While the Fire Rages (14 page)

Glancing unnecessarily at her desk calendar, Jo chewed a bite of the egg mixture thoughtfully. It was sixteen days since Brett had whirled into her office and then out again, leaving her shattered from one touchless kiss! During those two weeks she had swung from longing for the sight of him, to hoping she never saw him again.

After the lunch tray had been removed Jo got to work—or, at least, she tried to work in between glances at her digital desk clock. Where was Brett, anyway? He’d said two weeks, it had been sixteen days. When was he coming back? The questions skipped in and out of Jo’s mind at regular intervals as the clock pulsed its way toward five, the last one always being:
Why should I care?
After the way he’d treated her before he left, then spoken to her on the phone, she really should not care if she never laid eyes on him again! But she did care, so deeply it scared her senseless. How very Cinderella-ish; falling in love with the boss! Jo scowled at the contract she was holding in one hand. And Brett was certainly no Prince Charming! Focusing on the legal jargon, she reread the words that had little more meaning this time than they had the previous three dines she’d read them.

“How impressively industrious she is!” The loved, hated, dreaded, longed-for drawl crept to her from the office doorway. “Perhaps I should reward her with a raise.” He paused, deliberately Jo felt sure. “Or could I devise a more ingenious form of compensation?”

Was this man trying to drive her mad? At the sound of Brett’s husky drawl, Jo’s entire system had hummed with joy. Quickly glancing up, the hum had switched to a screech of fury. Brett was not even looking in her direction, but was instead gazing down at a small blonde who could be no other than the new manager, Marsha Wenger. Jo had to fight an urge to fling the contract at his damnably handsome face. Controlling herself with difficulty, Jo smiled prettily through her gritted teeth,

“Welcome back,” she said overly politely. Rising gracefully, Jo nodded her head with queenly condescension at the petite blonde. “And this must be Marsha?” She arched one dark brow elegantly at Brett, receiving a frown that might have been fear-inspiring if she’d been in a frame of mind to be intimidated. As Jo wasn’t in such a frame of mind, she countered his frown with a brightly inquiring expression.

“Yes.” The way Brett bit off the word was a clear warning to Jo that she was skating on very thin ice. “Marsha Wenger, my brother’s ... ah ... assistant, JoAnne Lawrence.” Brett’s smile drew a chilling line down Jo’s spine. “Have you found an apartment for Marsha, Jo?”

Jo felt the double insult as sharply as if he’d slapped her face! Not only had he hesitated derogatorily over the title of assistant, but he’d refused her the courtesy of introducing Marsha to her in turn!

“As a matter of fact, I have,” she answered in an extremely soft voice. “I think Marsha will find it eminently
suitable.
” Jo figuratively flung the last word at him.

“I knew you could do it.” Brett’s smile was positively feral. “I told Marsha you have a ... thing ... for apartments.”

Jo was thoroughly confused, and not only by Brett’s odd tone and equally odd phrasing. Marsha’s expression of bemused compassion as she glanced from Jo to Brett and then back to Jo again had Jo wondering what the devil the woman could possibly be thinking. Had she missed something along Brett’s hurtful conversation route? Or, Jo cringed inwardly, had she been the target of Brett’s barbed tongue prior to their arrival at the office? The very thought coated Jo’s response with acid.

“Well, my ‘thing’ worked.” Picking up a long white envelope from the desk, Jo held it out to Brett, forcing him to cross the room to her. “You will find all the information in there.” Carefully avoiding his touch, she placed it in his hand. “As you will see, there’s a detailed account of money owed to me.”

“Just give me a total and I’ll write out a check for you,” Brett snapped, thereby practically admitting his intention of “keeping” Marsha.

The pain that stabbed through Jo was unbelievable in its intensity. Though Marsha opened her crimson-tinted lips, Jo beat her into speech.

“There is no hurry. I’m in no danger of either starvation or eviction.” Fleetingly, Jo wondered at the strange look of fury her assurance sent flashing over Brett’s face, but she was too upset to probe for reasons. “Now, if there’s nothing else pressing”—she glanced at the clock’s digits as they moved to five fourteen—”I’ve got a blasting headache, and I’d like to go home.” It was not a lie or an excuse. Within the last few minutes Jo’s temples had begun to beat like a demented drummer! Along with the pain in her head was the sickening feeling that the omelet she had consumed earlier was not going to stay down!

Her discomfort must have been visible, for Brett’s cold expression changed to instant concern. “Of course!” he agreed to her leaving at once. Then, confusing her even more, his tone softened into what sounded very like tenderness—although Jo felt sure she was mistaken, probably due to her headache. “Look,” he urged, “sit down for a moment while I call for a car.” When she would have protested, he added adamantly, “I won’t have you running for a bus in this weather.”

Jo had to choke back a peel of hysterical laughter. After running for days in rotten weather, Sir Fair-haired Knight belatedly blunders to the rescue! Her stomach lurched and Jo sat down with a plop.
Oh, fantastic!
she thought sickly.
He finally comes home, and I feel decidedly queasy!
At that moment the room began rocking.

“Brett!” Jo heard Marsha’s warning cry through a fog of dizziness. “I think Jo is really ill!”

* * * *

When Jo woke, she was in her own nightgown, in her own bed, with only a cloudy recollection of how she had gotten into either one of them. Lying still, she probed her memory for enlightenment. As the clouds dissipated, bits and pieces of the puzzle began falling into place. With sudden clarity, Jo remembered the expression of alarm on Brett’s face when he’d turned from the phone at Marsha’s cry of concern. Never could she recall seeing anyone move quite so quickly as he did when he whipped around the desk to where she was slumped in her chair.

“Good grief, she looks terrible!” he’d exclaimed in an oddly hoarse tone. Then, even more oddly, he’d gently pressed his palm to her forehead. “God, Jo, you’re burning up!” He’d turned aside then to Marsha, saying harshly, “I’ve got to get her home.”

Jo squirmed uncomfortably at the memory of what had happened next. Brett, his face set in lines of determination, gently slid one arm beneath her legs and the other arm around her back, to lift her.

Clutching her tightly to his chest, he had issued clipped orders to Jo’s assistant. “I’m taking her home.” He strode to the door, tossing over his shoulder, “Get a doctor ... the best” He rattled off Jo’s home address as he crossed the outer office.

Now Jo had total recall of the dizzying ride down on the elevator and of Brett’s arms tightening reassuringly as he strode across the lobby. She could feel again the sting of sleet mingled with cold rain on her flushed cheeks, could clearly hear Brett’s muttered curse as he dashed for the protection of the limo. Now Jo’s face burned with embarrassment instead of fever as her awakened memory replayed the scene enacted in this very room after their rather over-the-speed-limit run from the office building to her apartment. Although she had been barely conscious by the time Brett carried her into the bedroom, Jo had struggled with him when he’d started to undress her. Concentrating fiercely, she attempted to reconstruct his exact wording of admonition.

“Damn it, Jo. Stop fighting me! You’re ill, and you must rest, and you can’t very well do it fully clothed.” At this point her recall was not quite as total for he’d gritted his teeth, or something. At any rate, only snatches of what he’d muttered remained clear. “Obstinate woman ... you’d think I was Jack the Ripper or ... will you be still... Jo, please, I’m not so desperate for you I’d—”

Whoa! Hold it! Jo brought her thoughts to a jarring stop. Had Brett said “I’m not so desperate for you” or “I’m not so desperate for a woman’? Jo wanted to believe it was the former, though she was certain it was the latter. In any case, he had finally managed to remove all her clothes and slip a nightgown over her head, all the while displaying a patience Jo would not have believed him capable of.

Then came the doctor, very distinguished looking and extremely irritated at having been called out in such weather. Brett toppled him off his high horse with one scathingly, unrepeatable pronouncement. Now, hours removed from the incident, Jo could smile at it all, but at the time she’d been appalled at his arrogant crudeness.

Thoroughly cowed, the good doctor had examined Jo expertly, then, in an affronted tone, told Brett that she had contracted a virus.

Gazing down at her, he’d frowned. “Her pulse is a little rapid. Has she been under strain?”

To give the devil his due, Jo now admitted to herself that Brett had had the conscience to flush, if lightly.

“Perhaps,” he’d answered tersely. “I’d have no way of knowing for certain, as I’ve just returned from a two-week business trip.”

Both men jerked to attention when Jo choked.
A business trip indeed! Funny business! Monkey business! Physical business!
Jo’s spasm of choking subsided as she ran out of old accusations. Her reaction to Brett’s pious excuse gained her a calming hypodermic needle in the posterior. Jo had fallen asleep within minutes of receiving the injection.

How long had she slept? Twisting her head around to the small alarm clock on her nightstand, Jo discovered two things: the first that she had slept approximately four hours as it was now nearing eleven P.M., the second that her headache and queasiness were gone. She felt extremely tired but no longer sick. Sighing in relief, she snuggled down again then groaned when she rubbed a tender spot on her derriere. Within seconds the door to her room was quietly pushed open and Brett’s tall frame was outlined in the doorway by a light in the hall behind him. When he saw she was awake, and alert, he smiled.

“You groaned, madame?” His smile widening, he sauntered into the room. “You must be feeling somewhat better,” he opined, studying her closely. “You’ve lost all that gorgeous green color.” Bending down, he touched her forehead lightly. The fever’s gone too. What you need now is rest.” His fingers lingered then slowly trailed down her temple and over her cheek.

Her breathing suddenly shallow, Jo had to grit her teeth against the urge to turn her head to seek his palm with her lips. She felt lightheaded again, only this time she knew her loss of equilibrium was not caused by a virus. Still his fingers lingered, stroking her cheek, her jawline. When one long forefinger sought the delicate line of her lip, Jo knew she had to say something to break the tension twisting through her. Raking her mind, she blurted the first thought that entered.

“How... how did you know I was awake?” she babbled breathlessly and nearly fell apart altogether with the gentle smile that curved his lips. But her purpose was achieved, for he straightened slightly and lifted his hand to indicate a small, dimly lit box on the dresser.

“The intercom,” Brett replied blandly, “I have the volume turned up as high as it will go. I could hear the slightest rustle every time you moved.”

“But where did it come from?”Jo frowned. “I’ve never seen it before.”

“I had Doug pick it up when I sent him to my apartment for some clothes.” Straightening fully, he reached out to switch on the small lamp on the night table. Doug Jensen was Brett’s driver, the same one who had helped her into the car that afternoon.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered contritely.

“Forget it.” His hand sliced the air dismissively. The only thing I want you to concentrate on is getting well.” Now his hand moved to his head, fingers raking through the blond strands distractedly. “Though you obviously did have at least a touch of a virus, the doctor seemed inclined to think your problem was more exhaustion than anything else.” Gray eyes captured hers. “What have you been up to these last two weeks?”

What had
she
been up to? What had she been up to? He dared ask that? When
he
was the one who had assigned her the duty of finding
suitable
living quarters for Marsha Wenger? Jo was still feeling very tired, and very weak. Now she was beginning to feel very, very edgy.

“What have I been up to?” she grated. “I’ve been sitting in my office with my feet propped up on my desk, manicuring my nails, talking on the phone to all my friends, and generally goofing off. Isn’t that what one is supposed to do when the boss is away?” Jo paused to draw breath before demanding heatedly, “What the hell do you think I’ve been up to? I’ve been up to the end of my patience with running around in all kinds of weather, trying to scare up a decent apartment for your latest... manager.”

“Jo,” Brett cautioned softly, “calm down. The doctor said you are not to—”

“Calm down! Ha!” Really agitated now, Jo jerked to a sitting position, unmindful of the skimpiness of her nightgown. “I’ll calm down when you and your stupid questions get out of here! I’m tired and, now that I think about it, I haven’t felt quite right for days. Still, with your demands in mind, I’ve chased all over this damned city examining some very unsuitable dwellings.” She grimaced. “I’m so weary of the very word
apartments
Icould scream. And I do wish you’d get out of mine.” The angry spate had consumed all of her breath and most of her energy. Feeling shaky, Jo eased back against the pillow with a soft sigh, her heavy eyelids drooping.

It was quiet for long minutes, much too quiet. Jo knew that Brett had not moved from beside the bed. She couldn’t hear him breathing, but she knew he was there. Lifting her eyelids to mere slits, she stared at him balefully.

“Are you still here?”

“Do you always ask the obvious?” he retorted. “I’m here and I’m going to stay here ... through the night.”

Brett’s flat statement sent a spurt of renewed energy zinging through Jo and, still unaware of her nearly naked state, she shot upright. “You are not!” she denied wildly. “I don’t want you here. I’ll be perfectly fine. All I need is a good night’s rest and I’ll—”