Too Hot To Handle. Barbara Daly
said over her shoulder.
She got up the steps and through the doorway, fumbling with her keys. She made it to the tiny elevator at the end of the hall, to her apartment on the fifth floor and at last, to solitude.
Then she cried.
ROOTED TO THE SIDEWALK, Alex found it difficult to bend his knees.
As he watched Sarah vanish into the town house, he felt as if his memories were burning him alive. Memories of the warm, silken feel of her stretched out over the full length of his body, or straddling him, clinging to his hair with her fingertips, or writhing beneath him, and finally lying quietly beside him, sated.
Suddenly edgy and needing to move around, he started slowly back toward Sixth Avenue. As soon as he’d officially reached adulthood and financial independence he’d begun searching for her, futilely trying to track her down through their mutual high-school friends, eventually surfing Internet telephone directories, state by state. She’d cut herself off, it seemed, vanished. He hadn’t expected her to do that. He’d imagined she’d be there when the time was right. And today, at last, she’d appeared as if by magic.
It hadn’t seemed possible. It still didn’t seem possible.
He reached Sixth, stepped out onto the street and held up his hand. A taxi swerved, crossed two lanes and pulled up in front of him.
He wished the meeting had gone better, been easier, more comfortable, had given him some hope of forgiveness, yet he felt almost relieved by her hostility.
It meant she still cared.
“Hey, buddy, you want a cab or not?”
Alex gazed blankly through the window at the man, then climbed into the cab and tried desperately to restore his interest in the business deal that had seemed so important an hour ago.
2
“I WILL NOT BE spoken to in that tone,” Jeremy said. His voice shook. “I know you’re the boss, but it doesn’t give you the right to be abusive. I have other options, Sarah. I turn down job offers right and left, higher pay, bigger assignments, because in the past—” he emphasized the words “—I have enjoyed working here.” His chin quivered. “But I cannot work for a person who tells me my artwork has to be cremated before burial.”
“Oh, Jeremy,” Sarah said, genuinely remorseful. “I am so sorry.” First Ray, now Jeremy. Jeremy was her ace computer-art person; she couldn’t get along without him. She couldn’t get along without any member of her small staff. Business was picking up as advertising agencies, in-house publicity departments and independent print salespeople grew familiar with her name and her product, but it was still a struggle to meet the overhead and pay salaries that were well below market. One glitch, one late delivery on a contract, one angry client taking his work elsewhere and she’d be bankrupt. Friendship and loyalty were all that kept these people with her, and she was alienating them one by one.
She slid her fingers through the silky waves of her hair, realizing that even her scalp itched. She felt feverish. She ached all over. But aspirin wasn’t going to help. “I am not myself today.”
“Or yesterday,” Jeremy said. “Or three weeks ago Monday.”
Sarah straightened up and spoke briskly. “I’m having a few personal problems,” she said, “but it was both unkind and unprofessional of me to take it out on you. Please accept my apology.”
“What about the artwork for the Designer Discounts mailer?” He eyed her suspiciously.
She cleared her throat. “I would appreciate it if you’d make one more stab at capturing the magic of a new shipment of Italian designer clothing.”
“You mean the artwork stinks.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
He gave her a flashing smile. “Then why didn’t you just say so?” He picked up the artwork and turned to leave Sarah’s office. “Hey, Macon,” he said as the two of them met in her doorway.
Sarah saw the significant glance that passed between them as Jeremy exited.
Macon came in, shut the door and sat down. “Well, you sure haven’t gotten…”
“Don’t say it!”
“Okay,” Macon said, ever agreeable. “I’ll put it another way. Your date Saturday night wasn’t all you hoped and dreamed it would be.”
“To say the least.” Its hopes, disappointments and unexpected turns had left her hotter and more restless than ever.
“What happened?”
She fidgeted for a moment. “I couldn’t.”
“Couldn’t what? I mean, if I were talking to a guy I’d know what he meant, but…”
Irritation increased the prickly sensations in her skin. “Macon,” Sarah said. “When did you become my counselor? Who hired you? Who’s paying you?”
“It’s pro bono work,” Macon said. “I’m not charging you a dime.”
“Exactly what you’re worth.”
“Sarah, what happened?”
She couldn’t sit still another minute. She swirled up and went to the windows of her office. They were filthy. Nothing unusual about that. The building management company wouldn’t have them washed until a tenant threatened to write to the Housing Commission. From her eleventh-floor perch she could see through the grime a characteristically odd assortment of Chelsea rooftops. She saw water tanks and ventilation equipment surrounded by tarred surfaces already beginning to steam in the mild heat of spring. She saw elegant roof gardens, where trees and potted houseplants either flourished on their steady diet of toxic New York air or died, to be replaced at once by professional plant-maintenance crews. Nothing personal.
A Himalayan cat prowled among the expensive terracotta planters on one of the roofs, its long, pale hair fluffing up in the soft breeze. Maybe that was what she needed, a cat.
“What I need is a window-washer,” she murmured.
“What?”
Her self-appointed counselor waited. In the middle of a fleeting daydream—the window-washer blowing kisses at her as he worked, her teasingly opening the window and watching as he came into her office, leaving no doubt in her mind that he was already aroused and ready for her—Sarah suddenly realized there could be no better repository for her anguished thoughts than the compact mass of pure objective intelligence who was so generously offering her his ear.
“I met a really promising prospect,” she told him, “but when the moment of reckoning arrived, I couldn’t go through with it.”
“Tough scene to get through,” Macon said, shaking his head. “Frustrating for both of you.”
“Unfair,” she muttered, sinking back into her chair. “And the worst part was that he was so nice about it.” He’d said he understood. He’d handed her his card with an invitation to call anytime. Her life was filling up with business cards. They made damned poor lovers.
She could tell from his expression that Macon couldn’t see why that had been the worst part. “I felt so guilty,” she explained. “I really had led him on, with the worst of intentions, of course.”
“The question is why couldn’t you go through with it?”
A deep sigh rose all the way up from her tortured center. “Because earlier in the day I ran into the only man I ever actually fell in love with.”
“Wow,” Macon said. “And he’s married, right? Or an ex-con. Or…Mafia!” His eyes lit up with interest, turning his thick glasses into twin flashlight beams.
She gritted her teeth. “No, he’s as perfect as ever.” Even more perfect, if