There is always love (6 page)

"Good work, Miss Bourne. This diagram is just what I need. Curious second floor, isn't it?"

She looked over his shoulder and followed the plan with a pencil.

"Yes. The large hall is oval with rooms opening from it. At the end opposite the stairs is Madam Steele's suite. A sitting room on the front with a view of the river is connected with a bedroom at the back of the house by a solarium. Its windows extend from ceiling to floor on one side. Long glass panels, behind which are marvelous Chinese screens, shut it off from the hall. Gorgeous red-lacquer cabinets almost cover each of the two walls between windows and glass panels. I noticed them particularly because at home we have a small one which is the darling of our hearts. An ancestor brought it from the Orient."

"Know what they are used for?"

"No. I didn't consider that my—^your business."

"Righto. I asked because I wondered if they were built-in and would be included in the sale. We'll inquire about that later. Did you look into the other rooms on that floor?"

"Yes. The doors were closed when we went up. They were identical. Each was finished in ivory paint with gold moldings and a small, ornate knocker. I wondered how a guest would be sure of his own room. It seemed more like a hotel than a private residence. Most of the furnishings were old-timy, heavy and elegant. Perhaps half a dozen were chintzy and modem." She told of the arrangements for the "staff."

He dropped the notebook to his desk, clasped his hands behind his blond head and tilted back in his chair to regard her through speculative eyes.

"So she gave you tea. Miss Bourne? I have it on good authority that usually Madam Steele is a Tartar. Must have fallen hard for you. That gives me an idea. I'll turn the buying of the estate over to you. You can swing it with me behind you to advise. I'll keep out of the spotlight and 30

when I sell I'll cut you in on the commission. That's fair, what?"

Linda had a searing vision of Gregory Merton's burning eyes as he had accused her of being a "little business-chaser."

"But, I don't want to handle it. Buying and selling isn't part of my job."

"It is if I say it is," Sanders declared arrogantly; then as her eyes flashed he smiled with the charm which had fascinated her the first time she had met him.

"I'm doing it for your good, Miss New England," he cajoled. "You don't want to be a secretary all your life, do you? Learn to buy and sell and you'll get somewhere, so don't talk any more nonsense about not handling the old lady— my mistake, the ageless lady. I have a prospective customer for the estate already. If the deal goes through I'll break my own record for speedy sales."

"A man would have to be a super-biUionaire to take on a place that size these days. 'The Castle' is right. I didn't see the whole of it but enough to know that the grounds must require a small army of laborers and that ark of a house a retinue of servants."

"My prospect is buying for investment. Plans to make over the house into apartments, have a community garage and build modest-income cottages all over the place. It's within easy commuting distance of the city. It's a contractor's pipedream, but with a mile of river frontage, I think he has something. You put through the deal with Madam Steele. I'll engineer the sale. If the buyer's scheme proves a dud it will be just too bad—for him. I'll be sitting pretty with the double commission and good lord, can I use it! What's the rush?'* he demanded as Linda took a step toward the door.

"If you don't need me any longer I'll leave you building air castles, no pun intended, and go home. I'm hungry. I had time only for a sandwich which Miss Dowse brought in to me." Her dimples came out of captivity. "I hope you'll be able to shed the light of your presence on this oflSce tomorrow if only to save me from being torn to shreds by disappointed customers who expected to see you today."

"Look here, I'm confoundedly sorry you've had to starve." He glanced at the clock. "Come along and have dinner with me. I've been too busy to eat myself. We'll go to a spot down town where the food is Grade A and one doesn't have to dress."

Why not? She had vowed she never would appear in public with a man for whom she worked but that had been in a small town and fat Sim Cove had been no temptation. This was New York and there wasn't a hint of an ofi&ce flirtation in

Keith Sanders' invitation. As if he had followed her train of thought he urged ingratiatingly.

"Really, it's part of your job to dine with me. You can tell me what happened today, the customers whom I must see tomorrow and we can start in the morning with a clean slate."

He was right. It would help tremendously if she made her report this evening. After all, it wasn't as if she were going out with a man she never had met before he had employed her. She had played tennis, walked, driven, danced with Keith Sanders during his visit with the Grants. The memory of that dinner when she had sat beside him—Skid glum with annoyance at being ignored on her other side—and prattled of small-town affairs had grown sharp Uttle tentacles by which it clung tenaciously. Try as she would she couldn't shake it out of her mind. She owed it to herself to show him that she wasn't so naive as he had thought. She had gone out of her way to demonstrate her broad viewpoint to Greg Merton when they had driven home from the Inn. She had refused to be lured into personalities.

"It's a date,*' she agreed. "It won't take a minute to get my hat and coat."

As she applied her lipstick lightly before the mirror in her ofl&ce she was glad she was wearing the black-wool frock with a touch of gold at neck and wrists and the matching reefer. Her black turban did a lot for her hair.

She remembered that once before he had asked her to go out with him and had promptly and, apparently for all time, forgotten the invitation when she had told him of his cadaverous-faced caller with the crafty smile. That same man had brought her car from Madam Steele's garage yesterday. Curious that he should have been there. Was there any connection between him and the man who was taking her to dinner?

"Any cash in the safe?" Sanders inquired from the doorway between his office and hers. "Had to dine and wine a customer. I'm cleaned out."

"Your agent Pokoski brought in the rents from the apartment house."

"Give me fifty bucks from that. Charge it to the expense account That will square what I used of my own today."

The question she had asked herself about the mysterious caller recurred to her as she faced Keith Sanders across a table for two in the balcony of the restaurant. From a gallery at the other end of the large room drifted the wooing music of violins and flutes. She had told him of her conferences with his customers. One had been pathetic as a woman had besought her to hurry up the sale of her home. She needed the money, she had explained, needed it terribly to tide her son over a business crisis. If he could only hold on, the 32

European war was bound to start a boom. Linda's throat had tightened as she told of it, her voice had been husky, but Sanders laughed.

"Don't take these hard-luck stories to heart. Better for her and the boy if we don't sell it. Better for him to fight it out for himself. I was sent to a good school, had two years in college, before the bottom dropped out of the family fortune. After that no one helped me. I've fought and schemed and battled my way to success without hanging on to anybody. He can do it. It takes all sorts of men to make this world— Lindy. Mind if I'call you that away from the office?"

She didn't, she told him, and it was then that she thought of asking him about the cadaverous-faced man; his reference to all sorts of men had brought him to the surface of her memory. While she was framing a tactful question he went on:

"Do you know that you're a most companionable person? It isn't a recent discovery. I realized it when I met you at the Grants' last June."

"But not enough to remember me when I applied at your office for a position.'*

"You're one up on me there, but you have forgiven me, haven't you?" he wheedled with an appealing small-boy air.

Before she could answer a girl in smart black and pearls with a sensational corsage of purple orchids stopped at the table with a start of theatrical surprise. Alix Crane. A tall, black-haired man, suavely groomed and tailored, loomed behind her.

"KeithI How marvelous to see you! Dining the new little watchdog secretary! It's a trend. Meet my friend, Seiior Lorillo. Pedro, Keith Sanders is the man who promised to back my show—and didn't." Miss Crane's voice was charged with venom.

If eyes could freeze, Keith Sanders' icy blue ones would have frozen her then and there. His curt nod in acknowledgment of the introduction set little flames dancing in the eyes of Senor Lorillo who bowed with exaggerated formality. Only an overpowering emotion could turn a man so white, Linda reflected, as she glanced at her employer; was it jealousy? Had the callous indifference he had expressed toward Miss Crane that afternoon in the office been pretense?

"How are you, Alix? Still sore at me for not being willing to finance a sure loser, I see." Sanders' voice had spikes in it.

"Your mistake, darling. I'm not sore, I have a better backer." Miss Crane smiled seductively at the man behind her. "Senor Lorillo is from Brazil." She touched her corsage and laughed suggestively. "Where the orchids come from. He's here to size up the effect of his country's exhibit at the Fair.

What luck at the races today, Keith? Did you miss your little mascot?"

So he had been at the races and had not been dining and wining a customer? Was that what had cleaned him out so often lately, Linda wondered. As if drawn by a magnet her eyes met the brilliant eyes of the Brazilian. His wirelessed a we'll-meet-again message.

"Come, carisima, we are de trop here, yes?" His smooth, rich voice had a mere trace of accent.

"I guess you're right, Pedro. Au revoir, Keith."

Sanders nodded. The color had returned to his face but his eyes were cold and hard, his mouth was set in an ugly line as he sat down.

"Where did Alix pick up that tailor's dummy?"

"Dimmiy! His clothes were perfect." For some inexplicable reason Linda rushed to the defense of the smooth senor. "He's my idea of a typed cinema lover. I thought him fascinating, with the come-hither in his eyes developed to the nth degree."

"Don't fall for that come-hither if you care for your job.'*

"Was that growl a threat or a warning?"

"Figure it out I was entertaining a customer—at the races, believe it or not."

"I believe you, why shouldn't I? Races must be fun. Sensational horses, smart people, smart clothes and exciting crowds. What is this delicious thing I'm eating? I wonder how it's made. Seems to be coffee ice cream in meringue with brandy-flavored hot chocolate sauce." His low laugh stained her face with color.

"Still 'the little country girl with the naive line,'" she quoted. "Country girl or not, I adore cooking. I believe it's as much of an art as interior decorating." She glanced away from his satirical eyes. "My word, there's a boy from home."

"Who is it? You look as if you'd discovered a diamond mine."

"You know him. Skidmore Grant." What could there be about unromantic Skid to make Keith Sanders scowl?

"Of coxirse I know him. Wasn't I visiting his people when I met you? Is he your Big Moment that you've gone all sparkly?

"Life has funny twists, hasn't it?" she evaded. "A week ago I was standing at the office window looking at the lighted streets, feeling sorry for myself that in all this great city I didn't know a man who would invite me out and now— presto, there are three."

"Three men and a girl. I presume the boy from home is one, yours truly makes two. Who's the third?"

She opened her lips to say Gregory Merton. Thought better 34

of it. He never would ask her out again. She must account for three.

"Perhaps it*s the charming Miss Crane's fascinating friend from Brazil, 'where the orchids come from,' " she suggested gaily and wondered what demon of contrariness had prompted her to make that senseless reply.

"Where have you met him before?" The low, fierce question startled her.

"Before! I've never met him before. Can't you recognize the light touch when you hear it?"

VII

IN THE square entresol of Ruth's apartment Linda lingered to listen to the caressing baritone. Who was singing? Something about moonlight and love. She never had heard the voice before. It did things to her heart. Made it ache. Why? Hadn't she everything she wanted at present? She had a fine position; tonight a man had invited her to dinner, the theater; they had had a sandwich at Reuben's after. And here she was being sorry for herself. Silly, she'd better go in and break up this attack of blues.

As she entered the living room Greg Merton's eyes met hers. It was he who was singing to his own accompaniment. Hester leaned agamst the blond-mahogany piano. Her tawny hair and lovely face, her white shoulders framed in diaphanous azure and silver net, were reflected in the satin-smooth surface. She applauded effusively as the song ended.

Her sister's smart evening frock made Linda unpleasantly aware that she was tired, that her mouth and eyes were showing the result of a sleepless night, that her nose would be better for a dab of powder, that her lips needed color, that the black frock and coat she had thought so smart at the office looked pretty uninteresting at eleven-thirty p.m. Gregory Mer-ton was in white tie and tails. Had he and Hester been out together? Ruth Brewster glanced up from the mass of rose-color yam in her smoky gray-and-silver lap.

"Well, see who's here? Our career woman, as I'm alive! You stole in like a ghost, Lmdy. Guilty conscience? What kept you so late?"

"Business."

"Business! The wage-and-hour law should be required reading for that boss of yours. Had your dinner?"

"I have, Ruth, thanks."

She pulled off her reefer and hat and smoothed her hair, trying to think of something casual to say to Greg Merton

who was standing in front of the fire now, lighting a cigarette; trying to imagine what was passing in his mind as he regarded her with that faint, cynical smile, trying to forget his face and voice as he had accused: