A Lyon's Share (4 page)

"Of course you're right." Logic made her agree as she busied her suddenly unsteady fingers with the knot of her scarf. "Although once you've dined on the canteen fare, you may question whether it's food!"

"Nothing seems to shatter your poise, Miss Somers" he grinned crookedly, "not even the prospect of possibly being stranded for the weekend with your boss."

Joan had seen his face transformed by a smile before, but rarely had she ever been the recipient. Quicksilver excitement danced in her veins, but she quickly drowned it with the sobering memory of the petite blonde. She couldn't admit that she wasn't looking forward to his exclusive company for the weekend. Admiration and respect were the only feelings she wanted to have towards him. To know him as more than her employer might not be safe for her carefully preserved peace of mind.

"Neither one of us is responsible for the storm," Joan shrugged, knowing her composure at that moment was not what she would have desired it to be. A thousand inner apprehensions were hammering at her nerves. "It doesn't do any good to complain about the things we can't change."

"That saves me from apologizing for not sending you home earlier," Brandt remarked, a glitter of amusement in his eyes.

"And that saves me from reminding you that you should have," she returned in the same light vein, and immediately regretted her lapse into the kind of teasing rejoinders she and Ed had exchanged the previous weekend. She stepped rather quickly away from him. "Excuse me while I call my room-mate so she won't start worrying about me."

Joan felt his gaze following her as she hurried down the corridor to her office. Why can't he be fifty years old and married, she asked herself with a rueful sigh, or, at thirty-five, paunchy and balding instead of so compellingly magnetic?

Returning her coat to its hanger, she walked to her desk and dialed the telephone number of her apartment. On the second ring, Kay answered.

"Joan, where are you?" her room-mate demanded frantically.

"I'm at work," she answered.

"I've been imagining you stuck somewhere in a snowbank like half the population of Chicago," Kay sighed in relief. "Isn't the boss going to bring you home?"

"In this blizzard?" Joan chided. "We'd end up in a snowdrift!"

"Do you mean—" There was a pregnant pause before Kay continued. "The two of you are stranded there at the office—alone?"

"Oh, Kay!" Joan pressed a weary hand to her forehead. "Will you please not dramatize the situation?" She was having trouble enough with her own imagination without subjecting herself to Kay's.

"It is just the two of you there, isn't it?" Laughter bubbled in the voice on the other end. "Thrown together by the elements!"

"Will you stop it?" Joan demanded with an exasperated sigh. "Mr. Lyon is my boss!"

"I bet you won't be calling him Mr. Lyon by tomorrow morning!" Kay laughed aloud.

"For heaven's sake! For all the notice that Mr. Lyon pays to me, I doubt if he's even aware that I'm a member of the opposite sex. I'm his efficient and practical secretary. Having my company forced on him for a day isn't going to make him suddenly discover that I'm an alluring female." The outburst was more a reminder for herself than an attack on her roommate. "I have some letters to type now. I'll be home as soon as the roads are clear."

Without waiting for a response. Joan hung up. Tension pulled down the corners of her mouth as she turned in her chair. Her downcast eyes caught sight of the brown trousers standing in front of her desk, and waves of crimson red swept into her face as she looked into Brandt Lyon's amused face and realized he had been listening. A muscle twitched near his mouth as if concealing a smile.

"It's comforting to discover you're human, Miss Somers," he said quietly, and walked into his office while Joan was still searching for a response.

There wasn't any need to watch the clock, so she ignored the movements of her watch as she typed the dictation she hadn't been able to do earlier that day. She had no idea what Brandt was doing in his inner office, undoubtedly working the same as she. Her unfortunate conversation with Kay kept playing back in her mind. She grew more and more uncomfortable at the prospect of facing Brandt when her words were probably still ringing in his ears. They seemed such a cry for his attention that she wanted to run and hide.

With the headset covering her ears and Brandt's dictation occupying the rest of her thoughts, Joan didn't hear the connecting door open. The keys of the electric typewriter were racing across the paper. There wasn't a pause in the rhythm until a hand touched her shoulder. Her fingers crashed against the keys in surprise, jamming them against the ribbon.

"I didn't mean to frighten you, Miss Somers!" His head was tilted curiously to the side, his gaze studying the apprehensively withdrawn look in her brown eyes as she turned sharply towards him.

"Y-You startled me, that's all," she stammered.

"I'm getting hungry and I thought you might direct me to the more edible items in the canteen. I hope you'll join me, Miss Somers."

The light inflection he gave her name was a mocking reminder that he was aware of their status as employer and employee, and her sharp statement that she was his efficient and practical secretary.

Her own brown eyes bounced away from the strong lines of his face as she nervously glanced at her watch. Half past seven. If only she could hope that the rest of the time could pass so swiftly!

"Yes, I'm hungry, too," she answered, reverting to her cool professional voice in order to establish that impersonal business relationship she had once wanted to break down.

Brandt stepped back and waited for her to straighten her papers before joining him. She tried to make her muscles relax as she preceded him down the corridor to the canteen, but she knew she was holding her head unnaturally erect, driven by a need to show him that she didn't really want his attention. Her replies were just as stiff as he attempted to make light conversation over their less than glamorous meal of sandwiches, milk and potato chips.

Joan was rather thankful when he finally subsided into silence until she glanced up to discover he was watching her. A wary light crept into her brown eyes before she quickly looked away.

"It's your own fault, you know." His baritone voice broke the silence.

It was really unnecessary to ask what he meant, but she did it anyway. "What is?" she asked, widening her eyes with false innocence.

"The fact that I take you for granted," Brandt replied calmly, leaning back in his chair with an ease she couldn't begin to emulate. "I mean, you hardly try to call attention to yourself."

She played with a potato chip, the rosy glow in her cheeks adding a vibrancy to her face. "I meant no disrespect this afternoon on the telephone. I truly don't expect any special recognition for doing my job. I mean, it's what I'm paid for." She shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-three." The last bite of sandwich seemed to be stuck to her throat.

"How long have you been working for me?"

"Three years."

"That long?" A brow raised in surprise. "You blend too well into the background."

"A good secretary is supposed to," Joan replied.

"It's never good to appreciate someone's efforts after they've left," he responded smoothly. "Which makes it difficult for me to take advantage of you now."

"How?" The question was out before she could stop it and another fiery shade crimsoned her face.

The lines around his mouth deepened. "I was going to ask if you would take some dictation tonight. There's little else but work to pass the hours. And this is a good time to catch up on some of the correspondence I've pushed to one side lately."

"Of course I will. If I didn't have something to do, I would find it. I was on the last of the tapes when we came to eat." Joan seized on the offer to put an end to their disturbing conversation and quickly started gathering up the remains of their meal.

It was after ten o'clock when Brandt stopped suddenly in mid-sentence. Joan's pencil continued its rapid pace across the paper as she jotted down the last of his dictation.

"You must be exhausted," Brandt commented, swinging his chair to look at her. "Why didn't you stop me earlier?"

"It didn't seem necessary," she answered, unconsciously flexing her tense fingers and loosening her death grip on the pencil.

"From the sound of the wind, we'll have all day tomorrow to finish whatever needs to be done. I think it's time we called it a night."

The moment had arrived that Joan had been dreading all afternoon and evening. There was no need to mention that the building only possessed one couch, the one in Brandt Lyon's office. She knew instinctively that his basically gentlemanly nature would offer it to her, but she hadn't decided whether she should refuse and insist that he take it. Either way it turned out, Joan knew she wasn't going to be able to sleep a wink.

"Are you ready for the argument?" Brandt asked.

"What argument?" she breathed in sharply.

"Over which one of us is going to sleep on the only couch in the building," he answered with a completely straight face. "I know we could each sleep in a chair and solve the issue, but my mother would never forgive me if I didn't insist that you take the couch."

"Really, I c—" Joan began, her hands raising to protest his statement.

"Yes, you could, and you will!" The quiet authority in his voice silenced the rest of her words. "It's an order from the boss and a good secretary doesn't disobey an order."

There was mockery in his words, but none in the voice that uttered them. Joan removed the tortoiseshell glasses that made it difficult to see his face clearly at that distance. She searched the implacable blue eyes for a tell-tale sign of amusement at the modesty that had sent her color fluctuating wildly. His intent regard forced her to lower her gaze without finding the answer.

"If you insist, Mr. Lyon." The murmur of acceptance was drawn reluctantly from her lips.

"I do insist, Miss Somers!"

Strong fingers closed over the arms of his chair as Brandt pushed himself upright, flexing his shoulders as if he, too, felt the strain of a long day's work. Through her lashes, Joan studied the leanness of his build. His height, easily two inches over six feet, deceptively made the breadth of his chest seem not so intimidating as it really was.

In the summer months, Brandt Lyon spent few hours in his office and the long winter months didn't lessen the dark tan he had gained from long hours outdoors on various construction sites. The stamp of pride and quiet authority was in the chiseled, angular planes of his face, strikingly compelling like the piercing sharpness of an eagle.

As if sensing her surreptitious gaze, his head swung around to her, one eyebrow rising a fraction of an inch. Her pulse fluttered erratically under his disturbing look. To cover her confusion, she began flipping the pages back on her shorthand pad to the first of his dictation.

"What are you doing, Miss Somers?"

She swallowed back the lump of nervousness to respond coolly. "I'm going over these letters while they're still fresh in my mind."

"Let them go until morning." His hand waved the air in dismissal. "If you have trouble deciphering them, you can ask me then. Besides," one corner of his mouth was pulled upward, "you know you can't read your notes without those glasses that are still on your lap."

A furious rush of heat suffused her face as Joan quickly snapped the pad shut. The sudden movement sent her spare pencil flying across the room to land at his feet. Feeling like a gauche schoolgirl, she walked over to retrieve it from his outstretched hand, unable to meet the laughter she knew was in his eyes. As she bolted for the connecting door, the telephone rang.

"I'll answer it, Miss Somers," he stated. His low voice was liberally laced with indulgent amusement.

The door between the two offices didn't latch securely after Joan had darted through it. The absence of any other sound in the building allowed his voice to carry clearly into the adjoining room.

After an initial impersonal greeting, the tone of his voice changed subtly to a more caressing sound as she heard him say: "I should have thought it was obvious that I wouldn't keep our date tonight, Angela. Not that I wouldn't prefer being snowbound at your apartment for the weekend."

The image of the petite blonde immediately danced into Joan's mind. The muscles of her stomach constricted painfully as she thought how aptly named the fragilely dainty girl was. There was a seductive pitch in the soft laughter that followed the pause after his statement. Swiftly Joan walked back and closed the door tightly between the two offices before she succumbed to the pangs of envy.

She busied her hands with emptying ashtrays and re-straightening her already orderly desk until the light on her extension phone went out, signaling the end of the conversation. Within the span of a few seconds, the connecting door was opened and Brandt Lyon walked in.

"My office is yours, Miss Somers," he said with a mocking sweep of his hand. "You might want to use your coat as a pillow since the sofa doesn't have any."

With a self-conscious nod of agreement, Joan walked around her desk to the coat tree, removed the three-quarter-length fun-fur coat and folded it in front of her like a shield. Even as she did it, she knew the gesture was silly, since Brandt Lyon had made it plain she had no cause to protect herself from him.