* * * *
“Paul Monroe’s on line two, Bette.”
Bette sidestepped Darla’s curious look, just as she’d sidestepped earlier questions with a simple statement that she and the client had had an enjoyable business dinner. “Thank you, Darla.”
She waited until her assistant closed the door behind her, took a deep breath and lifted the receiver. “Good morning, this is Bette Wharton. May I help you?” It was chicken to pretend she didn’t know who was on the other end of the line, but she wanted an extra second to remind herself of how she’d decided to deal with him.
“Hi, Bette. It’s Paul.”
So much for formality, she thought with an unwilling and wry smile. “Good morning, Paul. I hope everything’s going smoothly so far with Sally.”
“Sally? Oh, the temporary temporary assistant. Yeah, everything’s fine. In fact, you know what she did?”
“What?”
“She made me fresh coffee.” He sounded so impressed she couldn’t help but chuckle.
“No! Really?”
“Go ahead and laugh, but Jan never does that for me. She says anybody who comes and goes as much as I do deserves to drink whatever’s available.”
“She has a point.”
“Well, just don’t go telling Sally, okay? I usually only get fresh coffee about twice a year, so this is a treat.”
“I promise not to tell Sally, but she won’t be there much longer.”
“How’d you know?”
“How’d I know what?”
“That Sally won’t be here much longer.”
“Because she’ll be replaced by your permanent temporary as soon as you make a selection.”
“Oh. I thought maybe my reputation had already gotten to her. Isn’t that an oxymoron?”
“Isn’t what an oxymoron, and what reputation?”
“ ‘Permanent temporary.’ I think that’s an oxymoron—you know, a built-in contradiction.”
“I guess it is.” She hated herself for it, but she couldn’t resist repeating, “And what reputation?”
“For going through a lot of secretaries fast.”
She wondered if the reason for this was only his business habits. In her line of business she couldn’t help but know that a certain breed of men viewed temporary secretaries as a two-birds-with-one-stone dating service. She’d have been surprised if Paul Monroe was one; she’d also have been too disappointed for her own comfort.
In her coolest, most neutral tones, she said, “I understand that’s the reason Jan Robson contacted us in the first place, isn’t it?”
“I guess it is.” If she thought she caught an echo of sheepishness, she could also imagine a grin lurking.
“And that, I’m sure, is why you’re calling this morning.” She thought he mumbled “not exactly,” but ignored it. “I’ve just messengered the files over to you, since they somehow ended up back with my papers, uh, last night. You can look them over, then let my office know before the close of business today whom you have selected and we’ll make every effort to have that person in place tomorrow morning.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
What was there not to like? She was being more than reasonable; getting someone lined up overnight qualified as above and beyond the call of good customer service. She decided to quell him with a single syllable. “Oh?”
“Particularly that part about the messenger and then notifying your office.” He sounded singularly unquelled. “I thought we could meet for lunch and discuss the whole thing then, say about one—”
“I’m sorry, lunch won’t be possible.” Not if she hoped to catch up with yesterday’s leftover chores.
“But you’ve got to eat. All I’m saying is spend that time with me. And, of course, going over these files.”
“I don’t eat lunch.” Now why had she said that? There were certainly times she’d skipped the meal to finish work, but she’d also had her share of business lunches. She was reacting almost as if she were afraid of Paul Monroe. Ridiculous.
“You don’t eat lunch? Well, no wonder you’re thin. I tell you, Bette, my mom would definitely worry about you.”
“It’s very kind of your mother to be concerned.” What a damn fool thing to 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 temporary, don’t you think?” Not giving her a chance to answer, he continued. “I thought tonight we’d try this pizza place I know where they serve deep-dish by the pound. It’s across the street from where the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre took place back in the twenties, and legend has it one victim crawled to the front step and breathed his last right there.”