Chapter 3
Morgan waltzed into the crowded, oak-paneled bar clad in a short, black dress that she kept in an office closet for just these occasions – unplanned, after-work evenings out.
Businessmen crowded around the small bar in their shirtsleeves and cufflinks. They swilled single-malt scotch and downed double martinis. But the Boys’ Club gathering parted like the Red Sea to turn and watch as Morgan entered the room.
Hal Linden held a martini to his lips and nearly spilled it down his shirt when he caught sight of her. He quickly recovered and casually waved a hand in the air, directing Morgan to his end of the bar and the men who hovered within his sphere of influence.
Putting on a show, Linden placed his drink on the bar and barreled through the crowd to greet his prodigal protégé. He kissed her on both cheeks and took her by the hand, providing her safe passage through the den of business wolves. He introduced her to his cadre of cronies. The names sped by her – Walter, Joseph, Buck, Channing. None of it mattered. Morgan had been the wined-and-dined wife of the Fortune 500 club. As a veteran of such rarified air, nothing much impressed her. Certainly, not this collection of B-listers, stock brokers, bank vice presidents and insurance swindlers.
“So what are we drinking?” Hal Linden inquired after polishing off his martini in one final gulp. His ruddy cheeks glowed with an alcoholic light. It hadn’t been his first glass.
“A Pinot, perhaps,” Morgan ventured.
Linden frowned.
“All this time, I’ve been grooming you for the Big Boys’ Club, and you order wine?” the gimpy ex-college quarterback slurred.
“I’m sorry.” Morgan played along. “What are my choices?”
“Single-malt scotch, neat, or a dry gin martini,” Linden said.
“Are we getting drunk?” she asked.
“Maybe, but that’s not the point. It’s all about projecting power. Those are power drinks. They’re what the executive suite swills.”
“In that case, a martini,” Morgan commanded. “Bombay Sapphire, please.”
Linden’s alcohol-infused facial features brightened all the more.
“Now, you’re talking,” Linden approved, and then turned toward the bar.
“Barkeep!”
Later at dinner, Morgan was pleasantly lit.
It was as if all her burdens and cares – her ex-husband, guilt over the kids, and pressure from the project – had floated away on a river of gin. She laughed longer, blushed deeper and flirted freer than she ever had with Hal Linden.
There had always been a certain, ill-defined sexual tension between the older, wiser ex-jock and the younger, pretty protégé with a business pedigree provided by her super-successful ex-husband. Morgan had always controlled this aspect of their relationship, letting off sexual sparks only when it was to her advantage. But somehow, Linden had managed to level the playing field. Here, amid the low-murmur of the high-end steakhouse, feasting upon bloody rare filet mignon, washed down with copious amounts of alcohol, Morgan was succumbing to Linden’s charms.
There was something absolutely masculine and quintessentially American about him. He wasn’t drop-dead handsome. But he was strong, sturdy and rugged in a wonderful, wholesome way. He was a 50-something Ronald Reagan, but with a mischievous glint in his eye, instead of a genial one. And by damned, he was winning Morgan over.
It had been far too long for her. Too long without a man, a real man. And Linden’s magnetism was pulling her in. No wonder he was such a good salesman.
“You know what makes this work, don’t you?” Linden inquired, leaning over the white-clothed table.
“What do you mean?” Morgan joined him over the center of the table.
They were two business conspirators, or soon-to-be lovers. At this moment, it could go in either direction.
“You and me. This.” He gestured between them. “How free we are tonight. How loose and open to any possibility.”
“Lemme guess,” Morgan slurred. “The alcohol.”
She cracked herself up, as if this were the funniest thing.
Linden’s ruddy, strong-jawed face broke into a pleasing grin. He lifted his near-empty martini glass, hoisted it in a toast salute and knocked back the remainder.
“Well, it sure doesn’t hurt. But that’s not what I mean,” he continued, his voice both strong and soft, like velvet.
“It’s you and me. We’re equals now, Morgan. With your completion of the project and your promotion all but assured, we’re equals. That mere fact redefines everything.”
Morgan looked directly into Linden’s eyes.
“I thought we weren’t going to talk about work?”
Linden’s eyes bored deep into hers.
“I’m not talking about work,” he firmly said. “I’m talking about us. Whatever happens between us tonight and here after is because we both want it. And whatever that happens to be, it doesn’t translate beyond our personal lives. It’s a safe zone. An oasis. As co-equals, we can create that for ourselves.”
Without breaking their deep stare, Linden rested his hands on top of Morgan’s. His hands were huge and strong. They were knotted with veins, and the fingers were twisted like the roots of an old tree. Linden’s fingers had been broken many times in his football days. But his powerful, tanned hands enveloped Morgan’s soft, white ones.
And she felt safe. She felt good.
“I do like this,” she said softly.
“Then don’t over-think it.”
“Isn’t this too fast?”
“Compared to what? Life? Computers? Youth? God blinks and our lives are over.”
“What do we do?” Morgan asked.
“I have a reservation at the Renaissance.” Linden answered a bit too quickly, a bit too eagerly.
Morgan’s brain registered this sour note. She blinked and looked down, then withdrew her hands from underneath Linden’s.
When she looked up again, she saw a desperate salesman who had just realized he pressed a little too hard to close the deal.
Morgan shook her head softly. “I appreciate everything. I really do. This, all this, it’s wonderful. The evening was spectacular. I can’t thank you enough for tonight, or the past two years. But it’s just too soon. I appreciate everything you said about us being equals now. But it takes time to wrap my mind around it.”
Linden looked glumly at his empty martini glass.
“I should go,” Morgan said, reaching for her purse. “The project’s not a done deal, yet. We still need that signature on the contract.”
Linden managed to lift his suddenly tired eyes to look at Morgan. His face sagged with defeat and the numbness of one too many martinis.
“So we’ll say, ‘to be continued,’” he offered. “Not an end, but a pause, perhaps?”
Morgan forced a smile.
“Absolutely,” she said. “A pause to wait and see where this goes.”
She popped up from her chair, lunged in and planted a kiss on Linden’s cheek, then fast-stepped through the dining room in her high heels.
Linden was left to stare glumly at an empty chair -- and at his empty martini glass.