Can't Say No. Sherryl Woods

it was also so much hogwash. Kelly Marie was expecting a baby all right—in October, three months from now. She’d been sitting in her office muttering curses about her gullibility, when Joe had walked in to thank her. He’d looked worried sick.

      “Kelly Marie’s been having problems,” he’d said, running his fingers through his wheat-colored hair. His freckles stood out even more than usual against his pale complexion. “The doctor wants her to stay in bed for the next three months. If she doesn’t, we could lose the baby. I just couldn’t go away, Audrey. I’m real sorry about your vacation, though. Harvey promised he’d take care of it.”

      Audrey had immediately forgiven Harvey and thanked heaven that she hadn’t given him a rough time about it. It would only have made Joe feel guilty and he didn’t need anything more to worry about right now.

      “You just take good care of Kelly Marie,” she’d reassured him. “I’ll work things out with Harvey. Hawaii will still be there, when I get around to it. Is there anything I can do for the two of you before I go?”

      “No. Kelly Marie’s mom is helping out, too, so we’re okay. You just try to have a good time.”

      She tried to tell herself that she’d instinctively sensed that Joe’s predicament was real, but that was utter nonsense. She’d said yes because being a good sport had gotten to be a habit. Her friends reminded her of that every time she crawled out of bed in the middle of the night to pick one of them up or drove across town in rush hour traffic to substitute for the baby-sitter who’d failed to show up.

      Less than a week ago she had been lured into leading an entire troup of raucous Cub Scouts around Fisherman’s Wharf, and she still wasn’t quite sure how she’d gotten pulled into that! One of her friends had been a very fast talker. Putting her crying, hiccuping eight-year old on the phone to plead with Audrey had probably been the clincher.

      “We knew we could count on you” was rapidly becoming a refrain that turned her stomach.

      “Enough is enough,” she muttered, gesturing determinedly with her toothbrush. “No more Ms. Nice Guy. No more Understanding Woman. No more guilt when you turn down some outrageous request. Do you understand that, Audrey?”

      “Got it,” she retorted sleepily and stepped into the shower. Maybe a week in Aspen wouldn’t be so bad after all. Maybe she could use the time to reread every book ever published on assertiveness. Maybe this time their message would sink in and she could go back to California with a new aggressive, stand-firm outlook. It was one thing to be a friend people could call on in a pinch. It was quite another to be a doormat.

      By the time she’d made the twenty-minute drive to the Snowmass Village rodeo grounds, she was prepared to say an emphatic no to everything just for practice...with the possible exception of a large cup of very strong coffee.

      * * *

      A half hour later, with caffeine surging through her bloodstream, Audrey stepped gingerly from the shelter where a full-scale country breakfast was being served by volunteers from the Little Red Schoolhouse day care center. The rain had stopped, leaving the cool, damp air smelling crisp and pungent with the lingering scent of horses, though there wasn’t a single animal grazing in the sprawling meadow or roaming in the paddock. A sliver of bright blue sky sliced through the dark, low-hanging clouds, hinting that a spectacular dawn was about to break over the snowcapped mountains.

      Pickup trucks and cars hauling trailers were pulling into the meadow, where the contestants were beginning to unload their equipment. Cursing the dampness, which was already seeping through her shoes, Audrey headed for the field in search of Blake Marshall.

      She’d only met the man once and then very briefly. Yet the impression that remained fixed in her mind was of overwhelming masculinity, self-assurance that bordered on arrogance, and the startling blue eyes and curling dark hair of an Irish rogue. Even if she hadn’t seen dozens of newspaper and magazine clippings since then, she doubted she would have any trouble in spotting him. She’d need only to look for the largest circle of beautiful, adoring women dressed in the very latest color-coordinated sportswear, their flowing waves of sun-streaked hair pushed back by designer sunglasses.

      As she worked her way toward the launch area, she was suddenly overcome with unexpected curiosity at the bustle of activity around her. She’d never imagined that this many people could be masochistic enough to rise before dawn. She paused as one of the contestants began to unload the cargo from a trailer.

      Out came the gondola, which resembled an oversize wicker basket with an identifying number on the side. Then came a huge fan that reminded her of the kind that were once used to cool living rooms in a pre-air-conditioned era, followed by a dangerous-looking propane tank. Finally came a huge bundle of burgundy material. She eyed it skeptically. It didn’t look nearly sturdy enough to provide a means of transportation over the mountain range. In fact, it didn’t look like something that ought to get off the ground.

      “Hey, you! You in the burgundy shirt.”

      The husky, masculine voice came from about fifty feet away and had an imperious tone that immediately made her hackles rise. She whirled around to encounter the scowling features of Blake Marshall, hands on slender, denim-clad hips, a bright blue windbreaker stretched taut across broad shoulders. Fully prepared to offer some snappy retort, she found herself simply trying to catch her breath. He was far more for midable than she’d remembered and as sexy as the most lurid tabloids had portrayed him.

      “You work for me, right?”

      “Yes. I’m Audrey Nelson. I work—”

      “Never mind all that,” he said impatiently. “Just get over here.”

      Audrey wanted to believe that the man had an incredible memory for the faces of each and every one of his employees. In fact, for an absurd, fleeting instant, she wanted to believe he’d never forgotten their one brief encounter in Harvey’s office, but she suspected his recognition had more to do with her burgundy-colored “Marshall Arts” sweatshirt. They’d been given to members of the company softball team. The pun of its name hadn’t been the only thing wrong with that team. It had been neither strong, nor particularly adept. The mere fact that she was even on it had been a bad omen. She had reluctantly volunteered, after Harvey had told her that they were desperate—“really desperate”—for one more player to substitute in emergencies. He’d spent the first three games patiently trying to explain the rules. Fortunately she’d never had to go to bat.

      “You’re late,” Blake announced as she strode slowly toward him, feeling a sudden surge of adrenaline that had nothing at all to do with the coffee. She wasn’t wild about his attitude, but that smoldering look in his eyes was something else. “I wanted the crew here at six.”

      There was something wrong with that sentence, but she was too sleepy to put her finger on it. “I was here at six. I stopped to get some coffee. Is there something in particular you’d like me to do for you, Mr. Marshall?” She was deliberately cheerful and cooperative. The man was her boss, after all. There was no point in antagonizing him. Harvey had warned her he took this balloon race nonsense seriously. Maybe the media had been bothering him and he was looking for someone to act as a buffer. She wasn’t sure she was alert enough to fend off flies, much less a pesky reporter, but she was willing to try.

      “You can start by opening the envelope,” he said briskly. “John will help you, if you need him.” Then he turned his back on her and went back to doing whatever mysterious task he’d been doing before he spotted her.

      “I beg your pardon.” Maybe this envelope of his contained important instructions, but she didn’t see one lying around. Nor did she have the vaguest idea who John was.

      He glanced over his shoulder and regarded her quizzically. “You do know how to unroll it, don’t you?”

      “Not exactly.” She still didn’t even know what it was, but saw no point in giving away too much about her ignorance. It was bad enough that she was having to delve through mental mush to come up with words that made sense.

      Blake