While the Fire Rages (13 page)

“Jo Lawrence.”

“Fancy that!” Brett exclaimed in his most drawling tone.

“Yes?” The patience of a saint weighted her tone.

“I forgot the report,” he said flatly.
I forgot to make love to you,
he thought longingly. “I want you to shoot it up—”

“I shot it up to you yesterday afternoon,” Jo interrupted very gently, very sweetly. ‘You should be receiving it soon.” There was a telling pause, then she asked nicely, “Is there anything else?”

Fresh-mouthed woman! The
thought had no sooner entered his mind when Brett had to concede the truth of it. Jo’s mouth had been delightfully fresh. Suddenly needing to jar her with a zinger, Brett purred, “Have you found Marsha an apartment yet?”

“Well, I’m considering one,” she zinged back. “But there are a few details I want to check out before committing ‘Marsha’ to it”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Brett growled in an effort to conceal the smile in his voice. “Maybe you just might be worth the enormous salary Wolf is paying you.”

“Please believe me, I am worth every penny of it.” Apparently Jo considered it her turn to hang up on him, for she did so, quite as gently as he had that morning.

Her parting assertion ate at Brett for the remainder of the afternoon. At one point, pacing the room in frustration, he caught himself thinking: She’s nothing but a damned high-priced ... At that moment, shocked at the direction his thoughts were taking, Brett forced his attention back to the folder that had been delivered to his room less than half an hour after she’d hung up on him. Brett played at being the dedicated businessman for several hours before giving up the farce.

A brisk shower and clean clothes did little for his disposition. Deciding what he needed was a stiff drink, Brett went to the motel’s elegant dining room some twenty minutes early for his appointment. After lining the maitre’d’s palm with a respectable inducement, he was ushered to a table with a flourish. He was three quarters into his second whisky when he glanced up to observe the maitre d’ escorting a breathtakingly lovely redhead across the room. Wondering who the knockout was, Brett ran his eyes over her tall, well-proportioned body appreciatively. When the smirking maitre d’ came to a stop at his table, Brett rose to his feet, one brow arched in query.

“How do you do, Mr. Renninger?” the knockout said, extending a long, slim hand. “I’m Casey Delheny.”

Not another one!
The protest jumped unbidden into Brett’s suddenly alert mind.
Wolf has been busy since I visited him last!

Within fifteen minutes of accepting Brett’s hand during their cordial greeting, Casey simply and neatly disabused him of his initial opinion. Oh, Brett was quick to realize that Casey was indeed in love! But not with Wolf Renninger. The man she talked about in glowing terms of admiration and respect was a Sean Delheny, her husband of eleven months.

Gradually, as they savored their expertly prepared brook trout and steamed fresh vegetables, Brett learned that Casey not only truly liked Wolf but that he would forever hold a place of affection in her heart. Wolf had introduced Casey to Sean. Over dessert, still smiling faintly at the idea of Wolf in the role of matchmaker, he acquired the additional information that Sean was the contractor Wolf had chosen to build the multicomplex and that he would be joining them for drinks after dinner.

“But why didn’t he join us for dinner as well?” Brett wondered aloud.

“Because the appointment had been made with me,” Casey explained. “Sean didn’t want to, in his words”— she smiled—”butt in.”

“He felt left out?” Brett asked sharply, responding to the hint of censure in her tone. Casey’s shrug was eloquent. “Believe me, had I known of Wolf’s intention to contract Mr. Delheny, I would have included him in on our meeting, whether he was your husband or not. I didn’t know.”

“But I don’t understand.” Her slight head movement caused a rippling in her hair that made Brett think of undulating waves on fire. “Didn’t Wolf mention Sean at all?”

Before Brett could answer, a tall, brawny man with hair the exact same shade of red as Casey’s came to a stop at their table. Brett immediately knew who the man was by the way her eyes lit up. After the introductions were made and fresh drinks ordered, Brett gave Sean a thumbnail account of the conversation prior to his arrival, then he answered Casey’s last question.

“I didn’t speak to Wolf about my decision to go ahead with this project.” This time Brett’s shrug was eloquent “Wolf very obviously wanted this complex. I intend to give it to him. But, as his condition precludes any involvement with business matters, I am proceeding with the report he’d drawn up.” He glanced at Sean and shrugged again. “Your name is not in the report.”

“But surely Jo Lawrence knew of Wolf’s intention to give the contract to Sean!” Casey exclaimed. “She’s closer to Wolf than his own shadow.”

Even as Brett assured Casey that Ms. Lawrence knew no more about the project than he did himself, his mind seethed with renewed anger. Exactly what, he fumed, had Casey inadvertently let slip with that last remark? Was she aware of the liaison between Wolf and Jo? For that matter, had everybody been aware of the affair but him?

The questions teased Brett’s mind throughout the rest of the evening, hovering on the edge of his consciousness while he officially hired Sean as project contractor, discussed the pros and cons of the job ahead, and made plans to meet with the couple again the following day in Casey’s office. After bidding the Delhenys’ good night, Brett went to his room to spend most of the night tormenting himself with even more questions, questions that conjured visions, visions that drove his anger into fury. And, at regular intervals, he repeated one phrase as if in hopes of convincing himself of its truth.

Damn it to hell, I do not love her!

* * * *

Surprisingly, after that one tension-filled night, Brett found little difficulty in sleeping. Perhaps it was due to the hours he spent poring over architectural drawings with Casey. Perhaps it was due to the hours he spent tramping over the building site with Sean. Then again, perhaps it was due to the evening hours spent in getting to know Marsha Wenger.

Brett called Marsha to invite her out to dinner the very next day. Squashing a ridiculous feeling of being in some strange way unfaithful, he shoved all thoughts and considerations of Jo from his mind. Marsha proved to be a delightful companion, easy to talk to and easy to laugh with. When she invited him in for a nightcap after he’d escorted her to the door of her apartment, Brett accepted, knowing full well he was going to at least attempt to make love to her. The scene that ensued would have been ludicrous, had it not been so sad.

Marsha made it clear that she was willing, so willing that the nightcaps were forgotten the moment they closed the apartment door. She came into his arms before the sound of the door closing faded in the room. Her softly welcoming lips moved with hungry abandon in time with his, sapping his strength as they sipped his taste. Their move from just inside the door to the bedroom was made smoothly, effortlessly, as were their movements as they undressed each other. It was after they embraced on the bed that they grew awkward. It simply did not work, and the harder they tried, each convinced the failure was their own, the less it worked. Brett finally ended the farce.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, appalled at his lack of a potency he had always reveled in. Rolling onto his back, he stared at the ceiling fighting a clawing fear that didn’t bear thinking about.

“It’s not your fault,” Marsha whispered wretchedly, “I thought, after all this time ...”

The misery in her tone caught his sympathy, the context of her words caught his attention. “All this time? I don’t understand.”

“I very foolishly divorced my husband last year when I found out he had been with another woman.” Turning her head, she faced him unashamedly with tears trickling down her face. “I say foolishly because I’ve since learned it was the first and only time he had ever strayed.” She smiled sadly. “He did have reason to seek solace elsewhere. At the time I was so wrapped up in getting my career off the ground, I neglected to remember we had a partnership.”

Brett frowned, not in the least enlightened or reassured. “But I still don’t—”

“You are the first man I’ve been able to relax with since I left my husband over a year ago.” Marsha sighed. “I thought that... maybe this time I could”—she actually blushed—”you know? I couldn’t stop thinking of him, all the time you were ... I love him.” She blinked against a fresh onslaught of tears. “I really am sorry, Brett.”

‘Yes, so am I.” Reaching out his hand, Brett brushed the tears from her cheeks, “Not only for you, but for myself as well.” His smile was as sad as hers. “It was not entirely your fault.” Brett had never confided his most personal thoughts to anybody, not even Sondra. Drawing a deep breath, he decided that now, perhaps more than ever, he needed a confidant “You weren’t the only one unable to stop thinking of another. She has never belonged to me. Maybe she never will.” A long sigh whispered through his lips. “But I love her. I shouldn’t. I don’t want to. But I do.”

They spent the night together. Brett asked no questions, Marsha didn’t either. They did not make love. Giving and receiving comfort simply by holding each other close, they finally slept, secure in a friendship forged during the sharing of despair.

Two weeks later, after spending nearly all his evenings with Marsha, Brett left Vermont for New York. Marsha went with him.

Chapter 6

The cab jarred to a splashing halt at the curb. Irritated, frustrated, and soaking wet into the bargain, Jo thrust a bill at the driver. Not bothering to ask for a receipt this time, she pushed open the door and stepped out of the cab, being careful of the mini-river rushing along the gutter. The cabbie pulled away from the curb as Jo was trying to hang onto her handbag and open her umbrella at the same time. The resultant spray of cold water against the back of her legs elicited a muttered, very unladylike curse from her anger-tautened lips. The umbrella slipped from her chilled fingers, exposing her bare head to the cold late October downpour. Straightening her arm with a jerk, Jo dashed for the entrance doors of the tall office building.

Inside the warmth of the building, she paused to catch her breath.
I
must be totally out of my mind,
Jo thought waspishly.
No marginally intelligent person would run around like some kind of a nut looking at apartments in this weather! I wish Brett Renninger would go to ... Atlanta!
Sighing with the realization that she really wished no such thing, Jo sloshed her way to the bank of elevators that would whisk her to the twenty-sixth floor and the comfort of her office, a place she’d seen very little of during the previous two weeks, most of which had been cold and rainy.

“Good grief, Jo, you look like you’ve just been pulled from the river!” Reni greeted her with wide-eyed exclamation. “You also look half frozen!”

Slumping back against the door for a moment’s respite, Jo attempted a reassuring smile. “I think it’s safe to conclude that Indian summer is
truly
over,” she offered dryly. “That rain feels like it could turn into sleet without halfway trying.” A shiver shook her slender body. “Why didn’t I simply go home and call it a day?” she wondered aloud.

“Because you’re dedicated?” Reni asked teasingly.

“Or not too bright,” Jo retorted, pushing away from the supporting panel. “Well, since I’m here, I may as well stay. I might even surprise everyone and actually get some work accomplished.” Stiff fingers fumbling with the large buttons on her raincoat, Jo planted wet footprints on the beige carpeting as she walked to her own office. “But”—she paused to level an arched glance at Reni—”all has not been in vain.”

“You’ve found a place for her!” Reni piped hopefully.

‘Yes, I’ve found a place for her.” Jo smiled in satisfaction. “I’ve paid the first month’s rent, the last month’s rent, and a security deposit.” Her deepening smile softened the forbidding line of her lips. “Someone, either
her
or our exalted leader, owes me a lot of money.” God! I hope it’s her and not him! Ever since Brett had literally ordered Jo to find an apartment for Marsha Wenger, she had been torturing herself with the possibility of a relationship between him and the woman he’d so quickly hired for the vacant manager’s position. The very idea of Brett sleeping with the unknown woman during the last two weeks didn’t bear thinking about.  Yet Jo had thought of little else but that! She had read the data on the woman that Brett had faxed to personnel; the woman was indeed qualified! Jo prayed that Marsha Wenger’s qualifications extended only to the position of area manager and not to the much higher position of Brett’s current bed partner.

“Are you all right?”

Reni’s worry-ridden voice brought Jo out of her disheartening speculation. Shivering again, Jo shook her head. “No, as a matter of fact, I’m not,” she answered candidly. “I’m cold, and wet, and, as I missed lunch, starving.” Shrugging out of the limp raincoat, Jo opened the door to her office. “Call the executive dining room and tell that ego-inflated chef I’d like an omelet and a gallon of hot tea.”

Reni’s giggle drew a grin from Jo. At one time or another, every person in the building had felt the lash of the sarcastic tongue of Hans Vogel, self-proclaimed chef extraordinary. Everyone, that is, except Wolf and Brett, the brothers Renninger. They’d have either fired him or decked him—possibly both!

Jo walked into her office then walked out again moments later, a gray suit and a pale-gray blouse that had just been delivered at the office from the dry cleaners draped over one arm. As she sailed by Reni she smiled devilishly. “Don’t tell anybody but, while I’m waiting for my lunch, I’m going to make use of the exalted one’s private bathroom. Maybe a hot shower will chase the shivers.”

Jo returned to her office warm of body and dry of clothes, to find her tea and food covered and waiting for her. Ah! She sighed silently, sipping the hot brew. Being the assistant to the big man
did
have its compensations at times. But not always, she quickly reminded herself. There were other attendant duties that were downright onerous! Like running around in inclement weather finding the impossible find! This gal had better be good, she thought grimly, cringing in contemplation of exactly what Marsha Wenger might be exceptionally good at.