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  Claire laughed. “Let me see. Um, exactly none.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Betty pointed to her coffee. "Want some?"

  "No, thanks."

  Betty leaned forward, her eyes full of curiosity. "Tell me what our esteemed leader said."

  "He's asked me to take on a special assignment."

  "An assignment?” She frowned. “Why didn't he come through me?"

  Claire repeated what she'd been told during the interview. "Funny, isn't it?"

  Betty nodded. "Yes."

  "He said the reason I was chosen is that I've done an article similar to this in the past." She gave Betty a brief rundown on the Middleton article, trying to make it sound as if this new assignment were perfectly logical, even as her brain told her it wasn't.

  Betty took a sip of her ever-present cup of coffee. A knowing glint in her eye, she said, "If I didn't know that he never dates employees, my guess would be he's interested in you."

  "Interested in me!" Claire felt her skin growing hot. What was wrong with her that she let her feelings show no matter what she was thinking? Why couldn't she be cool like other women managed to be? Like Peachey Hall, her best friend, would have been? Claire hated the trait that made her wear her emotions like so much costume jewelry, obvious to all. "That's ridiculous."

  "Why is it ridiculous?"

  "It just is." Claire knew she must look like a lobster, blushing furiously. "A man like Nick Callahan can have his pick of women. He'd certainly never pick someone like me."

  "I happen to disagree. In fact, if you weren't an employee, I can't imagine him not being interested in you. Any man with eyes would be."

  "Oh, Betty ..." Claire always felt uncomfortable when people complimented her. Peachey had once told her the mark of a gracious woman was the ability to receive a compliment with poise.

  "Just say thank you, and be done with it," she'd advised Claire.

  "But to my knowledge he's never dated any of the women who work for the company," Betty continued. "And it's not because they haven't tried."

  Yes, Claire could see why women would go after Nick Callahan. As Betty had said earlier, he had everything going for him. Even now, thinking about those eyes of his gave her an unsettled feeling. "You don't think he's setting me up for something, do you, Betty?" Claire asked, giving voice to the niggling fear she'd tried to push down.

  "Like what?"

  "I don't know. It's just that something isn't quite right about all this, and it's driving me crazy trying to figure it out."

  "You know, Claire, you may as well relax," Betty said. "Knowing what I know about our CEO, even if he has some ulterior motive in choosing you for this assignment, you're not going to find out what it is until he's good and ready to enlighten you—and not one minute sooner."

  Claire stood. "You're probably right. I'd better use my energy to do a good job."

  Betty smiled. "That's the ticket."

  Claire smiled back. "I feel better already. Thanks, Betty."

  "Don't mention it. But, Claire ..." Betty hesitated. "Be careful. Don't go falling for him."

  Claire laughed self-consciously. "Don't worry. I'm not stupid. There's absolutely no chance of that happening."

  * * *

  Nick idly observed the well-dressed, noisy crowd from his vantage point at the far end of Heather Ripley's sumptuous living room. He propped his arm on the marble mantel as he watched her graceful approach. Under his breath, he murmured to Tim, "The queen cometh."

  Tim laughed. "She does like to rule. And she thinks you and your kingdom are next in line."

  Fat chance, Nick thought. He had no intention of falling into that kind of trap. Once was enough. Not that he harbored any ill feelings toward his ex-wife. Jill hadn't tried to deceive him. She'd never pretended to be anything other than what she was—a spoiled, pampered, self-centered woman. It wasn't her fault he'd ignored what his brain was telling him and had married her anyway. He grimaced. By becoming besotted with Jill, he'd lost his edge. He'd no longer been able to think clearly. And it had cost him. His personal life had become a battleground, affecting his entire life.

  "Darling," Heather said now, gliding next to Nick and sliding her pale, bare arm behind his back. She rubbed her face against his dinner jacket, and he caught a whiff of her perfume, something heavy and sensuous. "Why are you hiding out over here? You look so dark and brooding, like Heathcliff, or something. Come join the rest of us."

  "I'm just tired, Heather," Nick said.

  "Oh, pooh." She adopted her little girl look—the one that was coy and flirtatious—the one she thought would get her anything she wanted. "You're always tired. You never want to do anything." She tossed her thick mane of red-gold hair.

  "I work hard."

  "I know that. But you have to play, too."

  Now she batted her eyelashes, and Nick groaned inwardly. The mannerisms he'd thought so charming when he'd first started dating her had worn thin. Even her beautiful, thick eyelashes masking tawny eyes no longer had the power to sway him.

  "Tim, you tell him ..." Heather wheedled. "All work and no play will make Nicky a very dull boy."

  "You're a very dull boy," Tim said obediently, his brown eyes dancing with amusement. "How about me, Heather? Will I do as a playmate?"

  "Oh, you!" She reached up, planting a kiss in the middle of Nick's mouth. "Don't leave early. I'm looking forward to spending the wee hours alone with you."

  Nick resisted the urge to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. It was long past time to break off with her. "I can't stay tonight, Heather. I've got an early meeting in the morning."

  Heather's smooth brow wrinkled, and her voice hardened. "I'm getting the idea I'm not very important to you, Nick. Is that true?"

  "Of course you're important to me," Nick hedged.

  "Then prove it. Stay tonight."

  Nick sighed. "I'm sorry, Heather. I really can't."

  "Well, in that case, I'll just to have to find someone who can!" She whirled around and in a swish of emerald taffeta, walked away, head held high.

  "Methinks the lady's angry, milord," Tim said. He brushed his hair out of his eyes.

  Nick knew he'd hurt Heather's feelings and that disgusted him. After all, what had she done that was so terrible? She'd behaved exactly the way she'd always behaved; he was just tired of her. That wasn't her fault and she didn't deserve this kind of treatment. Always before, when he'd broken off a liaison, he'd treated the woman fairly—been open and honest with her. He'd prided himself on his ability to break off his relationships without hard feelings. He usually just bought the woman in question something expensive—such as a new mink coat or a pair of ruby earrings—said all the right things to salve her hurt feelings—and all would be forgiven. In fact, he was still friends with most of the women he'd been linked with over the years. And he took satisfaction in knowing it. He sighed heavily.

  "What's the matter?" Tim asked quietly. "Feeling guilty?"

  "Yes. I shouldn't have come tonight. Heather's been making noises lately—serious noises—about marriage."

  "Does that surprise you?"

  "No, not really."

  "Have you made her any promises?"

  "No."

  "Then why do you feel guilty? Heather's a big girl. She knows how the game works." Tim winked at a pretty brunette who was giving him the eye from the other side of the crowded room.

  "People had the right idea years ago," Nick said. "Marriages were arranged in a businesslike manner. In exchange for this, I'll give you this. No crazy ideas about spending every minute of your time together, sharing every thought." As Nick talked, he watched Heather, who was regaling a group of four other people with a long story they seemed to find hilarious. She certainly was beautiful. Tall, slender, curved in all the right places. She was smart enough, she was entertaining, she was passionate. But she was also possessive and demanding. She would smother him. He'd had that sort of relationship once. It hadn't worked then, when he was you
nger and more flexible. It certainly would never work now.

  No, he was right to break off with her. Right to proceed with his plans. He did want to marry again because he wanted children and a normal home life. But this time, he'd find himself a wife using the same strategy and careful planning he used in all his successful ventures.

  An image of the slim, graceful young woman he'd interviewed earlier in the day filled his mind. He saw her as she'd looked that morning—calm and lovely, with hair the color of sunlight and eyes the shade of frosted leaves—listening to his proposition. He remembered her quiet dignity and the sharp intelligence he'd seen in her eyes.

  She hadn't believed him when he'd told her his reasons for wanting her to do the story on him. But after stating her legitimate reservations, she'd accepted the assignment. Once she realized he wouldn't change his mind, she had given him no further argument. That acceptance had pleased him, reinforcing his belief that Claire Kendrick was sensible and rational, someone who would listen to reason, someone who could be managed. If there was anything Nick hated, it was someone who didn't know when to concede or when to cut their losses. Someone who allowed their emotions to rule their actions instead of logic.

  He smiled, filled with a sense of anticipation. He wondered if his other beliefs about her would prove to be true. Somehow, he thought they would. The next few weeks should prove to be very interesting. Very interesting, indeed.

  Chapter 2

  Claire tightened her grip on her mother's hand as she swallowed against the lump in her throat. Kitty's eyes, the identical soft gray-green as her own, watched her intently.

  "How are you feeling today, Mom?" Claire asked.

  The expression in her mother's eyes remained the same: slightly quizzical as they stayed fastened on Claire's. Then she smiled—a slow, sweet smile. "Kitty's dress is pretty," she said. She lifted the skirt of the pink and white striped dress—a dress Claire remembered her mother buying at least ten years earlier—one hot summer day in August. Claire's father had accompanied "his two girls" on their shopping trip, and Claire could still see the pride reflected in his eyes as he studied his beautiful Kitty pirouetting in her new dress. A familiar sadness gripped Claire at the bittersweet memory. John Kendrick had loved his wife and daughter, but he hadn't been sensible enough to provide for them if anything ever happened to him.

  Forcing her attention back to her mother, she said, "Yes, it's a pretty dress."

  Kitty's smile remained, but her eyes drifted toward the doorway and the sound of laughing voices coming from the hall.

  As she had a thousand times before, Claire wondered how much her mother comprehended. Sometimes when Claire talked to her, Kitty responded quickly, with an almost adult logic. Other times her responses were childlike, if she responded at all. On those days, Kitty's attention span, never very long, was almost nonexistent. The doctors had said there was so much damage to her brain that Kitty had the mentality of a two-year-old.

  Claire used to think Kitty's condition was contradictory, because she had retained most of the natural, physical instincts of a woman, flirting outrageously with her doctors and acting the part of a coquette whenever any man was near. In the six years since her mother had been injured, Claire had seen Kitty pout coyly one minute and need help buttoning her sweater the next. One day, she could put makeup on unassisted—and she always wore makeup—the next she couldn't remember how to tie her shoes. But the doctors had assured Claire that this was normal in cases such as Kitty's.

  After the boating accident that had killed her father and injured her mother, Claire had tried to keep Kitty at home with her. But it hadn't worked. Kitty would put water on to boil, then walk away and leave the kettle; she'd wander off if Claire wasn't looking, then Claire would spend frantic minutes driving up and down the streets looking for her. She'd cut herself trying to slice an apple or a piece of bread. She'd burn herself touching the hot electric coil of Claire's stove. She would walk outside in her underwear and think nothing of wandering through the house naked.

  After only a few days of this behavior, Claire knew she'd have to do something. But what? If she tried to keep her mother with her, Kitty would require round the clock care—ideally a trained nurse to tend to her needs. Claire simply couldn't afford it. Although Pinehaven Nursing Home was very expensive, at-home individual care was more—much more. So Kitty had ended up at Pinehaven, and Claire had learned to live with her sorrow and guilt, which she assuaged by visiting her mother several times a week. And despite everything, Claire clung to the faint hope that someday, somehow, her mother might recover.

  Now Kitty began to hum. Claire bit her bottom lip and stared out the window. The rain had continued unabated all day long. It was depressing—like my life, she thought—then immediately shook off the dreary thought. There was no percentage in feeling sorry for herself. Instead, Claire always tried to focus on her blessings. She had a good job, she was healthy and strong, and she had the support of her Aunt Lily and Uncle David as well as a few loyal friends.

  I'll make it. I can make it.

  All I have to do is take life one day at a time.

  The one-day-at-a-time philosophy was one self-help groups taught, and it was a wise credo, Claire felt. There really wasn't any sense in worrying about the future because so much of Claire's future was beyond her control. Unlike other young women, she had stopped dreaming about marriage and children. Who would be willing to share the crushing financial and emotional burden Kitty's chronic condition had imposed?

  Dreaming of any other kind of life would only make her own prospects seem more bleak, and Claire didn't want to become bitter—one of those people who resented their lot in life and took it out on everyone around them. No, much better to adopt a one-day-at-a-time outlook and concentrate her energies on moving up in her chosen career.

  Thinking about her career caused her thoughts to meander back to the morning's interview with Nick Callahan. Once again, she realized this was a big chance for her—a chance to really solidify her niche in the company. And if a promotion, bringing more money, should result from it, her life would be eased considerably. Even a couple of hundred dollars a month more would make a tremendous difference in the quality of her life—and in what she was able to do for Kitty.

  Sighing, she forced her attention back to her mother's dreamy face and soft contralto voice as she hummed some old song. "Yesterday." Her father's favorite song. Tears misted Claire's eyes as suddenly she was gripped by nostalgia. Yesterday. How many yesterdays had she come home from school and heard her mother singing in her clear, sweet voice? Those had been such carefree, happy days. She had always felt so secure. She had always known how much both of her parents loved her.

  Other girls had complained bitterly about their mothers. How they didn't understand them. How mean they were. But Kitty had been a loving, supportive mother— someone Claire could always count on. Claire knew many of her friends were envious because she and Kitty were so close. Oh, Mom. I miss you so much. I wish—

  "Claire?"

  Claire looked around. She hurriedly composed herself, blinking away her tears when she saw her mother's doctor standing in the doorway to Kitty's room. Dr. Aaron Phillips had been overseeing her mother's care ever since Claire had put her into Pinehaven. His lined face was kindly, his dark eyes caring.

  "How are you?" He flipped through her mother's chart.

  "I'm okay. How's she doing?" Claire walked to where Kitty was sitting and smoothed a strand of gray-blonde hair back from her forehead. Kitty stopped humming, her eyes flicking from Dr. Phillips back to Claire.

  "About the same. Aren't you, Kitty?" He smiled down at his patient, and Kitty preened, stretching like a cat.

  Claire heard the absence of encouragement in his flat statement. She knew he really cared, that he sympathized with the plight of both of them, but he never held out false hope. He told Claire once that he considered it a criminal act to give people hope when no hope existed.

  "Better to l
et them face the truth. Then they can get on with their lives, make plans," he said unequivocally. Normally Claire appreciated his candor, but occasionally she wished he'd give her a comforting platitude—something she could hang onto—something that might shore up her crumbling faith and natural optimism.

  Twenty minutes later she brushed a light kiss against Kitty's soft cheek, turned on the television set, and said, "Good-bye, Mom. I'll see you soon."

  " 'Bye," Kitty said distractedly, her eyes firmly fixed on the television screen.

  To dispel her sudden sense of gloom, Claire whispered, “I love you.” There was no answer from Kitty. Claire turned and walked out the door. She could hear Kitty laughing happily and clapping her hands at some-thing she saw on television. Once again, Claire blinked back tears, this time angrily. What was wrong with her? It wasn't Kitty's fault she didn't care whether Claire stayed or not. A two-year-old couldn't be expected to understand the concept of someone else needing reassurance ... or love. A two-year-old was totally wrapped up in her own world, and the only needs she understood were hers.

  Face it! Yesterday will never be recaptured.

  Claire sighed wearily. She was exhausted, and it was after nine. As she drove home through the rain, she couldn't help thinking how wonderful it would be to have someone to go home to. Someone who would understand her plight and who would share her burden. But what man in his right mind would want to be shackled by Claire's problems?

  * * *

  The next morning dawned bright and nearly cloudless—the front gone toward the Louisiana coast—and the air had an invigorating nip to it. On days like this, Claire's spirits always lifted. But by the time she reached her office, her good mood was tempered by a return of yesterday's anxiety. Just thinking about going up to the 50th floor at nine o'clock caused a knot to form in her breast, and by the time the hands of the clock showed five minutes to nine, her stomach was jumping.

  She took several deep breaths as she rode up on the express elevator. It was ridiculous to be so nervous. Nick Callahan wouldn't bite her.