add a little light and look at what they could accomplish. A rainbow and a miracle, all in one.

It also expressed her philosophy about life.

The rainbows gave her hope and reinforced her belief that everything, no matter how impossible it seemed, would work out in the end. It might take a little time and imagination, and it might also take a heck of a lot of effort, but eventually all her problems could be happily resolved. Faith, like sunlight on a prism, was the magical ingredient.

Unfortunately, pragmatism was an ingredient, as well. And a roomful of rainbows meant she’d overslept. Hopping off the bed, she threw on her clothes. With any luck, she could still slip down to her office with no one any the wiser.

Except for Marco, the ten salesmen, and dozen or so dock workers who’d been searching for her all morning.

“You had to be somewhere. Your car’s parked in the lot,” Marco groused the instant she made her appearance. “Where you been hiding?”

“The loft,” she admitted, honest to a fault. “Looking at prisms.”

“You gone daft on me?” Marco demanded. “Can’t work for no daft-minded boss.”

She glared at him, not that it helped. A fair number of the men in her employ had known her since she wore diapers. One or two, she didn’t doubt, had even changed the occasional soggy drawer, which gave her more substitute fathers than she cared to count, each more protective than the last.

“Every marble present and accounted for,” she stated. “What’s the problem?”

“We’ve got a boycott in the making,” he said, not pulling any punches.

Andrea closed her eyes. Hartsworth and his scum-of-the-earth lawyer, Thomas. What she wouldn’t give to lock them both up for a week with some of that worm-ridden, rot-infested corn they’d attempted to pawn off on her. “Go on. I can take it.” Maybe she could take it. She’d try to take it.

“Three phone calls so far. Each from farmers out of eastern Washington, same as Hartsworth, with every last son-of-a-hee-haw yammering on about our history of nonpayment.” He scowled. “They’re all demanding cash in hand before delivery.”

“Right. Then if they deliver, it won’t be fit for pig slop.” Not to mention the fact their current problems stemmed from just that sort of arrangement. The last time Nick paid in advance, the farming co-op he’d fronted went belly-up, adding to their financial hole. A hole fast approaching the size of the Grand Canyon. “Forget it.”

Marco hesitated, his expression reflecting his frustration. “I’m not sure we have a choice,” he admitted. “I wish I could call up every last one of those yahoos and give ’em what for, but we need their produce. Without it . . .” His shrug spoke volumes. “Our inventory won’t last forever.”

“We could buy elsewhere.”

“Not according to the brokers I’ve approached. Seems your friend Hartsworth’s got us wrapped up tighter than a sex-starved boa would its mate.”

She whistled softly. “I assume that’s tight.”

“Count on it.”

She could also count on Constantine’s being in an even tougher position, should she agree to their terms. “Okay, what do we do?”

“You’re the boss. It’s your call.”

“I’ll talk to them personally. Maybe it’ll help. How long can we get by?”

“Two days. Oh, and young Milano stopped by. Said he’d call you later.”

Andrea nodded. She didn’t have time to worry about Joe. Staying in business came first. She headed for her office, aware a solution to her predicament did exist—for the truly desperate. Which she wasn’t. At least, not yet. With luck, not ever.

Six hours later her luck ran out. Not only did she learn the meaning of the word “desperate,” she learned the meaning of the words “pure,” “unadulterated,” and “panic.” She unglued her ear from the phone and, in one furious move, swept her desk clean. Receipts, envelopes, and bills formed a colorful barrier around her desk.

Each of the men she’d spoken to was more stubborn than the most ornery mule, and twice as contrary. If she wanted any more deliveries she either paid for them in advance and in cash, or she scuttled over to Thorsen’s Produce, tail tucked firmly between her legs, and dumped her problems in Thor’s lap. Neither was a prospect she relished.

She thrust her chair aside and stood, stalking to the windows overlooking the warehouse. All her life she’d lived with a man who’d put business first—even, as Thor had so kindly reminded her, before his only child. Not that Nick hadn’t been a loving father. But it hurt, knowing she’d always come second in his life.

When she’d discovered she couldn’t successfully compete with the demands of Constantine’s, she’d tried to work for him and prove her worth that way, share with him on a level he’d understand. Not that it had done much good. Nick didn’t approve of women in business, at least this business, one that occupied all his time and energy. So, long ago she’d decided never to marry a man who felt the same way.

Then she’d met Thor, who promptly blew her decision to hell and gone. Still, she’d hoped. She’d hoped she’d fallen in love with a different type of man than Nick. Hoped Thor loved her even a smidgen more than his business. Hoped, for once, she could be first in someone’s life.

The truth, when it came, had been painful, if not unforeseen. Shortly after their engagement, she’d discovered Thor had proposed only to get the best possible deal from Nick during negotiations for the Milano account. She’d returned his ring.

How ironic she’d come full circle, agreeing to marry a man who chose business over love. How the mighty did fall. She closed her eyes. And how Thor must be laughing.

With an effort, she straightened her shoulders. Maybe she could still have the last laugh. By marrying, she’d save Constantine’s and pay off the bank. She’d succeed where once she’d failed. Even better, she’d play Thor at his own game. And win.

Now to beard the thunder god in his den.