The Husband Assignment. Helen Bianchin

all right?’ Stephanie asked as she placed her bag down onto the table, and began removing her earrings.

      ‘Fine. Emma is never any trouble. She had a glass of milk at seven-thirty, and went to bed without a murmur.’

      She looked at the textbooks laid out on the table, the empty coffee mug. ‘Another coffee? I’m making myself some.’

      Sarah stood, closed and stacked her books, then slid them into a soft briefcase. ‘Thanks, but I’ll take a rain check.’

      ‘I appreciate your coming over at such short notice.’

      ‘It’s a pleasure,’ the baby-sitter declared warmly. ‘You have a lovely quiet house, perfect study conditions.’ She grinned, then rolled her eyes expressively. ‘Two teenage brothers tend to make a lot of noise.’

      Stephanie extracted some bills from her purse and pressed them into the girl’s hand. ‘Thanks, Sarah. Good luck with the exams.’

      She saw her out the door, then she locked up and went to check on Emma.

      The child was sleeping, her expression peaceful as she clutched a favorite rag doll to her chest. Stephanie leaned down and adjusted the covers, then lightly pushed back a stray lock of hair that had fallen forward onto one soft cheek.

      The tug of unconditional love consumed her. Nothing, nothing was as wonderful as the gift of a child. Emma’s happiness and well-being was worth any sacrifice. A stressful job, the need to present cutting-edge marketing strategy, estimating consumer appeal and ensuring each project was a winner.

      The necessity, she added wryly, to occasionally entertain outside conventional business hours. She was familiar with an entire range of personality traits. In her line of business, she came into contact with them all.

      Yet no man had managed to get beneath her skin the way Raoul Lanier did. She dealt with men who’d made flirting an art form. Men who imagined wealth condoned dubious behavior and an appalling lack of manners. Then there were those who had so many tickets on themselves they no longer knew who they were.

      She’d handled each and every one of them with tact and diplomacy. Even charm. None of which qualities were evident in the presence of a certain Frenchman.

      He unsettled her. Far too much for her own liking. She didn’t want to feel insecure and vulnerable. She’d tread that path once before. She had no intention of retracing her steps.

      Stephanie entered the main bedroom, carefully removed her dress and slipped off her shoes, then she cleansed her face free of makeup, stripped off her underwear and donned a long cotton T-shirt before returning to collect her mug of coffee and sink into a deep-cushioned chair in front of the television.

      At ten she turned out the lights and went to bed, only to lay awake staring into the darkness as she fought to dismiss Raoul Lanier’s disturbing image.

      The in-house phone buzzed, and Stephanie automatically reached for it, depressed the button and endeavored to tame the frustrated edge to her voice. ‘Yes. What is it, Isabel?’

      It wasn’t shaping up to be a good day. That little Irish gremlin, Murphy, had danced a jig on her turf from the moment she woke. Water from the shower ran cold from the hot tap, necessitating a call to a plumber. Emma wanted porridge instead of cereal, then requested egg with toast cut into soldiers, only to take two mouthfuls and refuse to eat anymore. Depositing her daughter at day care resulted in an unprecedented tantrum, and she tore a nail wrestling the punctured tire from her boot at the tire mart en route to work.

      ‘I have a delivery for you out front.’

      ‘Whatever it is, take care of it.’

      ‘Flowers with a card addressed to you?’

      Flowers? No one sent her flowers, except on special occasions. And today wasn’t one of them. ‘Okay, I’m on my way to reception.’

      Roses. Tight buds in cream, peach and pale apricot. Two, no three dozen. Long-stemmed, encased in cellophane, with a subtle delicate perfume.

      ‘Stephanie Sommers? Please sign the delivery slip for this envelope.’

      Who would send her such an expensive gift? Even as the query formed in her mind, her mouth tightened at the possible answer.

      He wouldn’t…would he?

      ‘They’re beautiful,’ Isabel breathed with envy as Stephanie detached an accompanying envelope and plucked out the card.

      “A small token to atone for last night. R.”

      Each word seemed to leap out in stark reminder, and she wanted to shove Raoul Lanier’s token into the nearest wastepaper bin. Atone? Twenty dozen roses wouldn’t atone for the studied arrogance of the man.

      ‘Shall I fetch a vase?’

      Stephanie drew a shallow breath, then released it. ‘Yes.’ She handed the large cellophane sheaf to her secretary. ‘Place these on the front desk.’

      ‘You don’t want them in your office?’

      ‘They’ll make me sneeze.’ A slight fabrication, but she didn’t want to be constantly reminded of the man who’d gifted them. ‘Take messages on any of my calls for the rest of the afternoon, unless they’re urgent, or from Emma’s day care center.’

      She stepped back into her office, closed the door, then crossed to her desk, picked up the letter opener and slit the envelope.

      Quite what she expected to find, she wasn’t sure. Certainly it had to be relatively important to warrant special delivery.

      Stephanie extracted the slim piece of paper, saw that it was a check, made out to her and signed by Raoul Lanier for an amount that covered the cost of dinner the previous evening. To endorse it, just in case she might be in doubt, there was a hotel business card attached with his name written on the reverse side.

      How dare he? The dinner was a legitimate business expense. Raoul Lanier had chosen to make it personal.

      Well, she knew just what to do with his check. Her fingers moved automatically, and seconds later the torn pieces fluttered into the wastepaper bin.

      Stephanie sank into her chair and turned on the screen on her computer. Work. She had plenty of it. All she had to do was immerse herself in the electronic checking of pertinent details to dispense the omnipotent Frenchman from her mind.

      Except it didn’t quite work out that way. His image intruded, disrupting her focus, minimizing her concentration.

      It was something of an endurance feat that she completed the day’s schedule without mishap, and she closed down the computer as Isabel entered with a sheaf of messages. Three of which she returned, two were put to one side for the morning, and one she discarded.

      Raoul Lanier could whistle Dixie, she decided vengefully as she slid papers into her briefcase and caught up her bag.

      Her gaze skimmed the office in a cursory check before leaving for the evening. She caught sight of the special delivery envelope that had contained Raoul Lanier’s check, and she reached for it, flipped it idly between her fingers, then on impulse she bent down and caught up the torn check she’d consigned to the wastepaper bin.

      Stephanie took an envelope from her stationery drawer, placed the torn check into it, dampened the seal, then wrote Raoul Lanier in bold black ink, followed by the name of his hotel.

      The Sheraton wasn’t that far out of her way, and a wry smile teased her lips as she anticipated his expression when he opened the envelope.

      Tit for tat wasn’t an enviable modus operandi, but she was darned if she’d allow him to have the upper hand.

      It was a simple matter to drive up to the main hotel entrance and hand the addressed envelope to the concierge. Difficult to hide a vaguely exultant smile as she eased the car onto the main road.

      Traffic was heavy, consequently