Jane didn’t want to wear the same dress Andrews had seen in Paris, so she took a long lunch hour and went shopping at the mall. It wasn’t the same experience as the dress shop in Paris, but there were racks and racks of outfits suited for drinks, dinner, whatever. She found an understated number in deep gray with touches of black lace, tasteful, appropriate, and by no means suggestive.
“Big date tonight?” Jack Dollinger asked when she was back at her desk.
“What… how did you know?” She had decided that she wouldn’t tell anyone in the office that she was having dinner with the new boss.
Dollinger touched his toe to the box that was lying inside her doorway. “Doesn’t a new dress at lunch mean a date for dinner?”
She was relieved when she realized that the dress-shop box was in plain sight. Jack had just made a lucky guess. “Dinner, yes. Date, no,” she lied. Then she jumped into a business story that had come in over the wire and asked which one of them should cover it. The change of subject worked, and Dollinger went away with no further interest in her evening.
But she began to rethink her decision about not telling anyone. Roscoe Taylor probably had a right to know that one of his staff was having dinner with the man at the top of the pyramid. Roscoe was remarkably secure, but still it would be disconcerting to learn that the boss and a young woman who knew all the newspaper’s secrets might by sharing pillow talk. And Roscoe would certainly learn. He was a pig sniffing truffles when it came to the activities of his reporters.
Jane sat down across from him and waited until he looked up from his editing. “I just thought you should know that I’m having dinner with William Andrews. Probably just an acknowledgment of the article, but I suppose there might be a few words about our operation.”
“Thank you,” he said with a half smile.
Her eyes narrowed. “You knew?”
“I knew that he was diverting his flight to Bridgeport, and I knew that he wasn’t having dinner with me. And then you took a two-hour lunch to buy a dress.” He raised his palms in a gesture that asked, Was there any other conclusion?
“Any seeds you want planted? Any words of wisdom?” Jane asked.
Roscoe smiled pleasantly. “Just ‘bon appétit!’”
There was a message from Arthur waiting for her at home. He had discovered that another of his disks was missing—the revisions to the second act of his play about the daughter of a president taken hostage. Could he come over to look for it? She called back, got him on the fourth ring, and tried to be brief. “Not tonight, Art. I’m being picked up and I want the place presentable. I sure as hell don’t want you here when he arrives.”
He sighed. “Okay then, but it has to be tomorrow night because I’ve got ideas that won’t keep.” She agreed to the next night. “Be careful,” he warned. “He’s probably going to demand a retraction.”
She showered and rehearsed her wittiest lines of conversation while the water scalded down her back. She tried three sets of jewelry with the new dress, picking black imitation pearls that matched the lace trim. She changed the shoes and the stockings and then tried still another pair of shoes—anything to take her mind off the after-dinner possibilities.
What should she do if he suggested that she join him for a nightcap in the city? Easy! “I’m dead tired, and I’d hate to ruin a lovely evening by falling asleep on you.” That was direct—I’m not going home with you. And yet evasive. Was she afraid of falling asleep in the car and missing the nightcap, or afraid of falling asleep in his arms and missing whatever it was that he had in mind?
But what if he didn’t suggest a nightcap in the city? Should she dismiss him at the door with “Thank you. The lamb was delicious”? That would be perfectly proper among business associates. Or should she invite him up for a drink? Generally, that implied you weren’t eager for the evening to end. But with the head of the corporation, did it suggest a willingness to please and a determination to get ahead? The fact was that there wasn’t anything she could say that would be perfectly natural. “No” could be taken as hostility. “Yes” might seem ambitious. Given their relative status in the corporation, was there any response that wouldn’t seem carefully contrived?
Her buzzer sounded. She expected to hear his voice but instead heard someone with an Indian or Pakistani accent. “Mr. Andrews has just received a telephone call, so he wonders if you would come down to the lobby? Or if you would like me to come up and escort you down to the car?”
“No problem,” Jane answered. “I’ll be right down.” She regretted her decision the instant she hung up. He got a phone call? Big deal! He could have told the caller he was busy and to call back in the morning. If he was taking her out, then he shouldn’t be taking phone calls. What was he going to do if his damn phone rang while they tasted the wine? Leave her to drink the whole bottle while he did business in the Far East?
She felt demeaned riding down in the elevator by herself, a silk scarf pulled around her shoulders like one of the ladies going out for their night at the ballet. And she was even more embarrassed when the chauffeur, who had dark Indian features, tipped his cap and offered his arm. It was as if William Andrews expected his women to be delivered.
He was still on the phone when she slipped into the seat beside him. He smiled, made a thumbs-up gesture at her attire, and continued with his conversation. The driver got behind the wheel and started out of the parking lot as if they had stopped to pick up a package. She was fitting unobtrusively into the routine of the great man’s business day.
Jane reached over, pulled the phone from his hand, and pressed the END button. His hand remained immobile, stunned by the same shock that widened his eyes. She found the button that powered the side window down. Then, with seeming indifference, she tossed the phone out into the night. She turned back to find him in open-mouthed amazement. “It’s nice to see you again,” she said to Andrews. “I hope you like my dress. I bought it just for you.”
Her own brass amazed her. Had she really interrupted his telephone call? And thrown his phone away? What in hell right had she to assume he would treat her as anything but an employee? Why should he care that she had bought the damn knockoff designer dress for him?
His eyes narrowed and his slack jaw closed. Then his mouth broke out into an uncontrolled smile. “I love your dress,” he said. Then he leaned over and kissed her.
“Sorry about the phone,” she said when he gave her the opportunity.
“It would have just been in the way,” Andrews allowed. He kissed her again.
The limo ride suggested the mood for the dinner. It was to be a romantic encounter with none of the business clichés, a merging of persons rather than of product lines and departments. He guided her past a captain who had mastered the art of walking backwards while bowing obsequiously, to a table in front of a stone fireplace. The restaurant was suburban rustic in its decor but definitely upscale in its table settings. They ordered flavored martinis straight up, and he chose a bottle from the wine list. But the menus were incidental and remained unopened. All his attention was focused on Jane, and she felt paralyzed by the power in his eyes. Stay calm, she reminded herself. This probably isn’t really happening. There was no reason why she would captivate William Andrews, who could probably have any woman in the world as his dinner companion.
He began with her. He had missed her terribly since their day in Paris and had wanted to call her. But he was buried in day-to-day nonsense and then turmoil in a Mexican subsidiary. He might have said hello, but he wouldn’t have had the time to take her out. So he had decided to call her from Mexico and arrange their date before he got back to his office and became embroiled in another crisis.
The waiter interrupted, and they took a minute to order, but Andrews instantly brought the conversation back to her. She was bright. He knew she had mastered his enterprise during the interview, and the article she wrote was the most perceptive of anything on Andrews Global Network that had appeared in the media.
She was courageous. No one had ever dressed him down the way she had in the airplane. He really had been acting like an “insensitive gorilla” and she hadn’t been afraid to tell him so. “And then tonight, when you tossed my phone out the window …” He shook his head in admiration.
She was beautiful, of course. He had seen her in her most revealing attire, he said, reminding her of the towel that had been wrapped around her head. And then, that night, she was breathtaking in her new black dress.
But most of all, she was real. No pretensions. No false modesty. And with enough self-confidence to be herself in any situation. “People often rehearse how they’re going to act with me, or what they’re going to say to me,” William Andrews told her. “And it comes across that way, like lines from a play. But you do what you want and say what you mean. I can’t imagine you practicing what you were going to say to me.”
Jane blushed, remembering the dialogues she had run in her shower. She hoped her color passed for embarrassment at being so grandly complimented.
He paused again while the wine was opened and the food set before them, then shifted from compliments to questions. “How did you ever get to be a financial editor on a poky, backwater newspaper?” It didn’t sound like an interrogation, just an opportunity for Jane to talk about herself.
She began eagerly, realizing how little he really knew about her, starting with her education at a local college and then working her way back to a typical suburban high school stint. “I never really knew what I wanted to do,” she confessed. “Just get by, I suppose.” Her story was an ongoing series of personal vignettes, devoid of purpose and with no particular ambition. She realized that it must be a dull tale next to the biography of his first wife and tried to spice it up whenever she could. Even then it left a lot to be desired.
“You didn’t tell me about your marriage,” he reminded her.
“A mistake,” she said simply. “The wrong guy for the wrong reasons at the wrong time. Nobody’s fault, but just something that never should have happened.”
“You must have loved him,” he said with a tone that suggested jealousy.
“Art and I were in the same English class. We worked together in the library and got very comfortable with each other. He was planning to be a playwright, and that seemed very artsy and romantic. He never doubted that he would own Broadway, and I began to believe it, too. By comparison, my job—writing local society news items for the paper—seemed trivial and unimportant. I guess I was taken in by his air of genius. I felt honored when, out of the blue, he asked me to marry him.”
“But you didn’t love him?”
“How could I? We weren’t even dating. But I did move in with him, and I guess I convinced myself I loved him because why else would I be sleeping with him?” She smiled at her own foolishness. “So we filed papers and got married.”
“And it didn’t work out the way you expected?”
“I don’t know what I expected, but nothing changed. He kept talking about the importance of his work, even though he seemed to do very little of it. Meanwhile, I got a couple of promotions, made decent money, and paid all the bills. It took me a couple of years to realize that nothing was ever going to change, so when he decided we should split, I had no real objections.”
“Was it painful?” he asked, pressing for details.
“Not at all. Things went on as normal except he moved into a room in his brother’s house. He moved, but not all this things! He still had to come over to our apartment to use the computer. He kept food in my refrigerator.”
She was startled. “As a husband?”
“No, as a playwright.”
She shrugged. “I won’t know until he finishes something.”
It was over dessert when William Andrews began to lower the mask he had been hiding behind. His life, he said, had been ripped apart and left with a gaping hole. He had worked furiously and moved quickly so that he wouldn’t have to look at his wounds. But Jane had slowed him just enough for him to see all that he was missing. “I’ve got two choices,” he said. “Pick up the pace so that I don’t notice. That’s what I’ve been doing for the past eight years. Or!”— he paused dramatically—“do something to heal the wound and find someone to fill the empty space.”
The message was clear. He wanted her to become part of his life. But that was too fantastic. The great William Andrews didn’t need an editor from one of his newspapers to fill the void left by his world-class society wife. So what was he getting at? A clandestine relationship that he could turn on and off according to his needs? A temporary fling until he could gather his wits and find a new Kay Parker?
“Mr. Andrews, I’m—”
“Bill,” he insisted. “No woman should call a man she’s kissed by his last name.”
She started again. “Bill, I don’t think you’re at all… damaged. But I’ll help in any way I can.” Then she reconsidered. “Not in any way. But if you need a hostess … or a companion—”
“I can hire hostesses,” he interrupted, “and I have lots of companions. I was hoping that you might be more than that. I’d like to … see more of you.”
“Me?”
He grinned. “Is there someone else having dinner with us?”
Her guard was up. It sounded like the beginning of an invitation to join him for a nightcap.
“I’d like to get to know you better,” he went on, “and give you a chance to learn about me. I’ve been keeping women at arm’s length ever since …” His voice trailed off into silence.
Was he serious? Was he suggesting that she should try to fill the void in his life? Or was this a morbid come-on designed to get her sympathy? It sounded like a line. The chance to help William Andrews recover from his great loss would get a lot of women out of their garters.
“The day we spent in Paris,” Andrews continued, “was the happiest day I’ve had in years. And at dinner, when you were analyzing my company and dazzling my executives, I suddenly felt very proud of you. It was as if you belonged to me and I was delighted to have you performing so beautifully. I was like a parent watching his kid at a school recital.”
Jane laughed. “You can’t be that old.”
“Okay,” he said, agreeing that he wasn’t old enough to be her father, “then like a guy whose sister just won the Miss America contest. I’ve been asking myself, ‘Why is it important to me that Jane Warren be admired and respected?’ And the only answer I can come up with is that I’ve fallen in love with her.”
Wow! If this was a line, it was the best one she had ever heard. He seemed sincere, struggling to put his feelings into words. And honest. He was certainly leaving himself vulnerable. But his story sounded too much like a fairy tale, the handsome prince falling in love with the lowly girl who swept up the cinders.
“I’m very flattered,” Jane finally managed to say. “And I would like to see more of you. The truth is that I’ve been keeping men at arm’s length. My first experience was … disappointing. I’ve become very guarded and probably cynical.”
He smiled with great relief. “Wonderful. I was terrified that you’d think I was looking to lure you back to my apartment. That all this was just another line.”
Exactly what I had been thinking, Jane thought. “Oh God, no! Why would I ever think that?” she answered.
He reached across the table, took her hand, and held it tenderly. Then he launched into the second step of his courtship.
“How about next weekend at my country house? I’ll get the kids home from school so that you can meet them. Actually, so that we both can meet them. I haven’t seen them in quite a while.”
Jane hesitated. She wasn’t good around teenagers. Given a choice, she’d rather be shot from a cannon than spend a weekend with his children.
“I’d like you to see me in a family setting instead of a corporate office. We’ll have a relaxing day in the country. What do you say?”
She knew she wasn’t ready to meet his kids—or anyone in his family, for that matter. But it seemed important to him. The hole in his life had damaged everyone, and he needed to see that she could fill it for everyone. “Okay,” she agreed. “Just call me with the arrangements.”
William Andrews practically exploded with joy.
He held her hand on the drive back to her house and then got out to open her door. In the process, he and the Indian chauffeur collided, which broke any tension of their parting. He walked her to her door, said good night, and pecked her on the cheek. “I’ll call you,” he promised.
She was in a swooning mood when she opened her door, floating a bit as if swept off her feet. She turned on the light and pulled up short. Someone had been in her apartment, undoubtedly Art looking for his damn disk.
He hadn’t disturbed the furniture or dumped his laundry on the floor. He probably didn’t want her to know that he had been there. But the door that slid over her computer alcove was open, and she had carefully closed it on the chance that William Andrews might step in. The papers to the left of the monitor were in a neat stack instead of their usual disarray. Most telling, some of the disks that she kept in her file drawer were stacked to the right of the monitor.
“Damn!” She went into her bedroom, kicked off her heels, and picked up the telephone. It was after ten, but Art was usually up half the night. And if she did happen to wake him, tough. He had no right letting himself in, particularly when she had told him that they would solve his problem tomorrow.
She started to dial but was stopped by a sound out in the living room. There was an instant of panic. Someone had broken in. But her courage returned when she realized that it had to be her former husband. Probably he was just finishing his search when she had walked in and interrupted him. She put down the phone and started out of the bedroom, still in her stocking feet. She hadn’t yet reached the living room when she heard the front door click.
Again she stopped short and listened. Had someone just come in? No, Jane decided, it was Art letting himself out. The bastard was skulking away so that he could pretend he had never been there.
“Art!” she shouted, and ran to the door. She pulled it open and stuck her head out into the corridor. No one was there. She ran to the elevator and pounded on the button, hoping to catch it before its descent. The door opened immediately on the empty car that was waiting on her floor, exactly where she had left it. Then she heard footsteps on the stairs. Jane raced to the stairwell, but she was too late. By the time she got there, she could hear the front door banging down in the lobby.
She took the first step, knowing that she could still get down to the street before he pulled out in his car, but as soon as she stepped off the carpet, she realized she had left her shoes behind. She went back to the apartment, gathered her heels, and jammed them on. But before she could get to her feet, she heard a car accelerating out of the parking area. She kicked the shoes off and lifted the telephone. But, of course, he had just pulled out of her driveway and wouldn’t be home yet. “Art, you bastard!” she yelled at what was once his side of the bed.
She phoned him the instant she woke up and was delighted when he sounded as if she had awakened him. “Good morning, Arthur. I was calling to see if you had a productive evening.” Her sarcasm was searing.
After a pause, his scratchy voice asked, “Jane?”
“Yes, your onetime nursemaid. I’m just checking in to make sure you weren’t injured during your getaway.”
Another pause. “What time is it?” he asked.
“Very early, but I wish it were even earlier. I’d like to know that I was causing you real pain.”
He cleared his throat and seemed to sip some water, probably from the bottle he always left at his bedside. “Jane, did you just get home?”
“You know damn well when I got home. You were here!”
“Where?”
“In my apartment, hiding behind a chair. I heard you close the door behind you when you left.”
“Last night? I wasn’t in your apartment.”
“Don’t lie, Art. You were at my computer, searching for your damn missing disk. You know, the one where the president’s daughter gets kidnapped.”
He yawned. “Aren’t we going to do that tonight?”
“Not anymore,” Jane snapped. “We were, but since you took the liberty to let yourself in and search through my files, we’ll just have to let the president’s daughter die.”
Another pause. “Jane, have you had your coffee yet? Because you’re not making any sense at all. I was here all night.”
“Art, I saw you!”
“You saw me? In your apartment?”
“I saw that you had been through my files. And I heard you leave.”
“Jane, I don’t know how to make you believe this, but I wasn’t in your apartment and I didn’t go through your files.” Then he asked, “You’re not doing another one of your exposés, are you? Maybe one of our selectmen wants to see what you’re going to say about him.”
He sounded genuinely confused. Art was a terrible liar, usually contradicting himself in the process. He sounded as if he were telling the truth.
“You weren’t here?”
“No. I was never even in your neighborhood.”
“Well, who then?” Now Jane was the one genuinely puzzled.
“Maybe your new boyfriend has his own secret service,” Art suggested. “Maybe they’re checking you out to make sure you’re not a spy for some socialist cell. Big-time capitalists are deathly afraid of socialists.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Jane fired back, and slammed down the phone. She was positive that wasn’t what William Andrews had meant when he said he wanted to know her better.