It was not, for Anne, a typical Monday, but she was trying to get through it. At work she invariably projected a smooth, quiet-voiced serenity; she never flaunted her authority, but it was there. She’d earned it. No one could conceivably tell by looking at her that her calculator had come up with whimsical figures all morning, that she’d lost three files, that she’d read and reread emails in her inbox and still didn’t know what was in there. She had snagged her panty hose. Being Anne, she had a replacement pair in her desk drawer, but she spilled coffee on them on her way back from the photocopying room… The day was just not going well.
Distractedly, she pushed open the door to her office. Her eyes were instantly drawn to the silver-wrapped package with its gay streamers of pink ribbons. Frowning, she set down the files and her coffee and closed the office door. An unsteady pulse throbbed in her throat as she slowly started to undo the bright wrappings.
Memories of other surprise gifts through the years raised the color in her cheeks. The presents never arrived on her birthday, never at Christmas. Never when she was expecting them. Never anything that was suitable to be opened in one’s office, even if one locked the door and pulled the shades over all the windows…
One peek inside the box and the pulse in her throat went into double time. She glanced up nervously to make sure the door was closed before carefully unfolding the treasure. The camisole was designed like a Victorian corset, the old-fashioned kind that cinched up the figure.
Except that there was no whalebone to viciously sever breath. Just satin, a luscious oyster-colored satin, and a low bodice tucked and gathered to deliberately display the wearer’s breasts so brazenly that she would certainly catch a cold.
Unconsciously, she stroked the soft folds, her palms stroking the luxurious satin, the fabric whispering a subtle, erotic call to her senses. Her rational mind, of course, was already crisply cataloging objections. The gift was terribly inappropriate. Anne’s choice of lingerie was not unfeminine, but always simple and practical. Lace and satin-she just wasn’t the type. Jake knew that. And yes, it was from Jake. She didn’t even need to look at the card.
No one else would have given her a gift that was so blatantly a sexual invitation. No one else persisted in inviting her to be the kind of woman she simply wasn’t. Very rapidly, she folded the camisole back into the box, feeling oddly breathless. When the lid was back on, she caught her breath again. If anyone had seen him bringing that in…
She buried the wrappings in her wastebasket, praying no one would knock on her door until she was done, and then hastily picked up the envelope. The note had been boldly scrawled in black ink. “Since I must have missed you, love, I went to see your Mr. Laird. All I wanted to know, was if you were free for lunch. He said you were free to come to Idaho with me for two weeks.”
She had to read it twice, because the first time she had obviously misunderstood. Jake would never have gone to see Laird, not even as a joke. Jake was unscrupulous and arrogant and, God knew, impulsive, but their affair had always been strictly private; he had always shown a respect for her that Anne had never questioned. She read the note a third time, sank back in her desk chair, closed her eyes and murmured to herself, “I am a mature, rational, practical woman in full control of my life.” One could not feel stalked unless one allowed oneself to become prey. She was not prey. For anyone. There was no logical reason she should feel a shudder of primitive fear dance up her vertebrae.
The thing to do was…open her eyes. Get up, for heaven’s sake, and hide the camisole in the bottom drawer of her file cabinet, bury the note in her purse… Those things done, she straightened an imperceptible wrinkle in her skirt and opened the office door.
She negotiated carpet, linoleum, elevator and more carpet all in the four and a half minutes it took to reach Mr. Laird’s door, truly a record pace in her high-heeled spectators. Her tap was polite, perfectly in control.
“Come in.”
She felt better the moment Mr. Laird offered her his usual distracted smile. Her boss intimidated half the people in the bank with those ice-blue eyes of his. He tolerated no inefficiency, would fire anyone he knew to be disloyal, and ruthlessly dictated policies that were not always popular. Anne had always gotten along beautifully with him. She also knew him well enough to realize that the distracted smile was a favorable augury. “Actually, I was going to call you earlier, Anne, but then I got hung up with a phone call. The White estate-I liked the way you handled all of it.”
“I…thank you, Mr. Laird.” Anne propped herself on the edge of the leather chair in front of his desk. Her nerves were all set to relax again when her boss handed her the White file, leaned back in his chair and started chuckling.
Mr. Laird was not a chuckler. Anne’s headache was instant.
The head of stiff white hair was shaking in disbelief. “But that was not what I was going to call you about. Gil Rivard’s grandson was just in here.” Another distinctly rusty chuckle escaped from his throat. “The man is crazy, absolutely crazy. I can’t think of a time I have ever had such an…unusual…conversation.”
Very smoothly and carefully, Anne vaulted out of the chair. “Mr. Laird…”
He waved her back down with that thoroughly uncharacteristic grin. “Here.” He shifted an oblong piece of paper in her direction. “He handed me that, and asked me if I would give it to you. He’s given you power of attorney and wants you to set up some sort of trust for him. Then he sat down for ten minutes, rambled on about the hummingbirds in Idaho, local politics, deep-sea fishing in Tahiti, and left.” Her boss was chuckling again, though one of his eyebrows lurched up in a half-scold. “If you have the time? Anne, I think you could at least have mentioned to me that Gil wasn’t the only iron you had in the Rivard fire.”
Anne was staring at the cashier’s check in her hand. Money made Mr. Laird so very happy. He loved it when his vault was chock-full. That slim little piece of paper in her hand bore a six-figure number after the dollar sign. Jake didn’t have two nickels to rub together, the last she’d heard.
“And there’s more that he wants to put away, Anne. For his children, he put it, even though he doesn’t have any yet. He’s got a wife in mind, I gather. Good Lord, though, the man doesn’t even have the least idea of his own assets. He has bank accounts he hasn’t checked up on in years in God knows how many states. And he may stay in Idaho for a few years, but there’s no reason that state needs to benefit rather than Michigan, which is his real home base. He could be anywhere a few years from now.” Mr. Laird peered at Anne through wire-rimmed lenses. “I suggested he hire an accountant to get his financial situation in order, Anne, but he didn’t like that idea. He wants you and no one else. I don’t know what you discussed with him, but I suppose we could stretch our policy a bit to allow you to conduct bank business out of state.”
Anne’s head was spinning. “It would be totally impossible for me to leave right now, anyway…”
“We could arrange something. After all, Gil Rivard has been a loyal customer of this bank for a good many years, and he’s brought us a great deal of business. You’ve got vacation time coming…”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Laird,” Anne sang out cheerfully, “there is no possible way I can go to Idaho at this time.”
“He’s kind of a modern-day adventurer, isn’t he?” Her boss glanced at her, then out the window. The September sky was very blue. “His life sounds like a young man’s dream. You’ll probably find this ridiculous, Anne, but when I was a young man…” He focused back on her with a sudden frown. “If your backlog of work is the problem…”