A Promise to Cherish (2 page)

That’s where Lee hung up.

Sexist, bigoted bastard! she raged silently, feeling again the ineffable futility of trying to change the jaundiced views of men like Floyd A. Thorpe.

Lee had no delusions about why she’d been hired. Not only was she a woman, she was also one-quarter American Indian, and either fact qualified her employer as a minority contractor in the eyes of the federal government as long as she was a corporation officer or owner. Furthermore, the federal government had proclaimed that ten percent of all federal monies allocated for public improvements were to be paid to minority contractors.

Considering the marked advantage of those contractors in today’s business world, Floyd A. Thorpe would have given the diamonds out of the opera windows of his Diamond Jubilee Lincoln Continental Mark V to be an Indian woman himself—if he could possibly manage it without being red and female! But Floyd Thorpe was not only male, he was also as Caucasian as the president himself, and he never let Lee forget it. Whenever she was around, he spit juice from the ever-present poke of tobacco that bulged his cheek. He hoisted up his pot belly with strutting tugs on his overstrained belt. He told dirty jokes and talked like the sewer rat he was. It got worse and worse as Lee continued to refuse his invitations to become a vice-president of Thorpe Construction. And if Lee Walker didn’t like it, Thorpe’s overbearing attitude clearly stated, she could go home and chew hides, plant maize, and raise a few papooses.

As Lee now spun from the telephone and crossed the airport terminal, she too gritted her teeth. Yes, she wanted equal pay, so once again she had to lick his boots and go out there and earn it!

 

 

S
HE arrived at the bid letting five minutes late. As usual, she was the only woman in the room. Up front the city engineer was opening a sealed envelope as Lee slipped into a folding chair at the back of the room. From her purse she took a tablet and pen, then glanced surreptitiously at the lap of the man next to her as he entered the amount of the bid being read.

She wrote it quickly on her own paper, then leaned over to ask, “How many have been opened?”

He counted with the tip of a mechanical pencil. “Only six so far.”

“Do you mind if I copy them?”

“Not at all.”

He angled the pad her way, and Lee took down the six names and amounts. Glancing around the room, she found an unusually large number of contractors represented. The nation’s slumping economy, coupled with relatively little new-home construction, had contractors traveling farther and bidding tougher in order to get work.

The Denver suburb of Aurora had attracted much attention, for it was one of the fastest growing mid-size cities in the nation. Aurora had solved its most serious problem—a shortage of water—by obtaining its own water supply and bringing it down from Leadville, a hundred miles away. But that water needed filtering and chemical treatment before use, adequate sewage treatment and removal after use. Every contractor in the room understood the value of getting in on the ground floor of the city’s growth. To win this bid would be like plucking the first ripe plum in a highly productive orchard.

Suddenly Lee’s back stiffened as the voice of the city engineer rang across the room, reading the name on the front of the next envelope.

“Thorpe Construction Company of Kansas City.”

Lee stiffened and her heart did a double-whammy. There must be some mistake! She searched the room for anyone else from Thorpe, but she was the only one present. How could the envelope have gotten there? She scarcely had time to wonder before a brass letter opener sliced through the thick envelope with a raspy sound of authority, and while Lee still floundered in stunned surprise, her bid was read aloud:

“Four million two hundred forty-nine thousand.”

Her heart thudded like a bass drum and she pressed a palm against it.
My God! I’m the low bidder so far!
Across the room faces fell as those who’d been beaten out sighed with disappointment.

Lee knew nothing to equal the exhilaration of moments like this. The sweet taste of revenge was already making her mouth water as she thought of returning to Kansas City and flinging the news in the beady little mustard seed eyes of one Floyd A. Thorpe, alias F.A.T., as Lee often thought of him.

Another bid was read: four million six. Hers was still low!

It took every effort to sit calmly in her chair and wait. How often she’d sat in sessions like this and known this giddy elation until someone else bested her at the last moment. There could be only one winner, and the larger the number of submissions, the greater the glory; the larger the job, the greater the possible profits. And this one was big . . .

Lee chewed her lower lip, trying to contain her growing excitement as three more bids were opened and read, none of them lower than hers.

Finally the city engineer grinned and announced the last bid. “Brown and Brown, Inc., Kansas City, Missouri,” he said as he lifted the bulky envelope and slit it. The room was as silent as outer space. Even before he read the amount aloud, the city engineer’s smile broadened, and Lee experienced a premonition of doom.

“Four million two hundred forty-five thousand!”

The blood seemed to drop to Lee’s feet. She wilted against the back of her chair and strove not to let her disappointment show. She swallowed, closed her eyes momentarily, and breathed deeply while the scuffle of shoes and the metallic clank of chairs filled the room. Her body felt like lead, but she forced herself to her feet. To lose was tough. To be second was harder. But to be second by only four thousand dollars on a job worth over four million was agony.

Four thousand dollars—Lee restrained an ironic grunt. It might as well have been four cents!

Could there by anything harder than congratulating the winner at a time like this? The man beside Lee moved toward the cluster of people who’d converged, Lee presumed, around the winning estimator. She caught a glimpse of a dark head, wide shoulders . . . and immediately squared her own.

Protocol, she thought dismally, wishing she could forgo congratulations.

The man was accepting them with obvious relish. His wide smile was turned upon a competitor who railed good-naturedly, “You did it again, Sam, damn ya! Why don’t you leave some for the rest of us?”

The smile became a laugh as his darkly tanned hand pumped the much lighter colored one. “Next time, Marv, okay? My luck can’t hold forever.” Others shook his hand, and exchanged brief business comments while Lee waited her chance to approach him. His wide hand was enclosed around another when his eyes swung to find her in front of him. Those eyes were deep brown in a tan face. Pale crinkles at the corners of his eyes suggested he had squinted many hours into the sun. His nose was narrow, Nordic; the lips widely smiling, pleased at the moment. His neck was thick and his posture more erect than any other man’s in the room. Lee had a brief glimpse of a silver and turquoise cross resting in the cleft of his open collar as his shoulders swung her way. His palm slid free of the man still addressing him, as if the brown-eyed winner had forgotten him in the middle of a sentence.

“Congratulations . . . Sam, is it?” Lee extended her hand. His grip was like that of a front-end loader.

“That’s right. Sam Brown. And thank you. This one was too close for comfort.”

Lee’s lips parted and her eyes widened.
Sam Brown?
The coincidence was too great to be believed!
Sam Brown?
The same Sam Brown who read girlie magazines? He certainly didn’t look like the type who’d need to.

Lee quelled the inane urge to ask him if he used Rawhide deodorant and instead lifted her eyes to his hair for verification—it was indeed dark brown, straight, and appeared to be blow-combed into the stylish, unparted sweep that touched both ear and forehead and the very tip of his collar. In a crazy-clear recollection, royal blue jockey shorts flashed across Lee’s mind, and she felt a flush begin to creep up from her navel.

“You don’t have to tell me it was too close for comfort,” Lee replied. “I’m the one who just came in second.” Sam Brown’s palm was hard and warm and captured hers too long. “I’ m Lee Walker, Thorpe Construction.”

His black brows lifted in surprise, and she freed her hand at last.

“Lee Walker?”

“Yes.”

“Of Kansas City?”

“Yes.”

The beginning of a grin appeared on his wide lips, and his dark eyes drifted down over her wrinkled plaid shirt, faded jeans, and scuffed moccasins. On their way back up, they took on a distinct glint of humor.

“I think I have something of yours,” he said, leaning a little closer, his voice low and confidential.

Across her mind’s eye paraded a file of personal items from her suitcase—bras, pants, tampons, her daily journal. His insinuating perusal made her uncomfortably aware that she was dressed like a teenage runaway while attending a business function requiring professionalism in both comportment and dress. At the same time he—though missing his suitcase, too—was dressed in shiny brown loafers, neat cocoa brown trousers, an open throated peach-colored shirt, and a summer-weight oatmeal-colored sport coat.

The difference made Lee feel at a distinct disadvantage. She felt the heat reach her face and with it a wave of suspicion and anger. Yes he certainly
did
have something of hers—a job worth over four million dollars! But this was no place to accuse him. Other people stood within earshot, thus she was forced to reply with only half the rancor she felt.

“Then it
was
you who turned in my bid.”

“It was.”

“And I suppose you think I should thank you for it?”

His smile only deepened the indentations on either side of his lips. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you always to carry anything of immediate importance on the plane with you?”

Stung by the fact that he was undeniably right, she could only glare and splutter, “Perhaps you should consider teaching a workshop on the
dos
and
don’ts
of preparing bids for a public bid letting. I’m sure the class could learn innumerable new techniques from you.”

He had the grace to back off and decrease the wattage of his grin.

“How dare you turn in someone else’s bid!” she challenged.

“Under the circumstances, I felt it the only honorable thing to do.”

“Honorable!” she nearly yelped, then forcibly lowered her voice. “You honorably looked it over first, though, didn’t you!”

His half grin changed to a scowl. “
You’re
the one who got the wrong suitcase. I picked—”

“I don’t care to discuss it here, if you don’t mind,” she hissed in a stage whisper, glancing in a semicircle to find too many curious ears nearby. “But I
do
want to discuss it!” Her eyes blazed, but she forced restraint into her tones, though she wanted to let him have it with both barrels. “Where is it?”

Contrarily he slipped a lazy hand into his trouser pocket and slung his weight on one hip. “Where is what?”

“My suitcase,” she ground out with deliberate diction as if explaining to a dimwit.

“Oh, that.” He looked away disinterestedly. “It’s in my car.”

She waited with long-suffering patience but he refrained from offering to get it for her.

“Shall we trade?” she suggested with saccharine sweetness.

“Trade?” Again his dark gaze turned to her.

“I believe I have something of yours, too.”

Now she had his full attention. He leaned closer. “You have
my
suitcase?”

“Not exactly, but I know where it is.”

“Where?”

“I returned it to the airport.”

His brows curled, and he checked his watch hurriedly. But at that moment an enormous red-faced man clapped a big paw on Sam Brown’s shoulder and turned him around. “Sam, if we’re going to talk about that subcontract, we’d better get going. I have”—he, too, bared a wrist to check the time—“at the outside, an hour and a half.”

Brown nodded. “I’ll be right with you, John. Give me a minute.” He turned hastily back to Lee. “I’m sorry I have to run. Where are you staying? I’ll bring your suitcase no later than six o’clock.” He was already easing toward the door.

“Hey, wait a minute, I—”

“Sorry, but I have a previous commitment. What motel?” John was in the doorway, waiting impatiently.

“I have to catch a plane! Don’t you dare leave!”

Sam Brown had reached the door. “What motel?” he insisted.

“Damn!” she muttered as her hands gripped her hips, and she all but stamped a foot in frustration. “Cherry Creek Motel, but I can’t wait—”

“Cherry Creek Motel,” he repeated, and raised an index finger. “I’ll deliver it.” Then he was gone.

For the next three hours Lee sat like a caged rabbit in Room 110 of the Cherry Creek Motel while her irritation grew with each passing minute. By six o’clock she felt like a time bomb. She was hot and dirty. Denver in July was like an inferno, and Lee wanted nothing so much as a cool, refreshing bath. But she couldn’t take one without her suitcase. Old Thorpe was going to be hotter than a cannibal’s stew-pot when he found out she hadn’t returned to Kansas City as ordered. A check on late-leaving flights confirmed that Lee had already missed the suppertime flight, and the next one didn’t leave till 10:10 P.M. She was damned if she’d stay up half the night just to get into the office bright and early for Thorpe’s self-righteous tirade. After all, it wasn’t her fault. And she’d had a harrowing day and still had a bone to pick with the “honorable” Sam Brown.

Every time she thought of him, her temperature rose a notch. To leave her high and dry and sashay off without returning her property was bad enough, but worse was the dirty, underhanded trick he’d pulled with her bid. She couldn’t wait to tear into him and tell him exactly what a sneaky, low, lying dog he was!