Love By Proxy. Diana Palmer

finished his second sandwich. “I think I was born doing it. My parents died when I was just a child. My grandmother raised me, pushed me into finding a profession I liked instead of just one I took for money.” He smiled faintly. “I found I enjoyed building things. She prodded me until I called up a cousin who was an architect and asked him point-blank how I could get into the business. He was impressed enough to hire me on the spot. I worked for him between college classes. When I graduated he gave me an executive position.” His eyes grew wistful. “He had no immediate family, and he hated most of his distant relatives. When he died, I inherited the company. I’ve expanded it, enlarged it. Now it’s almost too big for me. I have a board of directors and every damned decision I make, I have to fight for.”

      “I’m glad I’m just a tadpole,” she said with a sigh. “I’d hate that.”

      “I enjoy it,” he murmured, dark eyes smiling at her across the table. “I like the challenge. It keeps my blood pumping.”

      At his age, surely a family would help. She studied him for a long moment, unaware of the blatant curiosity in her eyes.

      “Well?” he asked. “Spit it out.”

      She shifted in the chair, feeling her nudity under the caftan as if he’d reached out and touched her. She hadn’t been self-conscious with him before, but now she wished she was dressed.

      “I just wondered why you weren’t married.”

      “Because I don’t want to be,” he replied. His dark eyes sparkled mischievously. “Or did you think I was over the hill? I assure you, I’m not. At least, not in the respect you’re mulling over,” he added, watching her fidget nervously. He finished his coffee. “Are you going to La Pierre, or do I make a phone call?” he asked.

      She sighed defeatedly. “I’ll go. But I’ll never forgive you.”

      “That won’t matter,” he said. “We won’t see each other again.” He stood up. “Thanks for the meal.”

      “You’re welcome.”

      She walked him to the door, expecting him to go right out it. But he didn’t. He turned and suddenly put his big hands on either side of her face and tilted it up to his dark eyes.

      “Just to set you right on something…” he murmured, and bent his head.

      His mouth came down on hers roughly, a warm assault that quickly parted her set lips and searched them with a pressure that was demanding and frankly expert. Within seconds, she was his, a victim turned coconspirator, a willing victim with a frantic heartbeat. She’d been kissed before, infrequently, but it had never been like this. She wanted it to go on forever. Her eyes were closed, her fists clenched tightly by her sides, her body throbbing even though he didn’t touch it or bring her one inch closer. She savored the rough pressure of his lips on hers and tasted him in one wild second with all the sensual curiosity she’d ever experienced for a man.

      His head lifted a fraction of an inch and he looked into her drowsy, dazed eyes. “Why, you little fraud,” he breathed. “It was pure bravado this morning, wasn’t it? You don’t even know how!”

      She almost said “teach me,” she almost reached up to him. But sanity came back just in the nick of time. She eased away from him, her eyes nervous but steady on his face.

      “Are you through?” she asked through lips swollen from the pressure of his mouth, which had, at the last, been formidable.

      “Yes.” He studied her with a ghost of a smile on his broad, craggy face. “Odd how things happen. I’m sorry we come from such different walks of life. I’d have enjoyed teaching you. A twenty-eight year old innocent,” he added with a visible twinkle in his dark eyes, “is an intriguing proposition.”

      “You just take your propositions and go away and play with your building blocks. I’ll do your dirty work. And you keep that male stripper away from my office, please, I need my job.”

      “Seven sharp,” he returned. He opened the door with a last, lingering look. “You could make your living as an exotic dancer,” he said quietly. “I’ve never seen a more exquisite body.”

      He turned and left her standing there. It was a full minute before she could close the door again. Cold fish, indeed! More like a dormant volcano….

      Three

      Mr. Callahan was around sixty, had a bald head and narrow little eyes, wore glasses and was half Amelia’s size. He could out curse any sailor in port on a spree, and his compassion stopped at the door of his plant. He did not give leaves of absence, he did not like illness, and if there had been another job going anywhere, Amelia would have taken it on the spot. But openings were so hard to find in the raw economic times that she gritted her teeth and did what she was told. The only thing worse than this would be going back to Seagrove, a small town on the coast near Savannah, Georgia, and helping her parents run the print shop. That would take her close to Henry Janrett, who still expected her to come home and marry him when she got big-city living out of her blood. Henry ran the small town’s sole newspaper. He wrote a column about beekeeping, when he wasn’t lazing around local officials’ offices jotting down notes. He was a sweet man, just about Amelia’s own age, and she supposed someday she might even give in and do it. But Henry seemed a desperate last chance, and meanwhile she was still hoping for a crack at an exciting occupation in the big city. She didn’t know why she’d picked Chicago. Perhaps because her Navy veteran mother had been stationed at a naval base near Chicago during World War II and had come to Chicago on leave, and Amelia had heard such fascinating things about the Windy City. Perhaps it was its ancient gangster history. She’d come here a year ago in a last-ditch attempt to find something her life lacked, before she went over the hill completely. She’d been hoping for excitement and adventure. And she’d found Mr. Callahan.

      She groaned as she filled out another order form. Then she thought about what she had to do at 7:00 p.m. and groaned again. She called Marla at lunch and asked if she could borrow the belly dancer’s costume.

      “Why?” Marla asked.

      “I don’t have time for deep questions,” Amelia grumbled. “Can I or can’t I?”

      “Well…sure. He went to see you, didn’t he? I had to give him your address, you just can’t say no to him; but I thought he was going to mail you a letter….”

      “I can’t tell you what it’s all about, so don’t ask.” Amelia sighed. “But Andy isn’t going to like it.”

      “What is he having you do? Oh, Amelia, you can tell me, I’m your friend!”

      Mr. Callahan came out of his office, saw her on the phone and glared.

      “Yes, sir,” Amelia said calmly, “that’s right, our new manure spreader can handle all your requirements.”

      “What?” Marla faltered.

      “If you’ll get your order right in the mail…. Oh, you’re just checking on it, you don’t want to place an order at this time? But you are keeping us in mind? How nice of you, sir!”

      Marla was giggling. “Mr. Callahan, I presume? See you later, darling.”

      “Yes, sir, certainly. Goodbye.” Amelia hung up and gave Mr. Callahan a bright smile.

      He nodded approvingly. “Nice public relations work, girl. Very nice.” He walked on by, and Amelia tried not to slide down in her chair with relief.

      Of course, Marla was waiting like a big spider when Amelia got to her office late that evening.

      “What are you going to do, and where?” Marla asked. “You’ve got to tell me! What has that man put you up to?”

      “I can’t tell you,” Amelia groaned, knowing that Marla would rush to tell Andy, and then she’d have a male stripper in her office…arrrgh!

      “I’m your friend,” Marla coaxed.