say! His mother didn't know
of her existence. She was becoming a blithering idiot. "But I must
go now. I'll wait for your decision on those files, Mr. Monroe.
Goodbye."
She hung up before she could hear any answer,
then stared at the instrument as if something might leap out of it
to snatch away the final shreds of her composure.
Jerkily, she picked up a pencil and rammed it
into the small sharpener from her drawer.
Why did she react that way? All right, Paul
Monroe made her a little nervous. Yes, she felt an attraction to
him, although clearly nothing serious, since she had a firm fix on
the man's faults. Even though that eye-dancing smile could make the
clearest of faults a bit fuzzy around the edges. But she hadn't
turned him down because of that . . . exactly. She'd turned him
down because she had a lot of work and he'd disrupted her schedule
yesterday. It was only logical to make up the time today. Refusing
his invitation constituted an ordinary, reasonable business
decision.
Then why did she feel so flustered? And why
had she just methodically sharpened her pencil to exactly half its
previous length?
She shook her head, trying to jostle her
thoughts into acceptable order.
She felt so flustered because Paul Monroe was
not an ordinary, reasonable business associate. No wonder she had
an odd reaction—he was odd.
Satisfied with that analysis, Bette turned to
her delayed tasks from the day before, and tried to concentrate.
All day she tried.
An annoying anticipation edged into her
afternoon, lifting the edges of her concentration and peeling it
away like a label that was coming unstuck. By six-fifteen she had
sharpened every pencil at least twice, and accomplished little
else.
At the opening squeak of her office door, she
jumped, a hand to her heart. Her pulse burst into a sprint, then
slowed. Only Darla. She frowned fiercely. Only Darla? Exactly whom had she been expecting?
"Bette? Are you all right?"
"Yes, I'm fine. What is it, Darla?"
"There's someone here—"
The door swung wide and there he was,
grinning and sending her pulse off again in double time.
"Hi, Bette."
Darla looked over her shoulder, then back at
Bette. "Do you want me to . . .?" She let the words trail off, and
Bette could tell that she didn't want to do anything, that she
approved of Paul's presence in her boss's office. Bette felt
ganged-up on—Paul Monroe, Darla Clarence and her own heartbeat.
"It's all right, Darla. Thank you."
She waited until Paul moved into the room and
Darla closed the door. That gave her a chance to prepare a
cordially businesslike scold. "Paul—"
"Don't apologize, Bette."
Her prepared words vanished. "Apologize!"
"Yeah, I understand about lunch. I know some
people get uptight about keeping to a schedule. They just can't
help it."
"Uptight." She forced the word through
clenched teeth.
He went blithely on.
"I realized I shouldn't have pushed about
lunch. But now that you've had all afternoon to catch up—" he
hesitated just long enough for her to remember how abysmally she'd
failed to use the afternoon to catch up, and that it was all his
fault "—let's go to dinner."
"I have plans."
Most men would have instantly withdrawn at
the deliberate chill in those three words. She should have
remembered that when it came to what nine out of ten men would do,
she faced Mr. Ten.
"Plans?" He repeated the word as if he'd
never heard it, and certainly had no familiarity with the concept.
"Don't you want to have dinner with me?"
She opened her mouth and shut it immediately,
uncertain it would deliver the sentiment she needed to express.
Damn the man.
"It's not that . . ." A fine start, but then
she didn't know what to say next. "I have a lot of work to do." Why
did the truth sound so lame?
"Didn't you have a good time last night?"
"Yes, I had a good time, but—"
"I did, too. Good. I want to hear about your
business, and you should probably know more about mine before we
make a final choice on this permanent
of her existence. She was becoming a blithering idiot. "But I must
go now. I'll wait for your decision on those files, Mr. Monroe.
Goodbye."
She hung up before she could hear any answer,
then stared at the instrument as if something might leap out of it
to snatch away the final shreds of her composure.
Jerkily, she picked up a pencil and rammed it
into the small sharpener from her drawer.
Why did she react that way? All right, Paul
Monroe made her a little nervous. Yes, she felt an attraction to
him, although clearly nothing serious, since she had a firm fix on
the man's faults. Even though that eye-dancing smile could make the
clearest of faults a bit fuzzy around the edges. But she hadn't
turned him down because of that . . . exactly. She'd turned him
down because she had a lot of work and he'd disrupted her schedule
yesterday. It was only logical to make up the time today. Refusing
his invitation constituted an ordinary, reasonable business
decision.
Then why did she feel so flustered? And why
had she just methodically sharpened her pencil to exactly half its
previous length?
She shook her head, trying to jostle her
thoughts into acceptable order.
She felt so flustered because Paul Monroe was
not an ordinary, reasonable business associate. No wonder she had
an odd reaction—he was odd.
Satisfied with that analysis, Bette turned to
her delayed tasks from the day before, and tried to concentrate.
All day she tried.
An annoying anticipation edged into her
afternoon, lifting the edges of her concentration and peeling it
away like a label that was coming unstuck. By six-fifteen she had
sharpened every pencil at least twice, and accomplished little
else.
At the opening squeak of her office door, she
jumped, a hand to her heart. Her pulse burst into a sprint, then
slowed. Only Darla. She frowned fiercely. Only Darla? Exactly whom had she been expecting?
"Bette? Are you all right?"
"Yes, I'm fine. What is it, Darla?"
"There's someone here—"
The door swung wide and there he was,
grinning and sending her pulse off again in double time.
"Hi, Bette."
Darla looked over her shoulder, then back at
Bette. "Do you want me to . . .?" She let the words trail off, and
Bette could tell that she didn't want to do anything, that she
approved of Paul's presence in her boss's office. Bette felt
ganged-up on—Paul Monroe, Darla Clarence and her own heartbeat.
"It's all right, Darla. Thank you."
She waited until Paul moved into the room and
Darla closed the door. That gave her a chance to prepare a
cordially businesslike scold. "Paul—"
"Don't apologize, Bette."
Her prepared words vanished. "Apologize!"
"Yeah, I understand about lunch. I know some
people get uptight about keeping to a schedule. They just can't
help it."
"Uptight." She forced the word through
clenched teeth.
He went blithely on.
"I realized I shouldn't have pushed about
lunch. But now that you've had all afternoon to catch up—" he
hesitated just long enough for her to remember how abysmally she'd
failed to use the afternoon to catch up, and that it was all his
fault "—let's go to dinner."
"I have plans."
Most men would have instantly withdrawn at
the deliberate chill in those three words. She should have
remembered that when it came to what nine out of ten men would do,
she faced Mr. Ten.
"Plans?" He repeated the word as if he'd
never heard it, and certainly had no familiarity with the concept.
"Don't you want to have dinner with me?"
She opened her mouth and shut it immediately,
uncertain it would deliver the sentiment she needed to express.
Damn the man.
"It's not that . . ." A fine start, but then
she didn't know what to say next. "I have a lot of work to do." Why
did the truth sound so lame?
"Didn't you have a good time last night?"
"Yes, I had a good time, but—"
"I did, too. Good. I want to hear about your
business, and you should probably know more about mine before we
make a final choice on this permanent
Similar Books
