Calculated Risk (4 page)

While leaning over the wooden balcony
railing, Stevie discovered quite a few familiar faces among the
crowd. She was acquainted with the local politicians, very friendly
with the entertainers and had had social conversations with many of
the other guests.

How strange that Quintin
Ward and I haven’t met before.
Her hazel
eyes bridged the distance, focusing on the man in question. To her
surprise, she found herself under the same scrutiny, but the harsh
lines etched on Quintin’s face denoted a less than favorable
reaction.

“My dad’s bedroom is the entire left
wing,” Bobby’s voice interrupted her musings. “Mine is over
here.”

She looked at the hand that
again covered hers. “I’m too
old
to fall for that etchings line,” came her wry
scold. She realized she had failed to make her point when Bobby
blinked dumbly and uttered: “Huh?”

He flipped on the wall switch; the
ceiling light flooded the room. “Look how I framed all the posters
you gave me and … and …” Bobby riffled through the papers on his
bookcase-topped desk. “—here’s that review you asked me to
do.”

“Review?” Three vertical lines ridged
her smooth forehead. “I …I asked you to do a review?”

“On Monday, when I picked up those
express mail packages,” Bobby prompted. “You handed me the Pit
Stops’ newest CD and asked for my opinion.”

“Well…I…uh…” Stevie staggered in
confusion and felt in need of a chair. Since the only one in the
room was covered with clothes and books, she stumbled toward the
edge of the bed. “Bobby –“ her tone was kind “—when I said, ‘let me
know what you think of this,’ I never meant for you to give me a
written report.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I didn’t take any
time away from my studies. I knew you’d be concerned about that.”
He balanced his right knee on the bedspread, his hands curved
around Stevie’s shoulders. “I know how you feel about
me.”

Stevie stared at him, her eyes wide and
wondering. “How I feel about you?” She was becoming uncomfortably
aware of the fact that she was no longer in control of this
situation. Bobby Ward had every intention of bringing his fantasy
to life.

“I’ve read all the books. I’m not
stupid. I can read the signs. I understand body language. I know
the signals a woman sends.”

“You do?” Her tongue washed dry lips.
“What signals have I been sending you?”

His expression was once again dreamy.
“The way your face lights up with that special smile every time I
come into your office.”

I smile at everybody. I
spent three years wearing braces just so I could smile at
everybody.

“You’re just so eager to see me. I’m
trying to arrange my after-school schedule so I can be with you
every day.”

Oh, Bobby, of course I’m
eager to see you – you bring me the mail!

“All the gifts you’ve given me.” His
hand fluttered around the room. “The posters, the CD’s, the concert
tickets.”

They are purely promotional
– all the staff gets them.

“Last week you told me to call you
Stevie.” Bobby’s hands tightened around her shoulders. “And then
there was that kiss you gave me at the Christmas party.” A long
sigh escaped him.

“Bobby.” Stevie finally became vocal.
Conscious of his fragile ego, she tempered her words with a smile.
“Everyone calls me Stevie. I’m in a business that invites fast
familiarity, and it’s easier than Miss or Ms, and I hate ma’am.”
She patted his arm. “And about that office kiss. Wasn’t it under
the mistletoe in the employees’ lounge?” came her gentle reminder.
“I kissed all the male employees!”

“That’s what I love about you –“ he
sighed again “—you’re so …so easy to talk to, so
relaxed.”

“For sure,” Stevie muttered. She took a
deep breath and became more diligent. “Bobby, I’m afraid you have
…ohhh!” Her hands pushed against him, trying to fend off his
advancing arms. “Bobby! Bobby!” Stevie managed to turn her head
just in time to let his lips bounce off her jaw instead of her
mouth.

“Robert!” Quintin Ward’s deep voice
intoned from the open doorway. “Your godparents are downstairs;
they’d like to see you. Now.”

With a hastily whispered. “We’ll get
together later, “ Bobby scrambled off the bed and out of the
bedroom.

Quintin’s contemptuous appraisal made
Stevie feel unclean. For a brief moment, her composure wavered, but
then she regained her poise. “Mr. Ward, I know how this must look,
but –“

“Shut up, Miss Brandt.” His voice was
an animal’s snarl. His rugged physique towered like a monolith over
Stevie’s seated form. “I’ve witnessed the truth,” he raged, the
veins in his neck bulging over the collar of his white dress shirt.
“You lured that boy up here. God only knows what would have
happened if I hadn’t come upstairs. And in my own
house!”

“Mr….Mr. Ward!” Stevie struggled to
stand, but found herself roughly pushed backward onto the
bedspread.

“I don’t want to hear your lies.” His
face was nearly purple, his hands clenching and unclenching just
inches from her slender throat. “I want you to get the hell out of
my home. Now.” Quintin turned and stalked out the door.

Still on her back, Stevie regained
control over her erratic breathing. She stared at the bedroom
ceiling, her eyes attempting to make order from the intricate maze
of patterns on the acoustical tiles. It seemed an easier task than
the one she was now faced with.

“What we have here is the proverbial
molehill built into a mountain. Actually, the Himalayas.” Her voice
was surprisingly calm. “Bobby needs to be told that he’s created
something out of nothing.” Stevie decided to make that correction
Monday afternoon in her office. Seated behind her massive desk,
clad in gray flannel and using her brusque, no-nonsense voice she
could be quite intimidating. If Bobby failed to understand that
what he perceived as sexual interest was merely her friendly,
informal attitude toward her employees, then Stevie would simply
fire him! Sometimes you had to be cruel to be kind.

Speaking of cruel … the word
reminded her of Quintin Ward’s ruthless behavior. She rolled off
the bed and straightened her dress. Her fingertips rubbed his rough
touch from her bare arm.
Now there’s a man
who needs a good swift kick right in his assertions!

Stevie smiled at her image
in the dresser mirror. She leaned in closer, letting her fingers
comb and fluff the fiery curls.
I realize
you’re concerned about your child – and I sympathize with you, Mr.
Ward. But your attitude and actions need some major adjustments.
And like any good Tennessee woman, I’m going to volunteer to make
them!

She used the cellphone in her clutch to
make a quick call to arrange to have one of her associates attend
the gospel concert at the Opry. Then, with the spirit and daring of
her Tennessee ancestors, Stevie proceeded down the back stairs to
wage war on a Yankee.

Her first stop was the
dining room. She decided to avail herself of Quintin’s hospitality.
Her smile broadened as she filled the white china plate with
assorted tempting canapés and hors d’oeuvres.
Nothing like biting the hand that feeds
you
.

When the white-jacketed bartender
inquired as to her pleasure, Stevie was thoughtful for a moment,
then decided to go for broke. “Sour mash –“ one hazel eye winked
“—neat.” Glass and plate firmly in hand, she returned to the
house’s main living area and allowed herself to relax and
participate.

Squatting before the hearth, Quintin
expertly used the brass poker to check the security of two new logs
before he repositioned the fire screen. He brushed off his hands
and turned to survey the laughing, chattering guests that milled
around him. Everyone had food and/or drinks; the stereo was loud
enough to be heard but soft enough to allow for conversations; and
from the high spirits that abounded, the evening looked like a
success.

Parties were not his forte. Building
the houses that held the parties – that was where his talents lay.
Tonight, however, was his premiere both as a builder and host. The
restoration and renovation of Cedar Hill had taken more than just
his skill as a carpenter. He had used his engineering and
architectural knowledge to duplicate the beauty and recreate the
ambience that once flourished in this antebellum
mansion.

Quintin felt that Cedar Hill was more
than a house. It was home. A home that stood as a symbol of
togetherness and a newly discovered awareness of his son. His dark
gaze found Robert, who was slowly nursing the one drink he had been
allotted that evening.

A proud, paternal smile lightened
Quintin’s features. Rob looked good. The tuxedo seemed to add an
elegant virility to the seventeen-year-olds slim, angular frame.
Quintin massaged his jaw; at least those ear buds Rob always wore
were put away for one night and his feet sported real shoes instead
of untied sneakers.

His son not only looked good, he was
good. Excellent grades; he was into organic and health food; and no
sign of drugs. What more could a parent ask? Quintin rescued his
drink from the ornately carved mantle and pondered that question.
He’d like Rob to be more like himself. He’d like Rob to work at his
side. Quintin had always dreamed of a sign that would read: Ward
and Son Construction Company.

Rob’s interest, however, was music. Not
the making of it but the business of music. Big business that was
the heart of Nashville. A business that was filled with addicts and
alcoholics and vampires who greedily sucked young blood and
devoured souls.

Quintin blanketed his son
under a protective gaze – a gaze that was shattered by the sudden
appearance of -- Stephanie Brandt. Hypnotized, he watched her
mingle with his other guests.
The
arrogance of that woman!
An underlying
rawness blistered each word.

He stalked her every movement. But the
longer Quintin watched Stevie, the more fascinated he became. His
eyes centered on the tender curve of her left ear glimpsed through
teasing auburn tendrils, and the delicate ripple of muscle that
flowed along her slender arms when she lifted her glass.

His gaze found pleasure in viewing the
tall, well-curved feminine form beneath her designer gown. The
metallic ruffles that formed the provocative décolletage only
succeeded in heightening the impact of her full creamy breasts.
Quintin’s hand tightened around his glass, his body growing hard,
remembering how enticing Stephanie Brandt had looked on the bed
upstairs.

The scotch was quickly
tossed down a parched masculine throat. He hoped the liquor would
dull and depress this surprising libidinous reaction. Quintin
looked into his empty glass then to the earthy female intruder. The
tremors were still reverberating, his body was hardening. Stephanie
Brandt
had
to go!
He slammed the glass on the mantle and strode purposefully across
the room. “Allow me to escort you to your coat.”

Despite the harsh voice that growled in
her ear and the pressure from a hand on the small of her back,
Stevie’s smile never wavered. Gold-shadowed eyelids lowered to let
black lashes flutter against an ivory complexion. “If it isn’t our
charming host.” She turned her head, the cascade of titian curls
catching him full in the face. “The Mayor and I were just
discussing your talents.”

Quintin looked over her shoulder and
somehow found the courage to smile a greeting at the politician.
“Good evening, sir, glad you could make it. Would you excuse Miss
Brandt for a moment?” His palm cupped her elbow and steered her
forward.

“Please, Quintin, you’re making me drop
my shrimp puffs!”

His broad, elegantly clad torso moved
to block her path. “You were supposed to leave.”

She feigned confusion. “Now why would I
want to do that? I’m having a wonderful time. Good food –“ she
lifted her plate “—good liquor –“ she toasted him with her drink
“—and such a congenial host.” The glass balanced on her plate,
Stevie raised her thumb and forefinger and pinched his cheek. Hazel
eyes flirted. “Now I see where Bobby inherited his charm.” It was a
cheap shot, she silently admitted, but the man had it
coming.

Watching Quintin’s face grow ashen, she
suddenly felt contrite. Hell! If she were the parent with the
overactive teenager, she’d probably act the insane fool herself.
She took a deep breath, her expression serious. “Look, Mr. Ward,
why don’t we adjourn to your study and talk. I really think
–“

“Stevie! Stevie Brandt, is
that you?” Her good intentions were interrupted by a music
publisher. “Congratulations.” Darren Newman grabbed her free hand
and pumped her arm. “I see you’ve got a nominee in every category
of the Grammy awards.” His elbow nudged Quintin’s. “This lady is
dyn-
o
-mite.” He
cocked his forefinger at Stevie. “Are you going to LA for the
awards?”

“I usually do. My clients will be
there.”

“Has Quintin showed you his new digital
audio system?” Darren inquired, looking toward his host. “Stevie
was one of the first to have her clients’ record on laser
disks.”