likely offer her a deadline extension, possibly even the option of scrapping the project. In all likelihood, Jeff might go so far as offering to come to Conifer to be with her for a while, to give her moral support.
But she had moral support, right here in Conifer.
Of course, the thought conjured up an image of Royce, and the image sparked an attendant vision, demanding a comparison between the two men.
Megan frowned as she mentally examined the pictures filling her mind. In truth, there really was no comparison.
Jefferson Clarke was a bit taller than average, a tad taller than Megan herself. He had a dark olive complexion, dark eyes and hair. His build was slender, elegant, a living, breathing reflection of the conventional concept of the aristocrat. In other words, Jeff was the complete opposite of the very tall, muscular, sun-kissed, earthy Royce Wolfe.
It wasn't until that instant that Megan realized that she preferred earthy to aristocratic.
Preferred? Megan's frown deepened. The connotations inherent in the word gave her pause. At the moment, under her present circumstances, her preference in regard to men should have been the absolute last thing to spring to her mind.
Yet, there it was, nudged to the forefront of her consciousness by the persistent image of Royce's visage confronting her, stirring a flicker of feminine interest to life inside her.
A shiver skipped down Megan's spine, a shiver born more from excitement than from fear.
Ridiculous. Megan moved her head in another hard shake, dislodging the visions of both men. Then a faint smile of gratitude curved her lips as the thought occurred that, in point of fact, the two images had superseded that of her frightening attacker—and all because of a phone message.
Sending a silent but heartfelt thanks to Jefferson Clarke for saving her from herself, from surrendering to fear, she turned away from the desk to stare lovingly at the work in progress attached to her table.
Megan had worked on numerous projects for Clarke and Clarke since going free-lance. She enjoyed working with the Clarkes, father and son, and the bright, energetic and imaginative employees of the company, and she hoped to continue working with them in the future.
But she wouldn't have a prayer of seeing her hopes realized if she cringed in a corner. She had an assignment to complete, and she was already over deadline, as Jeff had pointedly reminded her via her answering machine.
Ever since she first took a colored pencil to drawing paper at the age of five, Megan had been able to lose herself in her imagination, and the creations it conjured up. Her lips compressed into a thin line of determination to fight backsliding with her strongest weapon, Megan slid onto the stool in front of the table.
It was time for all good little illustrators to cut through the emotional crap and get down to business.
* * *
It was a long workday, and it was only a little more than half over.
Royce shot a glance at the office wall clock and suppressed a sigh. The hands stood at 8:37.
It had been dark outside for several hours now. How was Megan handling the nighttime hours?
The thought directed his gaze to the phone. Royce lifted his hand, then let it drop to the desktop again.
He wanted to call Megan, hear her voice assuring him that she was all right.
Of course she was all right, he chided himself, closing the folder on the desk in front of him. He slid the folder into the out basket and reached into the in basket for another one. He opened the folder and frowned at the top sheet of paper. The information contained on the page merged into wavy lines of seeming gibberish.
Frustrated, impatient, unsettled, Royce pushed the file aside and sat back in his chair, one foot tapping a rhythmic tattoo on the tile floor.
At the rate he was moving, he mused, he'd be lucky to get halfway through the stack in the in basket by quitting time.
And it was not his style. Royce had a reputation for dedication to
But she had moral support, right here in Conifer.
Of course, the thought conjured up an image of Royce, and the image sparked an attendant vision, demanding a comparison between the two men.
Megan frowned as she mentally examined the pictures filling her mind. In truth, there really was no comparison.
Jefferson Clarke was a bit taller than average, a tad taller than Megan herself. He had a dark olive complexion, dark eyes and hair. His build was slender, elegant, a living, breathing reflection of the conventional concept of the aristocrat. In other words, Jeff was the complete opposite of the very tall, muscular, sun-kissed, earthy Royce Wolfe.
It wasn't until that instant that Megan realized that she preferred earthy to aristocratic.
Preferred? Megan's frown deepened. The connotations inherent in the word gave her pause. At the moment, under her present circumstances, her preference in regard to men should have been the absolute last thing to spring to her mind.
Yet, there it was, nudged to the forefront of her consciousness by the persistent image of Royce's visage confronting her, stirring a flicker of feminine interest to life inside her.
A shiver skipped down Megan's spine, a shiver born more from excitement than from fear.
Ridiculous. Megan moved her head in another hard shake, dislodging the visions of both men. Then a faint smile of gratitude curved her lips as the thought occurred that, in point of fact, the two images had superseded that of her frightening attacker—and all because of a phone message.
Sending a silent but heartfelt thanks to Jefferson Clarke for saving her from herself, from surrendering to fear, she turned away from the desk to stare lovingly at the work in progress attached to her table.
Megan had worked on numerous projects for Clarke and Clarke since going free-lance. She enjoyed working with the Clarkes, father and son, and the bright, energetic and imaginative employees of the company, and she hoped to continue working with them in the future.
But she wouldn't have a prayer of seeing her hopes realized if she cringed in a corner. She had an assignment to complete, and she was already over deadline, as Jeff had pointedly reminded her via her answering machine.
Ever since she first took a colored pencil to drawing paper at the age of five, Megan had been able to lose herself in her imagination, and the creations it conjured up. Her lips compressed into a thin line of determination to fight backsliding with her strongest weapon, Megan slid onto the stool in front of the table.
It was time for all good little illustrators to cut through the emotional crap and get down to business.
* * *
It was a long workday, and it was only a little more than half over.
Royce shot a glance at the office wall clock and suppressed a sigh. The hands stood at 8:37.
It had been dark outside for several hours now. How was Megan handling the nighttime hours?
The thought directed his gaze to the phone. Royce lifted his hand, then let it drop to the desktop again.
He wanted to call Megan, hear her voice assuring him that she was all right.
Of course she was all right, he chided himself, closing the folder on the desk in front of him. He slid the folder into the out basket and reached into the in basket for another one. He opened the folder and frowned at the top sheet of paper. The information contained on the page merged into wavy lines of seeming gibberish.
Frustrated, impatient, unsettled, Royce pushed the file aside and sat back in his chair, one foot tapping a rhythmic tattoo on the tile floor.
At the rate he was moving, he mused, he'd be lucky to get halfway through the stack in the in basket by quitting time.
And it was not his style. Royce had a reputation for dedication to
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