Ulterior Motives (3 page)

She took off her clothes and looked at them critically. She would ask the dry cleaner what could be done, but she had a feeling they were history. She was impressed, actually, that Ross could speak so seriously to a woman with such huge red stains all over her clothes.

Shelley smiled when she thought of him and glanced out the window. He had gotten out of the car and was leaning against it while he surveyed the river valley below. He looked like a model in one of those TV commercials for foreign sports cars.

She opened her closet and wondered what to wear. She had accepted some years ago that she didn’t have a natural eye for what would look flattering on her. She had learned to settle for a working wardrobe of simple clothes in easy-to-match colors, paired with high-heeled shoes that could give her added height.

She didn’t particularly regret the damage to her gray wool skirt. It was too long, and she had always had the feeling it made her look like she was standing in a hole. She wished, though, that she could think of some color combination or clever mixture of accessories that would knock Ross’ socks off. He seemed worth the effort.

After taking more time than she had meant to, she decided simplicity was still her best option. She donned a white blouse and straight black skirt. She realized belatedly, as she descended the front steps, that she probably looked like she should be serving food at a wedding reception.

Ross, however, wore a flattering expression as he opened the passenger door.

Shelley looked somewhat wistfully at the roof of his car as he started the engine.

“We’ll put the top down next time,” he promised. “Tomorrow’s Saturday. Are you busy?”

“Well, I... There’s a... I should... Nothing I can’t cancel.” She had a list of errands as long as her arm, but that seemed unimportant at the moment.

“Perhaps you could show me around a bit tomorrow?”

“I’d love to,” she admitted. Then she grinned at him. “But only if you put the top down.”

“I promise.”

“And I get to drive,” she added.

He looked at her suspiciously, a slight smile hovering at the edges of his mouth. “We’ll talk about it.”

“Turn right at the bottom of the street and follow the signs for downtown.”

“How do you usually get to work?”

“I bring my car if I know I’ll be working late, but otherwise I take the bus. During rush hour it’s a quick ride and it’s much more convenient than fighting for a parking space.”

She chatted comfortably with him the rest of the way downtown. They talked about various places they might go the following day, Shelley’s passion for Chinese food, the local brands of Cincinnati beer Ross would have to try, how wonderful it was to see spring coming at last, and whether or not fish still lived in the Ohio River.

He told her his favorite restaurant in the whole world was a little family-owned place in Toulouse, France. Shelley had been there, too, on one of her many trips through Toulouse. They laughed together as they remembered the big white dog that came around to inspect the leavings at every table. Ross was a pleasure to talk to, intelligent, charming, funny, his deep voice flowing through her with its smooth, round tones.

“If you turn down this street, there’s usually a parking space free this late in the day. We’re right by my office,” Shelley said.

“Have you ever stopped to consider,” he said absently as he backed the Porsche into the curbside space, “that parallel parking is really a rite of passage for modern man? Separates the men from the boys, as it were. I mean, would you still respect me if we got this far and I told you I couldn’t park the car?”

“Well, I couldn’t criticize, since parallel parking isn’t my strong suit, and you might find out.”

“Very sensible. Shall we?” They got out of the car and started walking up the street. “I hope you make a good cup of coffee.”

“My coffee’s only so-so. But my secretary makes great coffee.”

“Ah, you have a secretary. Are you some sort of important, top-level executive?” he asked as he offered her his arm.

“Hardly,” she said, taking his arm and walking close beside him. He was tall, about six feet, she guessed, and she had trouble keeping up with his considerably longer legs. He slowed his pace instantly to one she could easily match. His arm felt strong and sturdy beneath his expensive suit, and she felt good walking with him, touching him.

“What do you do, then?” he asked.

“Over here,” she said, pulling him toward an open-air escalator. “It’s up on the skywalk. I’m the director of the Babel Language Center.”

He pulled slightly away from her, surprise evident in his expression. “Babel?” he repeated.

“I guess the name isn’t loaded with credibility,” Shelley admitted. “But they’re successful enough that I doubt they’ll change it. Anyhow it’s quite a good language school.”

“You know, Shelley,” he said slowly, “I don’t even know your last name.”

“I hadn’t even thought of that.” She smiled. “It’s Baird.”

“Shelley Baird,” he said. “Or Michelle Baird?”

“That’s right.”

“Director of the Babel Language Center.”

“It’s right over here.” They turned right at the top of the escalator and walked past a boutique, a coffee shop, and two small businesses before coming to a big picture window and a glass door with the Babel logo printed on it. Shelley pushed open the door and led Ross into the lobby. It was tasteful but lacked elegance. It had been last decorated many years before Shelley’s arrival, and she was still trying to convince headquarters to allot her some money to update it. In the meantime she did what she could to add some character to the place by adding plants and hanging prints.

“Ciao,
Shelley,” the receptionist greeted her.
“Ma come mai hai cambiato vestiti?”

“Ciao,
Francesca. There was a little accident at the reception, that’s all.”

The Italian woman’s soft brown gaze rested on Ross with interest. Shelley was pleased to see she wasn’t the only woman who couldn’t help staring at him. Francesca, however, was happily married. Her interest was limited to subtle appreciation of some very masculine appeal.

“Francesca, this is Ross Tanner, who may or may not be doing business with Keene International. Ross, this is our very capable secretary, Francesca Mannino.”

“Molto piacere, signora,”
Ross said politely, taking Francesca’s hand.

“Lei parla italiano, signore?”
Francesca asked.

“Actually, no, I don’t speak Italian, but a friend once taught me a dozen useful phrases for meeting Italian women.”

“Such as?” Shelley asked with interest.

“Non ci conosciamo?”
he said suggestively.

“‘Haven’t we met before?’” Shelley repeated. “That’s a little shopworn, isn’t it?”

“I said they were useful, not original. Besides, I was young enough at the time to think that was a subtle approach.” He grinned at her skeptical expression.

Shelley turned back to Francesca. “Any messages?”

“Yes, yes, many messages. Always it is the same when she leaves,” Francesca said to Ross. “The phone never stops ringing. Teachers want to talk to Shelley. Clients want to talk to Miss Baird. She must call her superiors before five o’clock, or the world will come to an end. I think it is very irritating.”

“Who called today?” Shelley asked.

Francesca spoke to her for several minutes in mingled English and Italian, handing her note after note, explaining that a Spanish teacher was having trouble with the immigration authorities and needed Shelley to speak to them on his behalf, the interpretations coordinator needed Shelley to find a local Pashto speaker for a court case, and the French teacher wanted to know whether someone else could teach the group class tonight because she was having rice.

“Rice?” Shelley repeated, frowning. “Are you sure she said rice?”

“I don’t know what she said. She was crying.”

“I think that must be ‘crisis,’ Francesca. I’d better sort that out right away. I can’t have seven people show up at six o’clock to find there’s no teacher and no lesson.”

“Shelley, you’ve obviously got a lot to do,” Ross said, “Perhaps it would be best if I left.”

She looked at him regretfully, sorry to see him go, but she really did have too much to do this afternoon to spend any more time on personal matters. Anyhow she would be seeing him tomorrow. “Yes, maybe you’re right. But at least let me show you around the school before you go.”

He seemed torn for a minute, as if he were anxious to leave. But after a brief moment, he politely said, “Yes, I’d love to see the rest of the school.”

Shelley showed him the teachers’ lounge, Wayne’s office, her own office, and the school’s ten classrooms, ranging in size from small rooms for private lessons to a large room for group courses. Toward the back of the school was a coffee room where students and staff could congregate before lessons or during their breaks.

“There’s another door back here that leads out to the street,” Shelley said.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

“Yes.”

“What time shall I pick you up?”

“How about ten o’clock?”

“All right.” His gaze roamed her features, and he seemed as if he wanted to say more.

Always one for the direct approach, Shelley asked, “Is there something else?”

She could tell that whatever it was, he had changed his mind. Instead he looked at her with a sensual expression in his eyes. He let his gaze drop to her mouth, and Shelley felt her face grow warm. He pulled her toward him and lowered his head very slowly, giving her time to pull away—as if she could possibly want to.

“Just this.” He breathed against her lips an instant before his mouth touched hers in a soft kiss. It was a feather-light caress, warm and tender, lasting scarcely a second. They stayed with their faces close together, enjoying each other’s nearness for a long, silent moment as they savored the promise in that brief kiss.

Shelley was amazed that a mere kiss could make her quiver, could fill her mind with erotic thoughts, could make her long to melt against him and find out what else he did so well.

“I could stay like this all day,” he murmured. “But I only put a quarter in the parking meter.”

Shelley smiled. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Until tomorrow,” he said, and then he left.

Shelley looked at the door after he’d gone, allowing herself one last moment of pleasure over him. Then she sighed and headed toward her office. Francesca stood in her doorway and peered at her curiously.

“You were back there a long time,” Francesca observed.

“Oh?”
 

“He is a real man,” Francesca said enthusiastically.

“I suppose so,” Shelley agreed, remaining nonchalant.

“You have found a good lover,” Francesca said with certainty.

“He’s not my lover. He just gave me a lift,” Shelley said.

“Ah, no,
cara,
he looks at you the way a real man looks at a woman he wants,” Francesca declared with relish.

“Have you nothing else to do today except
chiacchierare?”
Shelley prodded, feeling a little embarrassed.

“Ahhh,” Francesca said wisely. She went back to her desk.

Shelley was picking up the phone, hoping to secure a French teacher for that evening’s class, when Wayne Thompson came bounding through the front entrance and charged into her office. He flung his lanky frame into a chair before her desk and shook his blond hair.

“Whatever you’re doing, put it aside, put down the phone—” He snatched the receiver out of her hand. “—and listen to
me.
”

“Yes, Wayne, has something happened?” Shelley asked dryly.

“You were right, I was wrong—”

“Heavens to Betsy.”

“Mr. Charles Winston-Clarke has good cause to be uptight today.”

“If this is about Chuck,” Shelley said, “it can wait till later.”

“No, it can’t. Wait until you get a load of this!” Wayne was just pushy enough to extract information from people that they really hadn’t intended to give him, and Shelley was curious to know what had prompted his whirlwind entrance.

“Well?” she prodded.

“Well, since you came to Cincinnati over a year ago, we’ve given Elite very serious competition for new business. I might add that my own contribution to our success and their lack of it has not been negligible—”

“Get to the point.”

“Patience, I am. It seems that while Cincinnati was a quiet little city with two quiet little unsuccessful language schools downtown, the folks at Elite’s headquarters in Paris didn’t pay any attention to either of us. But now the city is growing by leaps and bounds, and Keene International is just one of a number of big companies offering considerable opportunities to a reputable language center. The great minds at Elite are feeling somewhat perturbed that, while they’ve been concentrating their energies elsewhere, we’ve elbowed them out of all new business here this year.”

“Well, that’s their tough luck for not looking ahead,” Shelley said.