When Amelia Glenn walked into Worth Carson’s boardroom wearing a trench coat and a belly dancer’s outfit, Chicago’s most powerful construction magnate was fit to be tied. But that didn’t stop Amelia from performing her entire act for the swarthy chairman of the board—complete with shimmering sequins and jingling bangles. So after Worth had Amelia fired, the last thing she expected was to be offered a job as a companion for his mother. But Worth hadn’t ignored her startling beauty. Now he was determined to bid for her on his own terms.

Love by Proxy

Diana Palmer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dear Reader,

Little did I know that when Amelia Glenn walked into my boardroom dressed as a belly dancer, that day would become the turning point in my life. Always a loner, content to keep my distance from people, Amelia’s personality opened my heart wider than her costume had opened my eyes.

It wasn’t hard to become attracted to this woman. After all, her smile could warm the chilliest Chicago winds. Not only was she beautiful, but there was something inside her—a quality so precious it has no name—that turned a solitary bachelor into a man seeking forever. But winning this woman was a task harder than any business deal I had ever made.

She didn’t look upon my wealth as a wonderful thing. She’d have rather driven her broken-down car than let me give her a new one. Amelia didn’t want handouts, she wanted my heart. And giving that to her was the riskiest thing I could ever do. But it was also the safest. For with Amelia, I knew my heart was under a very precious lock and key.

Worth Carson

Table of Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

One

Amelia Glenn tugged her beige trench coat closer around her body and tried not to giggle as she got off the elevator on the fourteenth floor of the Chicago office building. If only her fellow office workers at the agricultural equipment company could see her like this! The way that deathly dull job had been going lately, this was more a holiday than a favor for a friend.

She heard her bangles bunch at her wrists with a metallic ring and had to stand very still until they stopped, aware of curious stares from the two businessmen who’d come up with her on the elevator. Wouldn’t they pass out if they knew what was under her coat!

She walked down the hall looking for office suite 1411, where she was due to deliver a special message. Ordinarily, Kerrie did this particular one, but she was out sick and Amanda had been recruited by her friend Marla Sayers to fill in. Marla’s boyfriend was going to play a joke on his associate. It was only one message, after all, and Amelia did have the body for it, or so she was assured.

She was lean and tanned from head to toe, with a figure that could have modeled bikinis year-round. Her long, dark hair swung thickly as she walked, and her pale, dancing eyes were framed by black lashes, in a face whose features were as perfect as a cameo. She could have passed for a teenager.

There was, oddly, no one at the receptionist’s desk when she walked in. Perhaps she was at lunch. Amelia laughed and started toward the office door. She gathered her nerve, because she’d never done this particular stunt before, pinned a smile to her full lips and breezed in.

Apparently there was a small conference going on. A big, very cold-looking man in a patterned shirt and no jacket was leaning over a graph of some kind on a huge oak desk. Around it were two shorter, paler men, hanging on every word. Amelia hadn’t expected Wentworth Carson to be so big. He was as formidable as Marla’s boyfriend had described him. All business, ice cold, nothing in him to attract a woman. Yes, she could have recognized him in a crowd. He wasn’t handsome, not one bit. He had a big nose and bushy eyebrows and a pugnacious chin, and he looked more like a wrestler than an executive. He fit her nebulous image of a construction magnate all the way down to his big feet.

“Yes?” the big man asked coldly, looking up with eyes that were every bit as dark as the straight black hair that fell forward onto a broad forehead.

Amelia smiled wickedly. “Message for you, sir,” she said. And she let the coat drop.

The two men grouped around the desk stared, gaping, with appreciative smiles and big eyes. The bigger man stood erect and looked angry.

Amelia had a passable voice—no threat to the Met, of course, put passable. She began to gyrate in her outlandish belly dancer’s costume to the tune of the birthday song, inching slowly closer to the big, dark man.

He didn’t look very receptive. In fact, he looked as if he’d like to pitch her out the window. That was even better. She laughed huskily as she went closer, her hips twitching, her skirts flying, her arms uplifted with the small cymbals on her fingers to show the high, soft curve of her breasts in their metallic casings.

“Happy birthday, honey,” she added at the end, and just for pure spite, she went on tiptoe to kiss him full on his hard, chiseled mouth with as much enthusiasm as she could muster.

He kept his eyes open. His big body was rigid and he didn’t move, not an eyelash, not a finger, not a breath. His mouth was hard and slightly cool, and totally unresponsive. He allowed the blatant caress for an instant, and then his huge, warm hands caught her bare waist and set her roughly on her feet. They released her immediately, as if he didn’t like the feel of her taut, warm skin.

“What the hell kind of joke is this?” he asked coldly.

“It’s a birthday greeting,” she said, trying not to show how she really felt. Most people reacted in the spirit of fun that the messages intended, but it was a fact that this man wasn’t going to appreciate the offbeat humor of his partner. She almost felt sorry for him. But she had to tell. It was part of the job.

“From whom?” he persisted, oblivious to the amused looks of his co-workers.

“Your partner, Andrew Dedham,” she said.

“Then the joke is on him,” he said coldly. “Because today is not my birthday.”

She glared at him. “Then why didn’t you say so at the beginning?” she challenged. “You surely didn’t think I came in off the streets selling magazine subscriptions!”

His heavy brows lifted. “I wouldn’t buy that kind of magazine,” he said curtly.

Her eyes narrowed icily. “Why not, you look as if you could use some tutoring,” she returned. “Frozen clean through, are we?” she added with a cold smile.

He seemed to grow three inches. “Whatever I am is none of your business. And if you aren’t out that door in three minutes flat, I’ll have you arrested for soliciting.”

“I am not a prostitute,” she told him, sliding into her coat. “But if I were, honey, you wouldn’t be rich enough!”

“I wouldn’t be desperate enough,” he corrected. “Out.”

Just like that, as if she were a dog! She stared holes in him, but he only folded his arms over his formidable chest and glared back. Her eyes fell. She’d never encountered anybody like this giant dead fish, and she never wanted to again. From now on, Marla could do her own messages!

“When you do have your birthday, Mr. North Pole,” Amelia said at the door, “I hope your birthday cake explodes in your face!”

“Just make sure you don’t jump out of it,” he returned coldly.

“I couldn’t,” she replied with a sweet smile. “The heat from all the candles would burn me alive!”

And she closed the door with a hard slam. Her hands trembled as she refastened the coat.

The receptionist came back in with a tray of Styrofoam cups obviously filled with coffee. She smiled in a friendly way. “Are you waiting to see Mr. Carson?” she asked. “Sorry I wasn’t here, I just sneaked out to get them some coffee.”

She remembered belatedly the name of this building. “The…Carson Building…wouldn’t be…?” Amelia faltered.

“Yes, it would. Named for the late Angus. Did you want to see Mr. Carson?”

“I already have,” Amanda said with a rueful laugh. “His poor wife.”

The receptionist blinked. “Wife?”

Amelia was already at the other door, but she turned. “Isn’t he married?”

“Not him,” came the laughing reply. “There isn’t a woman anywhere brave enough.”

“I understand exactly what you mean. So long.”

Two

Amelia was stoked up and fuming like a steam engine when she got back to Marla’s office. She was dripping from the combined temperatures of Chicago in the summer and the winter trench coat she’d been wearing over the flamboyant belly dancer’s costume.

Marla looked up, an elf with blond hair and blue eyes. “Well?” she asked, all wide smiles.

“Wentworth Carson,” she began as she stripped off the trench coat and fumbled in Marla’s office closet for her neat gray suit and blouse, “is a giant dead fish. He has the sense of humor of a giant dead fish, and he looks like a giant dead fish.”

Marla, who’d known Amelia for almost a year, as long as the Georgia girl had been in Chicago, had never heard her fume before. She stared. “Andy said he had a sense of humor,” she began.

“Where is it, visiting relatives in New York?” Amelia demanded.

Marla burst out laughing. She couldn’t help it. “Oh, darling, I’m sorry, I know Andy didn’t mean…”

“It wasn’t his birthday,” Amelia continued as she dragged on her slip and blouse and skirt with quick, methodical fury. “He said so. He accused me of being a prostitute. He threw me out of his office. He said not to jump out of his birthday cake. I hate him!”

Marla had long since buried her face in her hands on the desk, and her thin shoulders were shaking.

“What did you do?”

“I kissed him.”

The laughter got worse.

“It made him furious, of course,” Amelia said. She fumbled for a small brush in her purse and dragged it through the tangle of her hair. “I couldn’t resist it, he looked so almighty arrogant. He should have tried to enjoy it, I can’t imagine that he’s ever been kissed by any woman who was actually willing and didn’t have to be paid!”

Marla was just now catching her breath. “He did make an impression, didn’t he?” she gasped. “I’m so sorry! If Kerrie hadn’t been sick, you’d have been spared.”

“I wouldn’t go near that man again for anything,” she grumbled. “He’s a…a…a…”

“Giant dead fish?”

“Yes!”

“Andy will die when I tell him.” Marla sighed. “I hope Wentworth Carson is a forgiving man, or my poor Andy will be out looking for work again.”

“What possessed Andy to pull such a joke on a man like that?” Amelia asked. “He obviously has no sense of humor, and it wasn’t even his birthday!”

“Maybe Andy didn’t know that,” Marla said comfortingly. She studied the older woman, dressed now in her familiar staid business clothes, her hair neatly arranged in a French twist. No one who saw her now would believe her capable of pulling off a joke like that.

“This is not how I want to spend my next hard-earned day off,” Amelia said.

“Well, thanks a million for helping me out,” Marla said and hugged the taller girl affectionately. “Andy will be thrilled, even if you aren’t.”

“I hope so. Tell him it was a sacrifice I’ll never make again, will you?” She waved as she went out the door.

All the way home she thought about Wentworth Carson, and her teeth ground together. Horrible, humorless man, he must be the world’s worst lover. He couldn’t even kiss. Of course, he hadn’t wanted to kiss her back. She flushed, remembering the hardness of his closed mouth. He seemed like a lonely man. She shook herself. She even felt sorry for squashed spiders, she reminded herself forcibly.

She went back to the sink in the small kitchen of the efficiency apartment she rented from a kindly couple in a residential area near the beach. It was really a garage apartment, but it had the advantage of being like a real house. She had the family, the Kennedys, nearby if she needed help, and she could walk to the beach. She had a phone of her own and even shared the family cat, Khan, a puffy Siamese-Persian, who visited her whenever she had chicken. She’d changed into a comfortable caftan and was just putting the finishing touches to tuna-salad sandwiches when her doorbell rang.

She frowned. Nobody ever came calling except Marla, and Marla went out with Andy practically every night now. It could be one of the Kennedys, of course, except that they were an elderly couple and never bothered her. Perhaps it was a salesman. She grinned, thinking up ways to get rid of him. Her social life was so dull that even a salesman became a welcome pest. It was great fun deciding how to get rid of them tactfully.

The last one had been selling subscriptions to an underwater publication. She promised to send a check as soon as her sunken living-room pool was finished. She’d closed the door on a face like a mask as he tried to decide between going meekly away or calling the nearest sanitarium on her behalf.

She opened the door as far as the chain latch would allow—it was night, after all—and came face to face with the enemy.

Her pale blue eyes glared at him through the crack. “I do not give private performances,” she informed Wentworth Carson.

“Thank God,” he returned. “Are you going to open the door, or would you like it removed?”

Heavens, he was the size of a battering ram! The Kennedys would surely throw her out if he put his shoulder to it….

With an angry sigh, she opened the door and let him in. He was wearing a trendy blue blazer with an unbuttoned white shirt and white slacks, and a dark pelt of hair showed in the opening at his olive tan throat. He looked different than he had that afternoon in his office. Big and broad and oddly sensuous for a cold fish. He made her nervous.

He stared down at her with a frown, his eyes on the blue-green-and-gold striped caftan she was wearing, with bare feet, no makeup and her dark hair still in its neat French twist.

“Are you Amelia Glenn?” he asked as if he couldn’t quite believe it.

“Surely you don’t make mistakes, Mr. Carson?” she asked with a false smile. “I’d never believe it!”

“You look more mature,” he said.

She glared at him. “You mean I look older. I was twenty-eight last month, in fact,” she said. “About half your age…?” she added pointedly.

“I’m forty,” he replied.

“Twelve years your junior,” she corrected smugly. “I do feel a mere child by comparison.”

He scowled blackly. She wondered if he ever smiled. He put his hands into his slacks pockets and stared at her openly.

“Miss Sayers tells me you don’t work for her.”

“No, I don’t.” She turned back toward the kitchen. “You’re welcome to join me if you like tuna fish,” she said over her shoulder.

He closed the door and followed her into the kitchen, pulling out a chair at the small table. “Is this called Southern hospitality, or do I look underfed?”

She couldn’t help the laughter. “Underfed, my foot. I’d hate to have your grocery bill.”

“I have to watch what I eat,” he said frankly. “Even then, I work out at the gym to keep from looking like a walking beer barrel.”

She laughed again, and reddened. “Sorry.”

“No offense taken. What do you do for a living?”

She poured coffee into two handmade pottery cups, her eyebrows asking if he drank coffee, and he nodded.

“I’m a clerk typist for an agricultural equipment firm,” she said.

His eyebrows arched.

“Well, I am,” she grumbled. “What do I look like?”

He actually smiled. Or it could be a muscle spasm, she thought wickedly. “I expected a more exotic occupation,” he returned.

“I grew up working in a print shop. The most exotic thing I’ve ever done in my life I did this afternoon, to help Marla out.”

“Andy Dedham started working for me last month,” he said as she sat down and shoved a platter of sandwiches between them on the table. “He doesn’t know me very well yet, but he’ll learn. I am going to pay him back in kind, and you’re going to help me. In costume, of course.”

She froze. “How?”

“His mother,” he replied, toying with his cup of black coffee, “is from Boston. She is a saintly widowed lady with impeccable manners, and once a month she comes to town and takes him to La Pierre for an elegant dinner.”

“Oh, no.” She shook her head. “Oh, no, I couldn’t, not there! All those people…! And Marla would never forgive me!”

“Where’s your spirit of adventure, Miss Glenn?”

“Under the table, hiding,” she returned. “I can’t! Furthermore,” she added with hauteur, “I won’t!”

He considered that, watching her with pursed lips. “Suppose I had a male stripper appear for you, at your sainted place of work?” he asked pleasantly.

She went violently red, gaping at him. “Oh, no, you couldn’t. Mr. Callahan would fire me on the spot!”

He smiled, very slowly. “Would he, really?”

“You wouldn’t!”

“Get in your rig, Cleopatra, be at La Pierre tomorrow night at exactly 7:00 p.m. and ask for Carlos when you get to the door,” he said. “Everything will be arranged. If not,” he added, studying her carelessly, “the morning after, you will have a particularly nauseating visitor, G-string and all.”

She buried her face in her hands. “I’d die!”

“My, my, aren’t you a paradox?” he murmured on a deep chuckle. “You seemed to enjoy your role enough, when the shoe was on the other foot.”

“I didn’t embarrass you,” she countered. “That can’t be done!”

“That’s true enough,” he affirmed. He leaned back in his chair, all blatant masculinity, big and dark and frankly sexy, with that shirt unbuttoned just enough to make her wonder what was under it. Dark hair peeked out of the opening, and a deeply tanned throat. He was as sensuous as any man she’d ever encountered, and twice the size of most of her dates. She would have found him fascinating under other circumstances.

Her quiet eyes were frankly appraising, and he lifted a dark eyebrow.

“Do I fascinate you, Miss Glenn?” he asked on a laugh. “Or are you looking for an appropriate place to plant a dagger?”

She raised her chin to show him she wasn’t intimidated. “I was just thinking how amazing it is that the chair hasn’t collapsed under your weight.”

He laughed softly, laughter that had a frankly predatory sound. “Were you? I’m not that big.”

“No,” she said with mock sincerity, “you’re just a small mountain, that’s all.”

His dark eyes narrowed as they appraised her, and she wanted to back off and run. He disturbed her.

“I am not on the menu,” she said boldly.

“Pity,” he murmured. “You might taste better than you look.”

She lifted her cup and cocked her head to one side.

“I wouldn’t,” he said calmly. “You’d have to spend the evening washing up.”

She sighed angrily. “I don’t like you.”

He smiled slowly. “If I hadn’t learned so much about your sex the hard way, I might be tempted to make you like me,” he said very quietly. “But fortunately for you, I’ve lost my taste for it. An occasional night out satisfies me very well these days.”

He sounded and looked as if women held no more secrets for him, and she felt vaguely grateful that he wasn’t interested in her. A man like that, with his obvious experience, could make mincemeat of her.

“Excuse me while I get down on my knees and give thanks for that saving grace,” she told him and offered him the sandwiches.

He took one and studied it carefully.

“Looking for something?” she asked as she lifted one for herself.

“Arsenic,” he said bluntly.

She burst out laughing. “I used the last on the bus driver who let me off a mile from my stop,” she promised. “Honestly, it’s safe.”

He bit into it, finished it and smiled. “Not bad. I didn’t know tuna could taste so good.”

“It’s the pickled peach juice,” she murmured dryly. “Dad taught me how to make it. He does most of the cooking. My mother can burn water.”

“What does she do?”

“She sets type for my father, who runs the print shop. She’s very good at that, and dealing with customers, but she isn’t domestic. I learned to cook or starve at an early age.” She finished her own sandwich and took a sip of coffee. “How long have you been in construction?” she asked politely.

His broad shoulders shrugged as he finished his second sandwich. “I think I was born doing it. My parents died when I was just a child. My grandmother raised me, pushed me into finding a profession I liked instead of just one I took for money.” He smiled faintly. “I found I enjoyed building things. She prodded me until I called up a cousin who was an architect and asked him point-blank how I could get into the business. He was impressed enough to hire me on the spot. I worked for him between college classes. When I graduated he gave me an executive position.” His eyes grew wistful. “He had no immediate family, and he hated most of his distant relatives. When he died, I inherited the company. I’ve expanded it, enlarged it. Now it’s almost too big for me. I have a board of directors and every damned decision I make, I have to fight for.”

“I’m glad I’m just a tadpole,” she said with a sigh. “I’d hate that.”

“I enjoy it,” he murmured, dark eyes smiling at her across the table. “I like the challenge. It keeps my blood pumping.”

At his age, surely a family would help. She studied him for a long moment, unaware of the blatant curiosity in her eyes.

“Well?” he asked. “Spit it out.”

She shifted in the chair, feeling her nudity under the caftan as if he’d reached out and touched her. She hadn’t been self-conscious with him before, but now she wished she was dressed.

“I just wondered why you weren’t married.”

“Because I don’t want to be,” he replied. His dark eyes sparkled mischievously. “Or did you think I was over the hill? I assure you, I’m not. At least, not in the respect you’re mulling over,” he added, watching her fidget nervously. He finished his coffee. “Are you going to La Pierre, or do I make a phone call?” he asked.

She sighed defeatedly. “I’ll go. But I’ll never forgive you.”

“That won’t matter,” he said. “We won’t see each other again.” He stood up. “Thanks for the meal.”

“You’re welcome.”

She walked him to the door, expecting him to go right out it. But he didn’t. He turned and suddenly put his big hands on either side of her face and tilted it up to his dark eyes.

“Just to set you right on something…” he murmured, and bent his head.

His mouth came down on hers roughly, a warm assault that quickly parted her set lips and searched them with a pressure that was demanding and frankly expert. Within seconds, she was his, a victim turned coconspirator, a willing victim with a frantic heartbeat. She’d been kissed before, infrequently, but it had never been like this. She wanted it to go on forever. Her eyes were closed, her fists clenched tightly by her sides, her body throbbing even though he didn’t touch it or bring her one inch closer. She savored the rough pressure of his lips on hers and tasted him in one wild second with all the sensual curiosity she’d ever experienced for a man.

His head lifted a fraction of an inch and he looked into her drowsy, dazed eyes. “Why, you little fraud,” he breathed. “It was pure bravado this morning, wasn’t it? You don’t even know how!”

She almost said “teach me,” she almost reached up to him. But sanity came back just in the nick of time. She eased away from him, her eyes nervous but steady on his face.

“Are you through?” she asked through lips swollen from the pressure of his mouth, which had, at the last, been formidable.

“Yes.” He studied her with a ghost of a smile on his broad, craggy face. “Odd how things happen. I’m sorry we come from such different walks of life. I’d have enjoyed teaching you. A twenty-eight year old innocent,” he added with a visible twinkle in his dark eyes, “is an intriguing proposition.”

“You just take your propositions and go away and play with your building blocks. I’ll do your dirty work. And you keep that male stripper away from my office, please, I need my job.”

“Seven sharp,” he returned. He opened the door with a last, lingering look. “You could make your living as an exotic dancer,” he said quietly. “I’ve never seen a more exquisite body.”

He turned and left her standing there. It was a full minute before she could close the door again. Cold fish, indeed! More like a dormant volcano….

Three

Mr. Callahan was around sixty, had a bald head and narrow little eyes, wore glasses and was half Amelia’s size. He could out curse any sailor in port on a spree, and his compassion stopped at the door of his plant. He did not give leaves of absence, he did not like illness, and if there had been another job going anywhere, Amelia would have taken it on the spot. But openings were so hard to find in the raw economic times that she gritted her teeth and did what she was told. The only thing worse than this would be going back to Seagrove, a small town on the coast near Savannah, Georgia, and helping her parents run the print shop. That would take her close to Henry Janrett, who still expected her to come home and marry him when she got big-city living out of her blood. Henry ran the small town’s sole newspaper. He wrote a column about beekeeping, when he wasn’t lazing around local officials’ offices jotting down notes. He was a sweet man, just about Amelia’s own age, and she supposed someday she might even give in and do it. But Henry seemed a desperate last chance, and meanwhile she was still hoping for a crack at an exciting occupation in the big city. She didn’t know why she’d picked Chicago. Perhaps because her Navy veteran mother had been stationed at a naval base near Chicago during World War II and had come to Chicago on leave, and Amelia had heard such fascinating things about the Windy City. Perhaps it was its ancient gangster history. She’d come here a year ago in a last-ditch attempt to find something her life lacked, before she went over the hill completely. She’d been hoping for excitement and adventure. And she’d found Mr. Callahan.

She groaned as she filled out another order form. Then she thought about what she had to do at 7:00 p.m. and groaned again. She called Marla at lunch and asked if she could borrow the belly dancer’s costume.

“Why?” Marla asked.

“I don’t have time for deep questions,” Amelia grumbled. “Can I or can’t I?”

“Well…sure. He went to see you, didn’t he? I had to give him your address, you just can’t say no to him; but I thought he was going to mail you a letter….”

“I can’t tell you what it’s all about, so don’t ask.” Amelia sighed. “But Andy isn’t going to like it.”

“What is he having you do? Oh, Amelia, you can tell me, I’m your friend!”

Mr. Callahan came out of his office, saw her on the phone and glared.

“Yes, sir,” Amelia said calmly, “that’s right, our new manure spreader can handle all your requirements.”

“What?” Marla faltered.

“If you’ll get your order right in the mail…. Oh, you’re just checking on it, you don’t want to place an order at this time? But you are keeping us in mind? How nice of you, sir!”

Marla was giggling. “Mr. Callahan, I presume? See you later, darling.”

“Yes, sir, certainly. Goodbye.” Amelia hung up and gave Mr. Callahan a bright smile.

He nodded approvingly. “Nice public relations work, girl. Very nice.” He walked on by, and Amelia tried not to slide down in her chair with relief.

Of course, Marla was waiting like a big spider when Amelia got to her office late that evening.

“What are you going to do, and where?” Marla asked. “You’ve got to tell me! What has that man put you up to?”

“I can’t tell you,” Amelia groaned, knowing that Marla would rush to tell Andy, and then she’d have a male stripper in her office…arrrgh!

“I’m your friend,” Marla coaxed.

“So far, so good, will you swear out an affidavit to that effect and keep it on hand, I may need it,” she murmured as she drew on the belly dancer’s costume and tugged her trench coat over it. “This is getting to be a real drag, you know?” she muttered.

“Where are you going?” Marla asked.

“Out to eat.”

“Where?”

The phone rang in time to save her. Marla answered it, and Amelia got her purse and started out the door.

“Yes, of course I understand, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Marla was saying. “Yes, I’m sure the weather’s cooler there. It’s too bad she’s sick.”

Amelia waved and left. Rather than walk, she got a cab across town to the French restaurant. She walked in, nervous, fuming, and asked for Carlos.

The hostess gave her a blank stare. “I beg your pardon?”

“I want to speak to Carlos,” Amelia said again. “He’s expecting me.”

“To do what?” the hostess burst out, staring at the trench coat, which showed no blouse or skirt or slacks.

Amelia leaned forward. “I’m stark naked,” she said with a stage leer. “I’m supposed to jump out and scare an old lady in there. Now will you please get Carlos?”

“Yes, ma’am!” the hostess said quickly, backing away.

Amelia blew a wisp of hair out of her eyes. Of all the hangups, why did it have to happen to her? She glared around her, hating the elegant restaurant, hating Wentworth Carson, hating the whole world. Things had been going so well lately….

It seemed to take forever to get Carlos. But minutes later she heard footsteps and turned to see a tall, very somber policeman walking toward her.

“Okay, lady,” the policeman said, and brought out a pair of handcuffs. “Let’s go see the sergeant.”

“No!” Amelia burst out. “No, you can’t! I’m here for a legitimate reason. Let me show you!”

She started to unbutton the trench coat, and the policeman quickly got her hands behind her and whipped on the handcuffs.

“No, you don’t!” the policeman said quickly. “No flashing! Honest to God, you college kids give me a pain. Thanks for calling me, Dolores. I’ll take care of her. Come on, honey.”

“Thanks, Dolores,” Amelia sputtered at the stunned hostess. “I’ll do you a favor someday. What’re your favorite colors, and I’ll send flowers along with the bomb.”

“Terrorist threats and acts,” the policeman muttered as he led her toward the waiting squad car. “Honest to God, you could get ten years.”

Amelia started to speak just as a photographer rushed up and exploded a flashbulb in her face.

“Open the coat, honey, open the coat, let’s get some good pics!” the photographer called, and the policeman put her in the car and went forward to argue with the photographer.

Amelia sank back against the seat and closed her eyes. There are days, she thought pleasantly, when it’s just the very devil to get out of bed at all.

She eventually got everything straightened out. But it took a phone call to a very upset Marla, who had to come downtown and explain everything to the desk sergeant, who looked like a man who’d heard everything once and didn’t have a spare nerve left in his entire body.

“I will die, I will just die,” Amelia moaned when she and Marla were back at the Kennedys’ garage apartment. “Imagine me being arrested! Arrested! And for flashing…. I will kill that man,” she said, wide-eyed. “I will kill him stone-cold dead.”

“I may help you,” Marla said darkly. “Imagine, setting up poor Andy and his mother that way.” She frowned. “But, darling, Andy had gone home to see about his mother. She got sick early this morning.”

Amelia stopped and blinked. “What?”

“Andy went home.”

“But he told me to go to La Pierre tonight,” she gasped. “He told me to ask for Carlos….” She moaned again. “And there was a photographer! He took my picture!”

Marla stared at her. “What if he was a press photographer?”

She buried her head in her hands. “I’ll die.”

“Well, maybe he wasn’t. You get a good night’s sleep, and in the morning it will all seem like a bad dream, you’ll see.” Marla hugged her. “You’ve had an awful night, I know. Just have a nice bath and go to sleep, and in the morning it will be all right.”

“Will it?” Amelia asked pitifully, needing reassurance.

“Really.”

But in the morning, she went to get her newspaper. And when she opened it, there she was, shocked face and all, on the front page, being arrested in a trench coat. And the cutline read, “Who says flashing is passé? This young lady was arrested au naturel at Chez Pierre last night for attempting to flash the exclusive clientele. Tough luck, isn’t she lovely?”

She closed the newspaper just as the phone rang. She didn’t need even one guess.

“Hello, Mr. Callahan,” she said hopefully.

“You’re fired!” he yelled, and hung up.

She sat down with a sigh beside her cooling morning coffee. So much for things getting better.

After she dressed, she phoned Marla. “I want Mr. Wentworth Carson’s address.”

“Darling…” Marla began.

“You call Andy and find out for me where he lives. I am not going to do this at his office, I am going to go to his home and kill him where he stands.”

“But, darling….”

“Do it.” She hung up.

Several harrowing hours later, after she’d exhausted the terrifying possibilities of unemployment and the rent being due, she drove up the long, winding driveway of an estate in Lincoln Park. It was an exclusive neighborhood, and she wasn’t shocked by the very elegant and enormous brick home sitting at the end of that flowery, tree-shaded drive. She parked her elderly but respectable Ford at the front door and got out, glaring at the white Rolls Royce as she passed by on her way up the steps.

She was wearing her gray business suit with a sedate white blouse and white accessories. She looked very prim and proper with her hair in a bun and the minimum of makeup. And she only wished she could drive a tank into the front door. She wanted to make a very good impression on Wentworth Carson. A lasting, physical impression.

She rang the bell. An elderly man opened the door and smiled at her. “Yes, madam, may I help you?”

“I am here to see Wentworth Carson,” she said quietly.

“Mr. Carson is in the study,” he said. “May I announce you?”

“You may not,” she replied, pushing past him. “I will announce myself. Which way is the study, please?”

The elderly man hesitated, but his restraint was unnecessary. Wentworth Carson himself was standing in the doorway of the plushly carpeted room, wearing slacks and a burgundy knit shirt, hands in slacks pockets, staring at her.

“Miss Glenn,” he said politely.

“Mr. Carson,” she replied with equal politeness.

“Why are you here?” he asked curtly. “And how did you get this address?”

“Those questions are hardly relevant.” She produced a folded newspaper from under her arm and handed it to him.

He frowned and then opened the paper. His eyes blinked as he read. His head lifted. “What the hell did you do, woman?”

“I went to La Pierre to surprise Andy.”

He was trying not to laugh. “Well, it was all for nothing, wasn’t it? He didn’t show up.” He glanced at her. “But didn’t you look at the sign?”

Her head moved a little. “What?”

“Didn’t you look at the sign?”

He handed her the paper. She looked. There on the marquis was “Chez Pierre.”

She felt faint. But she was made of sturdy stuff. During the Civil War one of her great-grandmothers had held off a company of Yankees for two days until help arrived to vanquish them. Amelia stood erect.

“Andy was at home with his mother,” she said.

“Yes, I know. I hadn’t expected him to come into the office, and he didn’t call me until last night. I didn’t have time to warn you.”

She was still staring blankly at him. “I got arrested. They took me to jail. They booked me. I was fingerprinted. They thought I was naked. I told them I wasn’t, but they wouldn’t listen. They locked me up!” Her eyes got wilder as she went along. “My father subscribes to this paper.” She held it up. “He likes to know what’s going on in the city where his daughter lives.” She stared down at the newspaper. “What a shock this will be. I’ve never even worn shorts downtown back home.”

He couldn’t help it. He laughed. That only made it worse. She flung the paper on the floor while the elderly butler tried diligently to keep a straight face.

“Mr. Callahan called me this morning. He fired me. Now I’ll have to go back home. The people in the post office will see that paper, and so will the mail carrier, and the mail carrier will tell his wife, and she’ll tell the ladies at church….” Her lower lip trembled as tears threatened. “I hate you. And I made Marla get your address from Andy so that I could come here and tell you how much I hate you. I hope your Rolls Royce rusts!”

She turned around and started out the door, just as a quavering voice asked, “Who is that, Worth?”

The voice was of someone the butler’s age, but feminine. Through tears, Amelia saw a tiny old woman moving into the hall from the room on the other side of the house. She could hardly walk; her gnarled hands were on a padded walker. She stood just inside the hall and looked for all the world like a cuddly toy. She smiled, brightening her blue eyes and her pale, wrinkled complexion.

“Hello,” she said softly.

“H-hello,” Amelia said, and even managed a watery smile.

“I couldn’t help hearing,” the older woman apologized. “Worth hardly ever guffaws like that; it woke me from my nap. Are you the young lady he was bellowing about last night? You don’t look like a belly dancer.”

“Actually, I’m a retired ax murderer,” Amelia said with a cold glare at Wentworth Carson. “Just recently retired.”

“Thank goodness, I’m sure I wouldn’t enjoy being murdered. Do you drink tea, my dear?”

“Grandmother, I’m sure Miss Glenn has packing to do,” the big man said, as if the prospect of having her out of the city delighted him.

Amelia glared at him. “I like tea.”

“Then do come and have a cup with me,” the old woman said. “I’m Jeanette Carson. Worth is my grandson.”

“How lovely for you,” Amelia said. She gave Worth a glance and followed the little old lady into the elegance of rosewood and silk furniture and immaculate white carpeting. “My name is Amelia Glenn.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you, my dear. I adore white, as you see. Impractical, but so lovely,” Jeanette Carson said. She eased down on the sofa in front of a long, polished coffee table, and rang a bell. A young woman in uniform appeared and was told to bring tea.

“That was Carolyn,” Jeanette said. “Worth hasn’t run her off yet, but I do believe he’s giving it his best. He prefers to have me surrounded with men here. He’s sure I can get around women, but he believes that men can handle me. Ha!” She laughed. Her wrinkled face drew up indignantly. She sighed. “Anyway, he never brings young ladies home these days. I was simply shocked when he mentioned you. I didn’t know about you, you see.”

“Oh, Worth and I are great friends,” she said, smiling poisonously at the big man who joined them. “Aren’t we?”

He stared at her. “You and I, friends? God forbid!”

“Don’t you worry, we will be. You’ll get used to me, you lucky man,” she added with a cold smile.

“You brought your troubles on yourself, Miss Glenn,” he said. He sat down, hitching up his pants. “You should take some spelling courses.”

She glared at him. “If it hadn’t been for you, I wouldn’t have gone to the restaurant in the first place.”

“You started it,” he reminded her. He leaned back in his chair and smiled at her challengingly.

“I do seem to have missed something,” Jeanette broke in, glancing from one to the other.

“Lucky you.” Amelia smiled.

“Miss Glenn was arrested in the early hours for—” he paused for effect “—flashing, wasn’t it?”

She glared at him. “I was arrested for wearing a belly dancing costume under a trench coat,” she told the elderly woman, “at Wentworth’s instructions.”

Jeanette gasped as she stared at her grandson. “You sent this young woman to an elegant French restaurant in a belly dancing costume?”

His dark eyes narrowed at Amelia. “She came waltzing into my office wearing it, sang me a birthday song and kissed me.”

Jeanette leaned forward. “Don’t be ridiculous, Worth, it isn’t your birthday.”

“I know that!” he burst out. “It was a practical joke one of my employees played on me. Almost,” he added darkly, “an ex-employee.”

“Now, now, Wentworth, you wouldn’t really fire him?” Amelia taunted.

“Worth,” he said irritably. “No one calls me Wentworth.”

“I can think up some better names,” Amelia said sweetly. “Perhaps you’d like to hear them, at length, some other time?”

“That isn’t likely,” he said firmly. “You’ll be out of town.”

“Out of town?” Jeanette frowned. “Why?”

“She lost her job,” Wentworth Carson said.

“Then, dear, you must give her another one,” Jeanette said. “It’s the least you can do, since it’s your fault she lost it.”

“It is not my fault,” he said. “And I don’t have a job to give her,” he added smugly, “there are no vacancies.”

“In that case, she can work for me,” Jeanette said haughtily. “I need a social secretary. Someone to fetch and carry and help me get around town. God knows, you’re never here in the daytime.”

Worth sat up straight, as if he didn’t believe what he was hearing. “Social secretary?”

“Yes,” Jeanette said. She gave him a dogged glare, and the resemblance between the two of them was so noticeable that Amelia almost smiled.

He glared at Amelia.

“I didn’t come here looking for a job,” she said in all honesty to Jeanette. “I only came to kill your grandson.”

“Too messy on white carpet,” Jeanette said, shrugging it off and smiling as Carolyn brought in the big silver tea service. “Work for me instead. You can even live in, if you like.”

“Hell, no,” Worth said quietly.

“Wentworth!” Jeanette chided.

He got up and walked out of the room, muttering things under his breath as he slammed the door behind him.

“Now that he’s out of the way, let’s talk business,” Jeanette said, smiling at her guest. “I’m seventy-five, I have a temper as bad as my grandson’s, I’m overbearing and pushy and I never ask when I can demand.” She sat back, tea in hand. “I’m recovering from a broken hip and it’s hard for me to get around. Worth practically keeps me in chains. And I want to break out. You can help me.”

“You don’t know me,” Amelia began.

Jeanette stared at her. “In my day,” she said, “I was one of the best investigative reporters in Chicago. I am a dandy judge of character even to this day. I may not know you now, but I will. And so far, you pass with flying colors. Now,” she said. She named a figure twice what Callahan had paid Amelia. “Does that suit you? And would you like to live in?”

“I would, if only to spite your grandson, but I signed a one-year lease where I am, and I like my landlords very much,” she confessed. “Besides,” she added, “I like my privacy. There simply isn’t any when you live with other people.”

“How old are you, dear?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“Parents?”

“Both living. They have a print shop back home in Georgia.”

Jeanette stared into her tea. “And is there a man in your life?”

She sighed. “Not unless you count Henry. He runs the paper back home and would marry me on a sunny day if it weren’t too inconvenient and didn’t happen on press day.”

Jeanette laughed softly. “We’re going to get along very well. Yes, we are.”

Amelia thought so, too. But when she came out two hours later, Wentworth Carson was waiting outside in the yard, hands in pockets and glaring holes in her.

“What a snit we’re in,” Amelia chided. “Talk about bad-tempered people…”

“It is not my fault you lost your job,” he told her bluntly. “And I like my life as it is. I want no part of you here. Tell my grandmother you won’t take the job.”

“I like your grandmother,” she said curtly. “She’s just like my mother, crusty and unflappable and impossible to fool. I’ll take care of her.”

He stared harder. “In return for what?” he asked, narrowed eyes telling her everything he wasn’t saying.

“How often is she taken advantage of?” she asked instead.

“Her heart is as big as the world,” he said. “She likes strays.”

“I am not a stray. I have owners.”

“Go home.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I’d have to marry Henry!” she burst out. “If he’d still have me after he saw a copy of this morning’s paper. My reputation will be in shreds.”

“Why not marry Henry?” He frowned.

“Because the most exciting thing he ever said to me was, ‘Amy, your nose has a crook in it.’”

His eyebrows lifted. “Not a passionate man.”

“No.”

His dark eyes roamed over her neat suit. “Are you a passionate woman?”

“That’s something you’ll never need to know. I am going to work for your grandmother, not get involved with you,” she told him firmly.

One corner of his disciplined mouth turned up. “She likes you. She’ll spend her days throwing you at my head and her nights finding more ways to get us married.”

“You’re safe,” she told him, turning toward her old Ford. “I don’t like older men.”

“Forty is not old,” he said shortly.

“At twenty-eight, it is old,” she returned, facing him squarely. “I want somebody to play with.”

He started laughing, and only then did she realize how he’d interpreted what she said. Her face flamed.

“Baseball!” she burst out. “Tennis and swimming and jogging, not…not…that!”

He laughed harder. She didn’t say another word. She crawled into her car and managed with the greatest of difficulty to get it turned around and headed out of the yard. He was still standing there laughing when she drove away.

Four

Amelia showed up for work the next morning at eight-thirty sharp, wearing a sedate gray ensemble that made her pale blue eyes look slate-gray to match it. The skirt and knit blouse were worn with a trendy little short-sleeved cotton jacket, and she put her hair in a neat bun. She wasn’t giving Wentworth Carson any cause for complaint with the way she dressed.

When she pulled up in front of the house, a short, elderly yardman motioned her to move the car down to the garage. She cranked the engine again, with difficulty. The old yellow Ford had a habit of refusing to turn on again after the engine got hot. It was one of those ghostly problems that several mechanics hadn’t been able to solve, so she lived with it. But today it did crank, eventually, and she pulled it with a clank and a clatter down to the elegant, spacious garage where Wentworth’s Rolls and a Mercedes were parked.

It made her feel odd, parking between two such luxurious vehicles, and she was half afraid that she might accidentally scratch one of them. But it was obvious that Wentworth didn’t want her pitiful old wreck parked in front of his house. And that irritated her no end. Snob, she thought angrily.

She’d worked herself into a fever of resentment by the time she got to the front door. Well, he needn’t think she was going to skulk up the back stairs like a servant. She was as good as he was, any day!

The maid opened the door for her with a smile. “Come in, please. Mrs. Carson is still asleep, but Mr. Worth said you’re to have breakfast with him in the dining room. Follow me, please.”

Breakfast with Worth, she thought, how lucky could a working girl get?

He was sitting at the head of the table with a cup of coffee and a pile of toast at his elbow. He glanced up when she came into the room, his eyes dark and steady and expressionless.

“What a treat,” he taunted. “Breakfast with the terror of the Egyptian tombs.”

“I am not a mummy,” she countered. “And I don’t want breakfast.”

“Yes, it’s patently obvious that you rarely eat,” he commented, glancing at her. “But if you work here, you’ll need to. You see,” he added, leaning back with a disgustingly confident smile on his tanned face, “my grandmother and I have an arrangement about you.”

This sounded unpleasant. She sat down gingerly and eyed him suspiciously. “You have?”

“Yes. I don’t have a private secretary. And since you’ll be here all day, every day—” he made it sound like a waking curse “—and since grandmother will need you for only a few hours a day, we’ve decided to share you.”

Her skin chilled. “I don’t want to be shared.”

“But then, it isn’t your choice,” he reminded her. “You can always go home and marry Henry,” he suggested mildly.

She shuddered delicately. “Even working for you wouldn’t be that bad.”

“Should I be flattered?” he murmured dryly. He lifted his head, craggy features relaxing a little as he studied her face. “It must take layers of makeup,” he said absently.

He surprised her. “What?” she stammered.

“Your complexion,” he explained. “It’s much too perfect to be natural.”

“I use soap,” she said curtly. “Nothing else, not even powder. I don’t like artificial things.”

“Neither do I,” he returned. His tanned fingers toyed with a spoon in his coffee. He was wearing a blue jacket with a white shirt and a speckled tie, and he looked every inch a business magnate. But the muscles under that jacket were formidable, and they rippled with every movement he made. His hair seemed even darker under the light, neat and clean, and there was a faint darkness where he shaved, as if he needed to shave often. His mouth fascinated her. She kept remembering how it felt on hers, how expert it had been. He was the kind of man who could have had any woman he wanted, and she was secretly glad that her powers of resistance weren’t going to be tested by him. She would have been defenseless in any kind of confrontation, and she wouldn’t have the sophistication to hold him. He could have broken her heart, and she was delighted that he wasn’t going to try.

“She’s very fragile,” she ventured as she poured coffee from the carafe into a delicate china cup and added cream.

“What?”

“Your grandmother,” she returned. “How did she break her hip?”

“Trying to learn how to break dance.”

Amelia had just taken a mouthful of coffee and almost strangled on it. She gaped at him.

“That’s right,” he said calmly. He sipped his own coffee. “She had videotapes of the steps, and she was trying to do a spin. She was too close to the fireplace. She went down on the stone hearth.”

“But she’s seventy-five!” she exclaimed.

“She likes hard rock,” he continued. “She enjoys very racy movies, she flirts outrageously with men, she can outdrink me when she likes and you’ll get an education in the art of self-expression if you’re ever in the vicinity when she loses her temper.”

She was only just getting her breath back. “An exceptional lady,” she said.

“Quite. But she has an unusually soft heart, and I don’t want her hurt,” he added, with a level, hard gaze. “I don’t know you. But I will. And if I find out anything that doesn’t jibe with what information you’ve given me, I will toss you out on your ear.”

She met his hard gaze levelly, eyebrows raised. “Well, I did get a parking ticket once,” she confessed.

“Funny girl,” he taunted.

“My mama says that laughing beats crying any day,” she returned with a vacant smile.

“Laugh while you can,” he said pleasantly. He finished his coffee. “Are you through? I’d like to get started.”

She blinked. “Started doing what?”

“Working, of course. I’m going out in the field today, to inspect a potential building site. You’ll come along and take notes.”

“But…but, Mrs. Carson…?”

He got to his feet, towering over her. “Grandmother won’t be up for hours yet. She watched movies until four in the morning.”

“But she said to be here at eight-thirty,” she protested.

“I told you she’d be trying her hand at matchmaking,” he reminded her.

She looked him up and down and tried to manage a disparaging expression. “Well, I’m really sorry, Wentworth, but you aren’t my type. I don’t like big men.”

He pursed his lips and smiled mischievously. “No?” He reached out a big hand and tugged her gently to her feet. His hands caught her waist and lifted her on a level with his eyes. “There are advantages to being my size. I don’t get argued with much.”

Her hands were on his big shoulders, cold and nervous. And the proximity disturbed her so much that she could feel her heart beating. His eyes were almost black, with very definite whites and black rims around the brown. They were impressive eyes. His nose was impressive, too, despite its size. It had a faintly Roman look, very straight and formidable. His forehead was broad and his mouth was firm and his chin had a dimple in it. She’d never liked dimpled chins, but this one was really sexy.

“Were any of your people Italian?” she asked without meaning to.

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” he said. “My grandfather was.”

“You…look Roman.”

His mouth curved a little, making the dimple pronounced. “So they tell me.” His hands contracted, bringing her closer, so that her face was under his, her mouth was under his, so that she could breathe the coffee he’d just swallowed. “Why did you take the job?”

He was really unsettling her. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her lips, the steely strength in the hands that held her off the floor so effortlessly. “I…needed it,” she whispered.

“There are other employers in Chicago,” he reminded her.

“How…far would I get without a recommendation?”

He searched her darkening blue eyes. “Not far,” he said, relenting. “Your eyes looked blue yesterday. Now they’re gray.”

“Are they?”

One corner of his mouth twitched. “Do I make you nervous, Miss Glenn?” he taunted in a voice like velvet. His eyes dropped to her lips.

“Don’t play with me,” she whispered shakily.

“But you said you wanted someone to play with,” he reminded her. “Only yesterday, in fact, as you were driving away in that yellow boxcar you own.”

“It isn’t a boxcar. And I didn’t mean this kind of playing.”

His mouth bent closer to hers as he eased her down to her feet again. “Didn’t you? Most women today play at love.”

“I’m not most women, and I don’t know how to,” she said. She tugged against his hands. “Let me go.”

“Afraid of me?” he chided gently.

She met his dark eyes. “I’m not in your league, Worth. Don’t do this to me. I’m no threat to your grandmother, or to you.”

“I’m not sure about the latter, Amy,” he said quietly, and the sound of her name on his lips had an oddly sweet sound. He bent a little more and brushed his hard mouth softly against hers, a whisper of sensation that tantalized more than satisfied. He lifted his dark, shaggy head, and studied her confused expression.

“Where are we going, and what do you want me to do?” she asked.

He let her go. “To the north side, to see a parcel of land I’m interested in developing. And I want you to take down some ideas and estimates for me. I can’t get the hang of dictating into a tape recorder. I don’t trust the damned things anyway. You can take dictation?” he added with a sharp glance.

“Yes,” she said. “I can. But I don’t have a pad or pen….”

“Come with me.”

She followed him, taking two steps for every one of his, and feeling oddly like a midget beside him. He made her feel wildly feminine. It was a sensation she wasn’t sure she liked.

He led her into a pine-paneled office with a huge oak desk and heavy furniture with leather upholstery. It had a stone fireplace and a thick beige carpet and dark brown curtains. A man’s room. It intimidated her, like its owner.

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