Philip's voice interrupted her thoughts. "If you're offered a secretarial position at Sinco tomorrow, accept it and leave from there for
T
he following morning at eleven-fifty,
L
auren
was lucky enough to find a parking space right across from Sinco's offices, directly in front of the
Despite his formal, almost ingratiating smile, Mr. Weatherby was obviously annoyed. "Really, Miss Danner," he said, ushering her into his office, "you could have saved yourself, me and several others a great deal of time and trouble if you had simply told me when you came in yesterday that you're a friend of Mr. Sinclair's."
"Did Mr. Sinclair call you and tell you I was a friend of his?" Lauren asked curiously.
"No," Mr. Weatherby said, trying hard to hide his irritation. "Mr. Sinclair called the president of our company, Mr. Sampson. Mr. Sampson called the executive vice-president, who called the vice-president of operations, who called
my
boss. And last night my boss called me at home and informed me that I had offended and misjudged Miss Danner, who happens to be extremely bright
and
a personal friend of Mr. Sinclair's. Then he hung up on me."
Lauren could not believe she had stirred up such a furor. "I'm terribly sorry to have caused you so much trouble," she said contritely. "It wasn't entirely your fault—after all, I did fail my tests."
He nodded in emphatic agreement. "I told my boss you didn't know which end of a pencil to write with, but he said
he
didn't give a damn if you typed with your toes." Heaving himself out of his chair, he said, "Now, if you'll come with me, I'll take you up to Mr. Williams's office. Mr. Williams is our executive vice-president and his secretary is moving to
"Is Mr. Williams the executive vice-president who called the vice-president of operations, who called—" Lauren began uneasily.
"Exactly," Mr. Weatherby interrupted.
Lauren followed him, beset with the unsettling thought that even if he detested her, Mr. Williams might offer her a job because
he
had been intimidated by
his
superior. But minutes later she abandoned any such idea. James Williams, in his mid-thirties, had the brisk, authoritative air of a man who would never be
anyone's
puppet. He glanced up from the documents he was reading when Mr. Weatherby brought Lauren into his office and nodded coolly toward the leather chair in front of his large desk. "Sit down," he said to Lauren. To Mr. Weatherby he said curtly, "Close the door behind you as you leave."
Lauren sat as she'd been told to do and waited as Jim Williams stood up and came around in front of his desk. Leaning back against it, he crossed his arms over his chest, and his penetrating gaze swept over her. "So you're Lauren Danner?" he said dispassionately.
"Yes," Lauren admitted. "I'm afraid so."
Amusement flickered across his face, momentarily softening the cool, businesslike features. "I take it from that remark that you're aware of the uproar you caused last night?"
"Yes," Lauren sighed.
"In every excruciating, embarrassing detail."
"Can you
spell
'excruciating'?"
"Yes," she said, completely taken aback.
"How fast can you type—when you aren't under testing conditions?"
Lauren flushed. "About a hundred
words
a minute."
"Shorthand?"
"Yes."
Without taking his eyes from her face, he reached behind him and picked up a pencil and tablet lying on his desk. Handing them to her, he said, "Take this down, please."
Lauren stared at him in amazement then recovered and began to write as he dictated swiftly: "Dear Miss Danner, as my administrative assistant, you will be expected to perform a variety of secretarial duties and to function efficiently and smoothly as my personal liaison with my staff. You will, at all times, adhere precisely to company policies, regardless of your acquaintance with Nick Sinclair. In a few weeks we will be moving into the
Any questions, Lauren?"
Lauren raised dazed eyes to him. "You mean I have the job?"
"That depends on whether you can type that memo without errors in a reasonably short time."
Lauren was too stunned by this cool, unemotional offer of a job to be nervous about transcribing her dictation. In a few minutes, she returned from the typewriter and walked hesitantly into his office. "Here's the memo, Mr. Williams."
He glanced at it and then at her.
"Very efficient.
How did Weatherby ever get the idea that you're a feather-brain?"
"It's the impression I gave him," Lauren said obliquely.
"Care to tell me how that happened?"
"No, not really.
It was all a… a misunderstanding."
"Very well, we'll leave it at that. Now, is there anything else we need to discuss? Yes, of course there is—your salary."
The salary he named was $2,000 a year less than Philip had offered, but Philip had promised to make up the difference.
"Well, do you want the job?"
"Yes," Lauren said with a faint smile.
"And no.
I would like to work for you, because I have the feeling that I could learn a great deal. But I
don't
want the job if the only reason you're offering it to me is because of… of…"
"Nick Sinclair?"
Lauren nodded.
"Nick has nothing whatsoever to do with it. I've known him for many years, and we're good friends. Friendship, however, has no place in business matters. Nick has his job and I have mine. I do not presume to tell him how to do his, and I would not appreciate his trying to influence my choice of a secretary."
"Then why did you decide to interview me today, even though I failed my tests?"
His brown eyes twinkled. "Oh, that. Well, as a matter of fact, my former secretary, for whom I have the greatest respect, struck sparks off Weatherby from the very first. When I heard that a bright young secretarial applicant hadn't hit it off with him yesterday, I thought perhaps you might be another Theresa. You aren't, but I think you and I will work together even better, Lauren."
"T
hank
you, Mr. Williams. I'll see you two weeks from Monday."
"Call me Jim."
Lauren smiled, accepting his handshake. "In that case, you may call me Lauren."
"I thought I had been."
"You have."
His lips twitched. "Good for you—don't let me intimidate you."
Lauren emerged from the dim building into the dazzling sunlight of a wonderful August day. As she waited for the traffic light to change from red to green, her gaze was irresistibly drawn to the
The light changed and she crossed the wide boulevard to her car. But if Nick had wanted to see
her
again, surely he would have asked for her phone number. Perhaps he was shy. Shy! Lauren shook her head derisively as she reached for the car door handle. Nick Sinclair was not in the least shy! With his looks and lazy charm, he was probably accustomed to women who took the initiative and asked
him
out…
The glass doors of the building swung open, and Lauren's heart soared as Nick himself strode into view. For a joyous moment, Lauren thought he'd seen her standing at her car and had come out to talk to her, but he turned to his right and started toward the far corner of the building.
"Nick!" she called impulsively. "Nick!"
He glanced over his shoulder, and Lauren waved at him, feeling absurdly happy when he headed toward her with those long strides of his.
"Guess where I've been?" She beamed.
There was a warm, teasing light in his gray eyes as they swept over her shining honey hair in its elegant chignon, her smart beige suit, silky blouse and chocolate brown sandals. "Modeling for a Bonwit Teller fashion show?" he ventured with a grin.
Lauren glowed at the compliment, but she hung on to her composure. "No, I've been across the street at Sinco Electronics, and they offered me a job—t
hank
s to you."
He ignored her reference to his help. "Did you take it?"
"Did
I
! The money's fantastic; the man I'll be working for is terrific, and the job sounds interesting and challenging."
"You're pleased, then?"
Lauren nodded… then waited, hoping he would ask her out. Instead he reached down to open her car door for her. "Nick," she said before her courage could desert her. "I'm in the mood to celebrate. If you know a good place for sandwiches and a cold drink, I'll buy you lunch."
He hesitated for an unbearable moment,
then
a smile dawned across his tanned features. "That's the best offer I've had all day."
Rather than give her directions, Nick drove the car. A few blocks away he turned off
Jefferson
and pulled into a parking lot behind what looked like a narrow, renovated three-story brick house. The sign above the back door, made of dark wood with gold letters etched deeply into it, said simply, Tony's. Inside, the house had been converted into a dimly lit, charming restaurant, with dark oaken floors, tables polished to a glossy shine and copper pots and pans hanging artistically on the rough brick walls. Sunlight illuminated the stained glass windows, and red-and-white checked tablecloths added to the warmth and charm.
A waiter stationed near the door greeted Nick with a polite, "Good morning," then showed them to the only unoccupied table in the entire place. As Nick pulled out her chair, Lauren glanced around at the other customers. She was one of the few women present, but there was certainly a mixed variety of men. Most of them were wearing suits and ties, while three others, including Nick, wore slacks with open-collared sports shirts.
An older waiter appeared at their table, greeted Nick with an affectionate pat on the shoulder, a cheery, "Good to see you again, my friend," and began to hand them huge, leather-bound menus. "We'll have the special, Tony," Nick said, and at Lauren's quizzical look, he added, "The specialty is French-dip sandwiches—is that all right with you?"
Since she had offered to buy his lunch, Lauren thought he was asking her permission to order something that cost more than a regular sandwich. "Please have whatever you like," she insisted graciously. "We're celebrating my new job, and I can afford anything on the menu."
"How do you think you're going to like living in
Detroit
?" he asked when Tony, who was apparently the owner, had left. "It's bound to be a big change for a small-town girl from
A small-town girl?
Lauren was puzzled. That wasn't the impression she normally conveyed to people. "Actually, we lived in a suburb of
Chicago
until my mother died, when I was twelve. After that my father and I moved to Fenster,
,
I'm not completely a 'small-town girl' after all."
Nick's expression didn't change. "Were you an only child?"
"Yes, but my father remarried when I was thirteen. Along with a stepmother, I also acquired a stepsister two years older than me, and a stepbrother one year older."
He must have caught the note of distaste in her voice when she mentioned her stepbrother because he said, "I thought all little girls liked the idea of having a big brother. Didn't you?"