Friday's Child (20 page)

She nodded jerkily without releasing his gaze. Relief slid like a balm over his nerves. His free hand rubbed soothingly up her arm, then cruised down again in a repetitive, rhythmic motion. “What do you say we let the past stay there. In the past. The present is ours, yours and mine. I'll give you all the time you need to decide what you want in your future. No pressure, no strings.”

She shook her head wearily. “No pressure? What do you call this?”

He released her only to pull her closer, turning her so that her shoulders rested against his torso. In a gesture evocative of comfort rather than desire, he folded his arms around her and hugged her to him. Resting his cheek on the top of her head, he rocked them both slowly.

“Let's not worry about labels,” he murmured into her hair.

“Let's just concentrate on each other.”

 

Michael rose from the table as Jake started replacing papers in folders. “I've got everything I need,” the lawyer said. “I'll get together with Hummels and his attorney myself tomorrow.”

“Make sure he understands this is my final offer,” Michael said.

Jake placed the files in his leather briefcase and snapped the lock shut. “It shouldn't be much longer. I could tell we had him intrigued when you suggested putting him in charge of research with a generous budget.”

“We were right all along.”

Jake nodded. “He's definitely got some project in his head that he's dying to get financing for. And it must be expensive if he couldn't even count on the cash from marketing the microchip to finance it. He's still trying to create a loophole, wanting us to sign off on any future projects he's the sole creator of.”

Michael snorted. “Fat chance. The music has stopped, but he's still dancing. You can let him know that he has until 5:00 p.m. today to agree. The offer goes down by a million each additional day he delays.”

Jake grinned wolfishly. “I'll tell him.” As he left the office, he passed Carla Patrie on her way in.

Michael sighed and looked at his watch. He was determined that today would be his last in the office for a while. But taking care of loose ends had already cost him most of the day. His frustration only partially stemmed from that fact, however. It had been too damn long since he'd heard from Kate, approximately fifty-eight hours and counting, as a matter of fact. When he'd left her at dawn the other morning, she'd avoided his eyes but had promised to contact him later. He'd agreed, noting the relief flickering across her face when he hadn't argued.

He'd promised her some time without pressure. And there was too much at stake for him to push, even a little. But that didn't make the waiting any easier. And although he'd felt a measure of confidence return at the way she'd allowed him to hold her throughout the night, the panic and fear were merely held in check for the moment. Kate hadn't given him any indication of what her response to his proposal would be. He didn't dare take her answer for granted.

“Don't scowl so, Michael, this really won't take long,” Carla said. She strolled to the table with a studied grace. Her bright red suit was perfectly matched by the polish on her
long nails. Her black hair was cut so it just barely grazed her shoulders. When she passed him, she trailed an expensive, musky perfume that was designed to raise a man's blood pressure.

It left Michael unmoved. It couldn't compare to the punch-in-the-gut scent Kate wore, one that had more to do with her own essence than any manufactured aroma. There was nothing about Carla that could compare to Kate in any way. Carla was savvy and tough, and she exuded ambition and brains. He'd hired her for the second quality, forgiven her for the first. She dropped the sheaf of papers she was holding on the table.

“What's this?” he asked.

“I've finalized the plans for the most comprehensive marketing strategy this company has ever seen,” she said smugly.

“For the home computer security system Derek completed?”

“None other. That little system, Michael, is about to take programming America by storm. I mean, I've planned the works. Television, radio, software magazine advertising…not to mention hiring Jerome Livingston, the Madison Avenue advertising guru.”

As he quickly scanned the outline she'd placed before him, his eyebrows climbed. “This plan of yours is going to take our budget by storm, too.”

“You have to be willing to invest in advertising your project if you want to get maximum return.”

“Have you run these numbers by Dennison in accounting?” he questioned.

She shook her head impatiently. “The man has no vision, Michael.”

“He's not supposed to have vision,” he answered wryly.

“He's a numbers man.” He listened as she gave her pitch again, then read through the papers more carefully. Finally he halted her in the midst of her spiel. “Go see Dennison. Tell him I'll authorize a ten percent higher advertising budget on this project. Anything over that, and I mean a penny over, will have to be approved by me personally.”

Carla looked triumphant as she gathered the papers together. “Smart move, Michael. We're going to make you rich.” She stacked the papers into a pile and then tapped them with a flaming nail. “Actually, I've got a suggestion that will save you some money.”

Michael cocked a brow. “Do tell.”

She leaned forward, crossing her leg and showing a smooth expanse of thigh. “The open house we have planned to coincide with the marketing blitz? Rather than spending a mint on renting a place with the right atmosphere, why don't you consider having it at your home?”

He blinked. “At my place?”

Carla pressed her advantage. “Sure, why not? I hear it's fabulous, and with all the newspaper and software magazine execs invited, it will give the publicity a more personal angle.”

“I realize you've never seen my home, Carla, or you'd never have suggested this.”

She frowned at his lack of enthusiasm. “No, I haven't, but from what I've heard, it's certainly spacious enough.”

“Oh, space is one thing it has plenty of,” he agreed ironically. “The thing that's missing is furniture.” When she looked blank, he continued. “It doesn't have any. Or not much.”

Carla shrugged. “Well, that's not a problem. You've got three weeks before the open house is scheduled. Get a decorator.”

“Why is this so important to you?” he quizzed. Carla didn't reply, but her fingernail tapped faster. A slow smile crossed his face. “You couldn't book a place for the open house, is that it?”

Raising her chin, she snapped, “We're on a tight schedule, Michael, and it is the wedding season. All the appropriate places were taken months ago. If you hadn't stonewalled me for so long about setting a date for the program's completion—”

His hand went to his chest in a gesture of innocence. “You're going to blame this on me?”

“It's not as if I couldn't find
something,
” she said smoothly, “but why settle for less than what we need when the perfect solution is right in front of us? Really, Michael, you couldn't get better publicity if you tried.”

He looked at her, mulling the idea over. He'd tightened security at the house even more when he started working on FORAY there. With the additional precautions he'd taken, he was actually in a better position to do as Carla asked.

“I could give you the names of some interior design firms who are very reputable. And it sounds like it's past time for you to contract with one of them, anyway.”

Resigned, Michael heaved a breath. “Just how desperate are you?”

Carla composed her features and lifted her chin. “Very,” she admitted after a long minute. “The only places that would be available are either too small or so far in the suburbs that half the invited guests wouldn't come. The longer we wait for something to become free, the more expensive this whole thing becomes.”

“We could go ahead with the marketing plan and drop the open house idea,” he suggested hopefully.

That nail began tapping again, mirroring the frustration on Carla's face. “And risk a drastic reduction in preliminary sales.”

He gave up. Rising, he muttered, “Fine. We'll do it at my place.”

Carla smiled with satisfaction and rose, as well. “Good idea. I'll get you a list of firms that might be able to help you get the house ready.”

“No thanks,” he muttered. “You've already done enough.”

He propped his hips against the corner of the table as she left the office and scrubbed both hands over his face, wondering just what the hell he'd let himself in for. It looked as though he were going to have to break down and hire one of those damn interior designers he'd avoided so scrupulously in the past.

Dropping his hands, he scowled at the thought. As if he
didn't have enough to do, now he was going to have to embroil himself in discussions with some long-haired, ponytailed moron about furnishings in ice-cream colors whose names he couldn't even bring himself to pronounce. He consoled himself with the thought that if he hated the results, he could always have the whole works hauled away and start over.

His intercom sounded. “You have a visitor, Mr. Friday.” Bernie's voice wasn't quite as surly as usual. The next moment he knew why.

“Daddy, it's me!”

Michael's morose mood dropped away when he heard his daughter squeal enthusiastically into the intercom.

“Me who?” he asked, pretending to be mystified.

“Me Chloe! You know me!”

“Oh, Miss Friday, is that you? Please come in. I've been expecting you.”

“He's expecting me,” she announced to the occupants of the outer office.

Trask's voice sounded then. “Chloe, let up on the button.”

The voices abruptly went silent and then Chloe was bursting through his door, hurtling toward her father. Michael caught her in his arms and swung her around until the room was filled with her giggles. When she was out of breath, he settled her on one hip. “So, shortstuff, where have you been?”

“I just got done with my first tumbling lesson and I asked Trask if we could stop here to see you and he said yes but if you were busy we had to go home but I knew you wouldn't be busy,” she said, the words all running together.

“I'm almost done for the day. I'm just waiting for a call from Jake,” Michael said to Trask. He turned his attention back to his daughter. “Did you learn anything at gymnastics today?”

She nodded enthusiastically. “I'll show you.” She wiggled down from his arms and squatted on the floor, doing a series of somersaults across the room.

Michael and Trask clapped dutifully. Chloe beamed at them. “I already knew how to do a somersault, that's baby
stuff, but now I can do a whole bunch of them all in a row. I could have done more but you have too much furniture in here, Daddy.”

“You did just fine,” Michael assured her.

“And guess what Trask signed me up for this afternoon?”

Michael raised his eyebrows at Trask, who appeared to be looking anywhere except at his employer.

“T-ball!”

“T-ball?” repeated Michael blankly.

“It's baseball, sir, for little ones. They hit the ball off a stand…” Trask's voice trailed off and he shrugged. “They were signing up at the rec center and she seemed interested. I thought—”

“You going to be a ballplayer, champ?” Michael asked his daughter.

She nodded enthusiastically. “We have a practice on Saturday. Can I go, Daddy, please, please, please?”

“Well,” said Michael amusedly, “since Trask thinks it's a good idea, I guess I have to agree, don't I?”

“See, Trask?” Chloe said triumphantly. “I told you it would be okay with Daddy.”

“Your schedule is going to be so busy you won't even be able to squeeze me in.”

She giggled. “I can't squeeze you into anything, Daddy. You're too big. You wouldn't even fit under my bed.”

While Chloe practiced her somersaults, Michael ran the open house idea past Trask. “What do you think?”

“We could minimize the security risks. With the extra help we hired, there shouldn't be any problems. I think you're forgetting something, though.” When Michael raised his brows, he reminded him, “The house is pretty empty. How are you going to get it ready in—” He looked inquiringly at Michael.

“Three weeks.”

“In three weeks?”

“I'll think of something,” he said, and then glared at the doubtful look on Trask's face.

Chloe picked that moment to somersault across the room
and landed at her father's feet. Bouncing up, she hugged his leg and demanded, “Come home, Daddy. It's lonely there without you.”

He ruffled her long blond hair. “Well, guess what, shortstuff? It's lonely
here
without
you.
” He looked at Trask. “I'm not going to be more than a couple hours. Why don't you two head home and plan something to eat tonight. I'll be home in time for dinner.”

“And then you'll stay home,” insisted Chloe.

“And then I'll stay home.”

“And tomorrow you'll take me to T-ball.”

“And tomorrow I'll take you to T-ball,” he repeated obediently.

“Then we'll go home and cook up a wonderful sa-prise for you, Daddy. You're gonna love it. Come, Trask,” she said with a queenly air. Then she ruined the effect by practicing her somersaults all the way out the door.

Still smiling, Michael crossed to his desk and dropped down into his chair. Resignedly, he reached for the phone book, flipping to the yellow pages. The number of decorating firms listed, he discovered, filled more than a dozen pages. He scanned the names, but his mind was already wandering.

It wasn't some fancy design outfit he wanted to call, it was Kate. The telephone, only inches away, beckoned temptingly. Just one call, he mentally justified to himself. Only one. A few minutes spent talking to her to find out whether she was all right. Whether she'd been thinking about him as much as he had her.