While the Fire Rages (4 page)

With a twist of his lips that was more a sneer than a smile, he strode from her office, leaving her staring after him in total bewilderment.

Four days later he was back.

Those four days had been rather trying for Jo—what with holding down the fort, so to speak, and worrying about Wolf, she’d been getting a teensy bit short-tempered.

In truth, Jo almost adored Wolfgang Renninger. In her admittedly prejudiced opinion he was kind, considerate, oftimes droll, and a dynamic businessman. Her liking for him had been spontaneous, her respect endless. Strangely, she had never felt even the mildest tug of physical attraction toward him. Wolf was employer, friend, and, during a few weak moments Jo had experienced, confidant.

Brett was a whole new ball game.

Added to the business responsibilities she’d shouldered, she’d be damned if she’d call and leave
messages
for
him
—and her concern for Wolf, Jo had further strained her nerves by repeatedly reviewing that scene in the office.

Why had Brett been so very tense, so very hostile?

Why had he seemed so smugly satisfied about informing her of Bob Harley’s promotion? In Jo’s opinion Bob was the logical choice for the job!

Why did he dislike her?

It was the last of the constantly revolving trio of questions that bothered her most of all, simply because, she assured herself, she had done nothing to warrant his disdain.

She had had no prior warning of his imminent return. Arriving at the office before her assistant that Tuesday morning, she had no sooner pulled her chair to her desk when the phone rang. Her response had been as it always was.

“Jo Lawrence.”

“I want to see you, now, in Wolf’s ... my ... office.”

That was it. No time wasted on mundane pleasantries such as good morning, merely, in effect, get in here.

Staring at the receiver in her hand, Jo had rationalized the sudden burst of adrenaline rushing through her as her body gearing for a verbal confrontation,
not
in expectancy of the sight of him.

HA!

With all her assumed coolness intact, she had walked briskly into Wolf’s ... Brett’s ... office, taken one look at him, and, metaphorically at least, begun melting.

It simply was not fair for one man to look that damn good! The image this man projected did not sneak up on one; to the contrary, his persona immediately ensnared, jolting emotions, tangling thoughts, luring the unwary to further investigate his seeming quintessence.

After four days of grappling with the fact of his apparent disdain, Jo was nothing if not wary. Lashes lowered over hazel eyes too bright with feminine interest, she viewed the splendor of his male form.

He stood so very straight, his bearing almost military, and so very tall, taller even than Wolf’s own over six feet. His thick, silky-looking, fair hair was cut short at the sides and back. The hint of a wave in the sweep in front was an invitation to eager, feminine fingers. The shortness of his hair revealed the perfect sculpting of his head, his wide brow, straight nose, high cheekbones, and firm jawline lending an overall effect of a master sculptor’s finest work of art. The very spare but sinewy flesh that covered his long frame enhanced the illusion of an elite warrior of a bygone era.

That magnificent human form should never be adorned in anything more than the merest wisp of draping over the hips.

The thought conjured the image. Her composure threatened by her own reflective imaginings, Jo had blurted the first unrelated subject her scrambled mind was successful in latching onto.

“Wolf?”

Jo was much too busy being amazed at the picture of aloof composure her cool tone had drawn from him to notice the glittery sheen that came into his eyes.

“He’ll live.”

Her amazement did not extend to missing the frost that rimmed his voice, but she ignored it in the relief that swept through her entire being; not until that moment had she allowed herself to face the very real possibility that Wolf might actually die. Her sigh was more eloquent of her feelings than any amount of words could have been.

The glitter in the gray eyes intensified, embuing a molten steel quality. If his expression of cold hauteur was assumed to intimidate, it worked admirably.

“But,” he finally continued with icy deliberation, “if you are eagerly looking forward to seeing me dispatched back to Atlanta before long, forget it. Wolf will be a long time in mending.”

“His injuries were extensive?” With an unconsciously beguiling sweep of her incredibly thick long lashes, Jo forced herself to meet his direct stare, praying he could not hear the
ba-bump
kick her heart telegraphed.

“Yes.” Brett’s clipped reply indicated he would not elaborate, thus it surprised Jo when he did. “The point of impact was at the door on the left” At Jo’s horror widened eyes, he nodded once, sharply. “Quite.” His lips twisted briefly, as if in memory of a painful sight “There is hardly an inch on Wolf’s left side that is not contused, lacerated, or fractured; not to mention concussed. When I left him this morning he resembled a mummy more than a man.” The cloudy haze that had momentarily dulled his eyes dissipated. Once again he staked her with that glittering stare. “As stated, the mending will take a long time.” His lids narrowed menacingly, causing a twist of alarm in Jo’s midsection. “Had that drunken bastard who ran into Wolf’s car not have died in his self-created hell, I’d have sent him there with my own hands.”

Jo did not doubt his word for a second. In
that
instant, Brett looked frighteningly capable of perpetrating a man’s demise without weaponry. Appalled by the quiet fierceness of him, feeling herself pale under the steely rapier points flashing from his eyes, Jo slowly collapsed onto the chair to the side of his desk.

Pray God I never incite this man’s wrath!
Holding her breath, fighting to control the series of shudders quaking through her, Jo gripped the slender arms of the chair, unmindful of her whitening knuckles.

“Okay. Business as usual.”

Smothering a gasp, Jo started at his abrupt change in tone and facial expression. Oh, he still looked haughty, but the mien of murderous intent had vanished. Taking command of Wolf’s high-backed chair, Brett drew it to the large pine desk, then, settling back comfortably, he arched one pale, aristocratic brow at her.

“Any more questions?”

Jo ground her teeth at his patronizing tone, cautioning herself against incurring his wrath before their interview was over. She truly did not care to leave his office the victim of his displeasure. The very idea of the scene injected steel into her backbone—very cool steel that manifested itself in her voice.

“Yes. Several.”

Undaunted by a slight tightening at the edges of his lips, Jo led off with query one.

“Does the prognosis call for complete recovery?”

“At this point, yes.”

“How long will he be confined to the hospital?”

“The word this morning was at least three, possibly four, weeks.”

Four weeks! Jo swallowed her dismay at the thought of having to work side by side with this man for the better part of a month.

“May I see him?” She was further dismayed by the pleading note threading her voice.

“No.”

Jo’s eyes widened at his icily emphatic denial. What possible reason could he have for refusing her visitation rights to her boss? Or did he believe himself above the need for reasons? Her loss of control was evidenced by the angry outcry.

“But why?”

“The idea,
Ms.
Lawrence, is recuperation. You represent something altogether different.”

Anger drowned in a flood of confusion. Had Brett really sneered that last assertion? Could he consider her role of assistant so unimportant as to be sneered at? Jo figuratively shook the consideration away. She knew he employed several assistants himself; he could not help but be aware of the responsibilities entailed. But then, damn it, why
had
he sneered at her?

Jetting her mind free of the quagmire of her own thoughts, Jo faced him boldly.

“You will be ... filling in ... for him the entire three or four weeks?”

“In every way required.”

For some unfathomable reason, Jo was grateful for the ignorance she felt at not understanding the cause of his sardonic tone and matching smile. Thankfully, she was given no time to ponder either.

“Actually, I will very probably be in residence in this office a great deal longer than three or four weeks.”

“But you just said—”

“I
said,
“Brett interrupted smoothly, “Wolf will be hospitalized for that length of time. Plans have already been made for him to complete his recuperation at our mother’s horse farm in Florida.”

Jo opened her mouth to ask the obvious. Brett anticipated her.

“Anywhere from four to six months.”

Uh-huh. You bet. Why not?

Rapid fire, the seemingly unrelated terms sprang pell-mell into Jo’s thoroughly rattled brain. I am not really hearing what I think I’m hearing, she assured herself a trifle wildly. He did not actually raise the possibility of six months—did he? I’ll kill myself!

Had she been, at that moment, presented with a mirror, Jo would have been shocked. Inside, she felt somewhat like a quivering mass of mush. Outwardly she appeared unruffled and unaffected by the news she’d received.

Transmitting an order to her hands to release their death grip on the innocent chair arms, she laced her tension-numbed fingers together demurely in her lap. Between evenly spaced breaths, she managed to calmly ask the question whose answer would see her retained or deposed.

“You will be bringing Richard Colby to New York?”

Over the previous three years, Jo had heard much, all of it good, of Richard Colby, redoubtable right arm to the head of the mid-Atlantic Coast region. Her assumption that Brett would want his right arm with him now was natural, if unsettling.

“Not likely.” Brett’s disclaimer startled Jo; had she really detected a hint of amusement in his tone? His dry smile answered her silent question. “Richard hates New York.” Brett’s voice was every bit as dry as his smile and held a very deliberate drawl. “He hates the pace. He hates the weather. And, more than the preceding, he hates the hard, Yankee twang.”

Staring at him in bemusement, Jo felt the melting process begin all over again. His soft, drawling tone turned her rigidly stiff spine to the consistency of soft wax.
Heavens, but he is beautiful! His face is beautiful. His body is beautiful. His voice is beautiful. He is probably magnificently beautiful in bed as well.

Lost in her own suddenly erotic imaginings, Jo was sublimely unaware of the seconds sliding into minutes. What she
was
suddenly aware of was a longing to experience the magnificence of his beautiful body.

“Ms. Lawrence?”

Jo blinked herself back to reality. Though Brett’s voice had lost the long drawl, its softness enticed a shivering response through the entire length of her body.

“Have I wakened you?” Brett’s taunt was a mild reprimand for her inattentiveness.

Yes, damn you!
Jo silently acknowledged the taunt for a much more earthy reason.
You’ve awakened me inside, where I live, and I don’t particularly like it, especially since it’s so very obvious
you
don’t particularly like
me.

“No, sir.” Jo’s independent spirit cringed at the self-satisfied smile he flaunted in reaction to her unhesitating use of the respectful term.

“I’m relieved.” His tone was a blatant denial of his assertion. “I’m certain that having a woman as lovely as you fall asleep while I’m speaking would do irreparable damage to my ego.”

How very droll. How very sophisticated. How very deceitful.
 Positive her eyes were flashing her mental accusations at him, Jo lowered her lashes in concealment.

“Is your ego so very delicate?” she ventured softly, hating the surge of excitement that pulsed through her veins. What would it be like, she asked herself, to possess the power to damage this man’s ego? You’ll never know, her self answered with discouraging swiftness.

“No.” Brett’s reply was equally swift, equally discouraging, and amused in the bargain. “I’d say my ego is about as delicate as an enraged Brahma bull.”

Well, now that I’ve been firmly put in my place, where do we go from here,
Jo wondered bleakly. Apparently Brett’s train of thought was running along the same track, only he knew the name of the next station was: Business first, always.

“Now.” He sat forward in his chair and placed his palms flat on the desk. “If there are no further questions?”

Feeling anything but the highly efficient assistant she knew herself to be, Jo shook her head mutely.

* * * *

Sliding between the cold sheets on the unfamiliar motel room bed, Jo sighed with the realization of the number of times she’d shaken her head mutely over the previous three weeks.

God! Had it really only been three weeks? It seemed like years, decades, a millennium! And every second of it filled to bursting with
him.

Jo had no idea why it had happened. She had no idea how it
had
happened. She only knew most assuredly that it had happened. Against all reason or sense of self-protection, she was stupidly, hopelessly, mushily in love with Brett Renninger.

Balling the covers into a comforting bunch under her chin, Jo rolled onto her side, drawing her knees up almost to her chest. Then she did something she would have been mortified to have Brett witness: She cried long into the night.

Habits formed, good or bad, are not easily set aside. With less than four hours sleep, and that not very restful, Jo woke at her usual early hour. Filled with periodic spells of weeping and tossing, the long night had produced little comfort. As Jo lay staring through the large, square window at a brilliant blue Indian summer sky, her tired mind held on to the two concretes it had formed while blackness painted the window.

For good or ill, and very probably forever, she loved Brett Renninger—that was concrete number one. Concrete number two was wrapped around the fact that, at all costs, she had to diligently work at preventing Brett from discovering concrete number one.