A Lyon's Share Page 5

  She blinked back the sudden sting of tears, pride surfacing with a rush. She couldn't tell him of her empty weekends, of the countless nights she had spent in her own company. Those half-forgotten words she had spoken last week when she had intimated that her weekends were always occupied had come back to haunt her. White lies or any kind of lies always seemed to compound into more.

  "I don't know if —" Joan hesitated, then plunged forward, hoping she wasn't burying herself in a series of lies and silently apologizing to Ed Thomas for seeking refuge in his name, "— Ed is exactly special, but I am fond of him." That statement was at least the truth.

  "Have you known him long?" The tilt of the leonine head indicated a casual interest.

  "No, he's a brother of my room-mate's fiancé." Her fingers were tearing nervously at the uneaten portion of her sandwich.

  "Your room-mate is the Moreland girl in the computer department, isn't she?"

  "Yes, that's right, Kay Moreland," Joan answered in a startled voice that betrayed her surprise. She had never suspected that he was even aware she had a room-mate.

  "Are you bringing Ed to the Christmas party?"

  "Well, actually," his question had caught her off guard, "he lives in Cleveland."

  "It must be pretty serious if he flies back and forth just to see you," Brandt commented.

  "And his brother," Joan added, rising to her feet in an effort to end the conversation.

  The swivel chair behind her desk squeaked loudly in protest to her sudden movement, screeching like chalk on a blackboard.

  "That chair needs to be oiled," he said, walking over to rock it back and forth.

  "I may look like an Amazon, but that chair is too heavy for me to turn upside down to get to the area where the squeak is," she said sharply.

  There was a piercing quality to the look he gave her, the harshness of controlled anger. Her chin tilted defiantly as she swallowed the tight lump in her throat. Joan had always been conscious of her size ever since her teenage days when she had towered over the boys in her class.

  His eyes narrowed as he studied her. "Have you always been sensitive about your height?"

  "It isn't something that can be ignored," Joan responded stiffly.

  "Why is it," Brandt's head was cocked inquiringly to the side, "that short girls always dream of being statuesque and tall girls want to be daintily petite?"

  "It's human nature, I suppose," she shrugged. "to want what you can't have. But I have accepted the way I am."

  "Then stop apologizing for being a tall, beautiful blonde." The crisply spoken compliment seemed to accuse her of false modesty and Joan reacted sharply.

  "Really. Mr. Lyon, you can't expect me to believe you!" Her head was thrown back in an indignant pose. "In the three years I've worked for you, you've never once paid any attention to me as more than your secretary."

  Brandt's knee was hooked over the corner of her desk as he half sat and half stood against it, his hands folded complacently on his thigh.

  "You have only yourself to blame for that. The "No Trespassing" signs were so boldly displayed and your manner was so briskly efficient and businesslike that I couldn't guess that you wanted to be treated as a woman. Besides," a latent harshness crept into his strong features, "I've always lived by the rule that business should never become mixed with pleasure. I don't want my personal life to be intertwined with my work."

  The precise clearly spoken statement sent prickles up her spine. Joan no longer doubted that he was sincere. Brandt Lyon did consider her attractive. At the same time, he made it clear that her looks made no difference. He would never want her as more than his secretary. And she had to accede to the advisability of his stand. If a man-woman relationship had developed between them and later burned itself out her position in his office would have become untenable for both of them.

  She averted her gaze from the determined line of his jaw. "I agree with you completely." Her mouth moved stiffly in resistance to the words she uttered.

  A heavy sigh of exasperation sounded behind her and she faintly caught a whispering, "Do you?" that was mockingly derisive. Pushing aside her long hair, Joan glanced over her shoulder, a bewildered frown knitting creases in her forehead. His back was turned to her as he tilted the chair back, then completely turned it upside down.

  "Do you have any all-purpose oil here?" he asked.

  The detached voice forced Joan to conclude she had only imagined the previous question, a trick of her imagination that was so susceptible to Brandt's masculinity.

  "In the middle desk drawer," she answered.

  While Brandt worked at oiling the squeaky springs of the swivel chair, Joan began sorting through the file cabinet, removing the inactive folders and placing them on a nearby straight chair. Only one part of her mind was devoted to the task. The rest was trying to draw comfort from the discovery that Brandt thought she was attractive.

  Her preoccupation made her less thorough in her actions. She barely noticed that the top drawer didn't close tightly when she pushed it forward to go through the second drawer. Her mouth twitched in amusement as she found a folder misfiled. It was one she had given Brandt the other day and he had replaced it in the wrong drawer. Removing it from its incorrect place, she reached down for the third drawer of the four-drawer cabinet.

  The instant her fingers released the catch on the drawer handle and began to pull it open, the unlatched top drawer began sliding forward. A protesting groan sounded as the combined weight of the three drawers was exerted on the metal cabinet. That was the only warning Joan received before it tilted forward. Her hands reached out uselessly to try to check its fall, succeeding for a second to keep it at an angle.

  Then strong arms were lending their power to hers, righting the cabinet and pushing the drawers back into place. The after-shock of realizing how very near she had come to having the cabinet fall on top of her sent shudders of fright through her now trembling limbs. Her knees felt incredibly weak and incapable of supporting her. Then those same strong hands that had saved her were gripping her shoulders.

  "Are you all right, Joan?" There was a frown of sincere concern in the face bending towards her.

  A trembling hand brushed her brow. "Yes," she answered shakily, "I think so." His shirt button blurred in front of her eyes as she unconsciously swayed closer to him. "It … It all happened so quickly!"

  "Why did you try to stop it?" There was a hint of anger in Brandt's husky voice. "You should have let it fall and worried about cleaning up the mess afterwards rather than risk injuring yourself!"

  "I didn't think," Joan answered with a choked sob.

  His soft chuckle resembled a rueful sigh as he folded her comfortingly against his chest. "You silly little fool," he declared with a laugh. "You're much too trusting. I always knew that monster would turn on you one of these days!"

  Joan smiled weakly into his shirt, her fingers curling around the lapels of his suit jacket. His lighthearted reference to the filing cabinet eased the inner quaking. But as the shivers of near catastrophe subsided, they were replaced by a tingling awareness of his embrace.

  Being within the strong circle of his arms was no accident of sleep. Motionless, she savored the beat of his heart beneath her hand and the firm pressure of his thighs against her body. A languorous warmth began spreading from the hands on her back. She felt his face move through the golden silkiness of her hair to halt near her ear.

  Her stilted breathing told her she should break free from his embrace, however innocent it was. But the exhilarated sensation of bliss was unknown to her, a frightening kind of excitement that lured her to remain. This taste of wild honey was bittersweet as if she were drinking a nectar that was exclusively for the gods.

  "Are you certain you weren't hurt?"

  His calm voice almost made Joan wish she could lay claim to an injury, but she sensibly shook her head that she wasn't. Her hands stiffened against his chest as she pushed herself away, or at least as far away as the hand
s on her back would permit.

  "I'm all right, really." Her mouth moved into a nervous smile of assurance.

  Without her glasses, the closeness of his roughly stamped features was a blur. Yet her awareness of the nearness of his mouth sent her pulse racing as she wondered what it would be like if Brandt kissed her. There was something about him that made her think he would be very good at making love, quite beyond her experience. Her lashes fluttered down so that her expressive brown eyes wouldn't reveal the direction her thoughts had taken.

  His hand left her shoulder blades to brush back the long hair that had fallen over her cheek. "I like the perfume you're wearing," Brandt mused absently. "It suits you."

  "I … I'm not wearing any perfume," Joan answered in an embarrassed whisper, again at a loss as to how to cope with his indifferently intimate remarks.

  "You're not?" His tanned face moved downward to the side of her neck where she was acutely conscious of his soft inhalation along her skin. "It must be the clean fragrance of your hair." He shrugged and released her.

  "I — I suppose it is," she agreed, turning away to conceal the confused pain that glittered in her eyes. She pushed back the length of her hair so it cascaded down her back. "I shampooed it only the other night."

  If Ed or any other man she knew had made such a comment, Joan would have laughed it off, but with Brandt, she paradoxically resented it. She wished she had been wearing some provocative perfume. The term "clean fragrance" always reminded her of a baby that had been freshly bathed, and she didn't like the idea of Brandt regarding her as an infant.

  "From now on," Brandt's lithe strides had carried him back to her desk and the overturned chair, "you'd better open only one drawer of that metal monster at a time."

  A rush of angry heat filled her cheeks. "I hardly did it on purpose before!"

  He turned slowly around, studying her with disconcerting thoroughness. "I never said that you did, Joan."

  The calm usage of her Christian name, not spoken in a flash of concern, added to the upheaval of her senses. His slightly reproving tone filled her with a sick nervousness.

  "I — I only m-meant —," she stammered her embarrassment.

  "I know very well what you meant." Brandt responded with a vague air of amusement. "I know when a woman is tricking me into holding her in my arms."

  There was little she could say in return without sticking her foot in her mouth again. As Joan turned around to resume her work, she felt as small as a toothpick and not nearly as useful.

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  Chapter Four

  IN a forgotten corner of a cupboard, Brandt had found a box of candles. The flames of four were bravely fending off the encroaching darkness in Joan's office. Their wavering light was not sufficient to work by, but it had illuminated their — what had become tasteless fare — meal of sandwiches and chips.

  Brandt was behind her desk, leaning back in the now silently unprotesting swivel chair, while Joan inexpertly puffed on the cigarette he had lit for her. Her nerves were still raw from their early afternoon encounter and she accepted the cigarette to give her trembling hands something to do, doubting that the nicotine would in any way calm her.

  "Tell me about your family, Joan. Do they live in Chicago?" His gaze roamed over her face, not missing the way she avoided meeting his eyes.

  He was making small talk, filling in the gaping silence of her unease. Conversation was necessary, if for no other reason than to keep her wayward thoughts in check. Answering his questions might take her mind off the softening effect the candlelight was having on his carved face. It seemed to heighten his attraction and make her more aware of his sensual virility.

  "No, my parents live in a little town about ninety miles from here," she answered in response to his question. "I have an older brother in the service. He's stationed in Germany right now. My younger brother is in his last year of high school and my baby sister is in her first year, so they're both living at home."

  "What does your father do?"

  "He and my mother run a small general store. It's a family affair. Jean and Bob, my sister and brother, help out after school and on weekends." The smile she gave him was hesitant.

  "It sounds like a very warm, settled environment." Brandt leaned forward to crush out his cigarette, his gaze flicking smoothly over her face. "You aren't the type to crave the excitement of the big city. What brought you to Chicago?"

  "The secretarial college. When I graduated, there weren't any job openings in my home town, so I stayed on here."

  "It can be lonely without family and friends," he commented.

  Joan knew just how lonely it could be. "I've made quite a few friends and I visit my family once a month," she said defensively.

  Brandt leaned back in his chair, smiling absently. "I guess I've become accustomed to having my parents nearby. You've met my mother, haven't you?"

  "Yes," she admitted, remembering the day the tall, angular woman had entered her office, a feminine version of her son, not attractive, but compelling. She had been very warm and friendly to Joan, not treating her with a superior attitude.

  "My father is a doctor," Brandt continued in that same thoughtfully absent air. "Semi-retired, working mostly as a consultant now, but he'll never quit completely. He enjoys his work too much."

  "I thought Lyon Construction was a company that had been started by your father."

  "My uncle. He passed away a few years ago. I worked for him in the summers when I was a kid, went to college, studied engineering and construction, and joined the firm when I graduated."

  "Do you have any brothers or sisters?" Her curiosity about his personal life was now undeniably aroused.

  "A sister. Venetia followed in Dad's footsteps and became a doctor. She's practicing in Arizona."

  "Hasn't she married?"

  "No, she's a solitary like myself." There was a dark glow emanating from the depths of his eyes as he arched a glance at her. "Aren't you going to comment on the loneliness of a bachelor's life?"

  "I can hardly throw stones when I live in a glass house," Joan murmured.

  "Don't you want to marry, settle down, and raise a family?" Brandt probed.

  "I suppose." She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. "But that decision has to wait for the right man."

  "Haven't you met him yet? What about this Ed you mentioned before?" The movement sideways of her head indicated her reluctance to answer his questions and Brandt's mouth moved into a smile of rueful apology. "I've become too personal, haven't I? I wouldn't want to answer a leading question like that myself. You —" he paused as his gaze narrowed in a swift appraisal of her downcast face, "— you don't quite have the look of a woman in love, that soft radiance that usually accompanies the other symptoms."

  "You make it sound like a disease." She tried to laugh off his astute observation.

  "In some ways it is. The loss of appetite, the restlessness, the funny aches, the pains of uncertainty."

  "You sound as if you know." The fragile image of the blonde named Angela immediately leaped into Joan's mind and she experienced one of those funny aches that Brandt had just mentioned.

  "A nodding acquaintance," he smiled dryly, and rolled lightly to his feet, walking over to the outside window and staring through the frosted panes. "It sounds as if the wind is letting up. Maybe the storm will blow itself out tonight!"

  Jean gazed at the broad shoulders tapering to slim hips. What would it be like when the storm was over? she wondered. Would she return to being Miss Somers? Or had they progressed to a point where it would be impossible to return to that level of business aloofness?

  She was afraid they had. In fact, she was afraid her own emotions had gone beyond the point where she could control them. Her reserve had been penetrated. That fragile defense barrier that had kept a safe distance between her and Brandt was gone.

  "At least we'll be warm tonight," she said with false brightness, glancing at the heater sitting in the midd
le of the room.

  "Not from the heater, we won't." Brandt's denial was made so quietly that she wasn't certain she had understood what he said.

  "What?" Her faltering voice asked the broad shoulders for clarification.

  He twisted sideways, the flickering candle flames only partially exposing his face. An eyebrow was thoughtfully raised as his eyes, looking darker than their normal blue shade, inspected her wary expression.

  "We won't be able to leave the heater on all night, Joan."

  "Why not?" Her eyes widened in bewildered protest. "I mean, we can leave the window open for ventilation."

  "There isn't any risk of suffocation." Brandt turned the rest of the way and walked back into the light, stopping beside her chair to study her upturned face. "We haven't enough fuel to last through the night and into tomorrow and we can't be sure when the electricity will be restored."

  Joan stared at her hands, forcing them not to twist into the tight knots her stomach was in. Sensibly, logically, she wanted to admit that Brandt was being practical, but she didn't even have to close her eyes to visualize the sensation of lying by his side.

  "I didn't know." She nervously moistened her parched lips.

  "I didn't tell you." The bland expression on his face made his inner thoughts unreadable. "There wasn't any need to worry you unnecessarily."

  "I wouldn't have worried exactly." murmured Joan, her quick glance skittering off his face.

  Brandt continued staring at her, his gaze riveted on the shimmer of her moist lips in the candlelight. His hands were thrust in the pockets of his trousers, pushing open the suit jacket and emphasizing the muscular flatness of his stomach. Then he inhaled deeply and pivoted away.

  "I'll get our coats and warm them in front of the heater before we call it a night," he announced as he briskly opened the inner office door.

  The sudden draught of cold air sent little shudders quaking over Joan's skin. There was no objection she could raise, not when she had willingly agreed to the same arrangement the night before. The night before! It seemed as if a week had passed since yesterday. A little more than twenty-four hours ago she had been in complete charge of her unadventurous life. Now she felt insecure and lost, trapped in a course that had her slowly twisting in the wind.