Authors: Brooke Hastings
"Gee," Randy said, as though overwhelmed by the price.
"How would I know what my credit limit is?"
"We punch your number into the computer," the woman said
impatiently, indicating a small terminal on the counter nearby. "Give
me the card; I'll check it for you."
Suppressing a smile, Randy took out her wallet and removed
the gold card, turning around to hand it to the saleswoman. She noticed
Luke standing several feet away, watching her. She was sure he'd been
forcing back a smile until their eyes met, but he quickly frowned and
gave her a disapproving stare.
The saleswoman examined the card, which read "Miranda
Conover Dunne", and above that, the number "000 00 006." There was no
need to consult with a computer to determine if her credit was good.
The VIP number and a name identical with that of the store she was
shopping in made such a formality unnecessary.
The woman's eyes jerked up to Randy's, her face
fire-engine red as she stumbled over her apology. "I'm terribly sorry,
Mira—I mean, Miss Dunne. The teenagers—these
clothes are so delicate—we have to be careful…"
"Of course you do," Luke put in smoothly, glancing at the
woman's nametag, "Mrs., uh, Healy. I'm sure Miranda is sorry she
trapped you that way, aren't you, Miranda?" Luke's tone brooked no
disagreement.
"Yes, I am, Mrs. Healy," Randy obediently parroted.
"Who are
you
?" the woman blurted
out, staring at Luke.
"My name is Luke Griffin, and I'm—"
"Dear God, the vice president," Mrs. Healy babbled, now
thoroughly rattled.
"That's right," Luke agreed with a smile. "I know you're
having a few problems in the store, and Miranda and I are here to have
a look around. You don't seem to be too busy at the moment, so why
don't we take a few minutes off and talk about what you think is wrong
here?"
At first Mrs. Healy was intimidated and defensive, but
inside of ninety seconds Luke had charmed her into confiding in him
like he was a long-lost friend. After she completed her monologue with
a tale of being blamed for a gown which had been ripped by a careless
debutante, Luke thanked her and asked her not to disclose their
presence. Then he clasped his fingers around Randy's upper arm and
hauled her off to the privacy of the stairwell.
"That was a damn stupid thing to do," he barked. "If I
hadn't shown up everyone in the store would have known we were here."
"You thought it was funny," Randy said. "I saw the look on
your face before you noticed me watching you. Besides, we were done
shopping."
Luke's lips twitched helplessly before he finally gave up
and laughed. "I don't believe you," he complained. " 'How would I know
what my credit is'?" he mimicked, following up the imitation with an
exasperated look. "What you need is a good spanking."
Since Randy had already sampled Luke's notion of a
spanking she found the threat more delicious than intimidating. "A
spanking, huh?" she repeated, her eyes dancing mischievously. "You mean
like in Maine, Mr. Griffin?"
"No, Miss Dunne, I
don't
mean like
in Maine," he retorted. But his eyes admitted the opposite.
Randy adored him in this kind of devilish mood. "Would you
strip off all my clothes first?" she asked, contriving to sound
terrified.
He nodded and growled, "Absolutely. The punishment is more
effective that way."
"Sounds okay to me," Randy said airily, and laughed. But
when Luke scooped her up, tossed her over his shoulder in a fireman's
hoist and started climbing the stairs with her, Randy began to squirm
vigorously. "You wouldn't dare!" she hissed.
"On the contrary," he said, "there are plenty of places in
the furniture department that would be perfect for it."
He paused to catch his breath when he reached the landing
between the two half-flights, then continued his ascent. Reaching the
top, he kicked the door open and strode into the empty corridor,
prompting a horrified, "Luke, please—put me down!" from Randy.
Her plea accomplished nothing but a firm little slap on
the rear. Randy began to believe that he would actually carry out his
threat when he marched through the corridor into the display area. They
were in a deserted section of the store now, in a model room decorated
for a teenaged girl. Luke lowered Randy to the floor next to a canopy
bed, holding her wrist in a firm grip.
When he reached for the snap on her jeans she tried to
twist away, whispering, "You're crazy!"
"Obviously," he drawled, pulling her into his arms.
"Otherwise I wouldn't have started this."
Her arms were around his neck in seconds, her lips parted
to invite his kiss. Their embrace, with its aura of flaunting
propriety, was as erotic as anything Randy had ever experienced. Their
mouths and bodies clung in a sensuous dance that continued for second
after dangerous second until Randy was so aflame with need that when
Luke broke the kiss she moaned in protest and sought his lips again.
"Miranda—no," he said hoarsely, putting her away
from him. "It isn't going to work."
After the passion they'd just shared his statement
simultaneously chilled her blood and made her sick to her stomach. It
was all she could do to manage a husky, "What do you mean?"
"Don't look at me like that." Luke ran a hand through his
hair, his expression grim. "I mean—I can't make any
commitment to you."
"But nobody asked you for one," Randy said.
"Your father did. And I told him…"
"I know about all that. But my father doesn't run my life,
Luke. And there's no reason for him to know
anything
about what I do."
Randy stopped arguing when Luke shook his head and
insisted that they would have to talk about it later. She understood
that the furniture department of a public store was hardly the
appropriate place for a private conversation. As they started over to
the restaurant she forced her mind back to business, aware that Luke
would respect her more if she managed to keep it there for the next
several hours.
He asked her to tell him about her morning and then
relayed a number of experiences similar to her own. "What I don't
understand," she said, "is how the manager can make such a difference.
Why do so many of the people here seem so unhappy?"
They'd ordered their meals by now and were waiting for the
food. "First of all," Luke began, "it's reasonable to assume that we
would have gotten better service if we'd been dressed more expensively.
But to answer your question—suppose you'd made suggestions
and been ignored? Or wanted to change workdays or alter your vacation
schedule and been mired down in red tape? Or had difficult customers
and received no help from your superiors? You can list a dozen
situations where the manager decides policy that affects the
salespeople. Heywood was inflexible. He seemed to think that he was
commanding a regiment, not supervising a department store. When you
drown people in regulations and treat them like buck privates you wind
up with a mess on your hands. Your employees become resentful; they
come to work because they're afraid of not finding another job, and
they can't wait to leave at the end of the day."
"How did he get the job as manager?" Randy asked.
"Oscar put him in six months before I started. For the
first few months after I came I was so busy learning the ropes that I
had no time for individual stores unless a major crisis was erupting.
And this situation didn't explode, it developed very gradually. Your
father told me Heywood would have to go, but I was afraid that moving
too fast would scare people off or build up resentment. I was also
conceited enough to think I could change the guy's style of doing
things. I was wrong. He sees any disagreement as a personal affront and
becomes even more rigid. He does have certain
strengths—intelligence and an incredible intuition about
what's going to sell. That's why he was promoted in the first place,
and the merchandise he'd personally brought into this store has been so
attractive to customers that they'll shop here despite the changed
atmosphere. But he's deadly with people. Basically he's got the wrong
job. I offered him a position as a buyer on the West Coast. He'll do a
lot of scouting for new suppliers. He'll be able to work on his own and
I think everyone will be much happier."
"And the assistant manager, Sheila Kane?"
Luke shook his head. "Her record up to now was clean, but
if she had been having problems with Heywood and saw what was happening
in the store she should have come to me or your father. Instead she sat
back and waited for Heywood to hang himself. We don't need employees
like that."
"You fired her outright," Randy stated. She hated the
thought of having to do that to someone.
Luke nodded. "I told her I'd be happy to write her a
recommendation I considered fair. I'm not out to destroy her career,
but I don't want her working for C & D."
By the time lunch arrived they were discussing plans for
the afternoon. Luke intended to talk informally with the store's
employees, both the salespeople and those in the office, in order to
let them air their grievances to someone from headquarters and to
provide some reassurance. He already knew what he would hear, he
admitted.
By the end of the afternoon it was apparent to Randy that
Luke's assessment of the situation had been accurate. One salesman, a
veteran of men's suits, was blunt to the point of brusqueness. "It's
about time you people did something about this," he said. "There are
salesmen here who could write their own ticket at other stores, but
they stick it out out of loyalty to C & D, and"—he
nodded at Randy—"your father and grandfather. Of course, we
knew you were trying to work with Heywood, but we could have told you
you were wasting your time."
"Next time, Mr. Corelli, I hope you'll sit down and write
me a letter. Although I trust there won't be a next time." Luke shook
the salesman's hand and started wearily toward the next department.
Later, as he and Randy walked out of the store, he said
with a grimace, "I really got raked over the coals today. I'll bet you
enjoyed every minute of it."
"Raked over the coals?" Randy repeated, puzzled. "They
were complaining about Heywood, not you."
"He was my responsibility. I should have come out here
months ago, but I knew he was a smart guy and I was convinced I could
make him see the light. It's probably the toughest lesson I've ever
learned—that my judgment is so far from infallible."
It was nice to know that Luke admitted it. Since he was
obviously a little depressed it was the wrong time to bring up their
personal situation, but Randy assumed that over an intimate dinner for
two that evening they would talk honestly about the past and make a
decision about the future. Everything was suddenly so clear in her mind
that she couldn't understand her confusion of only a few weeks before.
Naturally she and Luke would continue to see each other—it
was obvious that neither of them could stay away from the other. It
would be wonderful if they eventually decided to marry, but if not,
she'd manage to survive the pain. She was no longer so afraid of being
hurt or of making a mistake that she needed to play it safe. She
realized that she couldn't live her life that way.
The only thing wrong with Randy's scenario was that Luke
had entirely different plans. Once they'd checked into separate rooms a
few doors away from each other he informed her that he was sorry that
he couldn't have dinner with her because Don Jacoby was flying in from
New York to meet with him that evening, and that he was already late
for the airport.
"But this afternoon you said we'd talk later," Randy
reminded him. "It's later, but you're still putting me off. Why?"
They were standing in the middle of the corridor outside
their rooms; Luke waited while a young couple and their two children
passed by. "I told you it wasn't going to work," he said. "Why can't
you just accept that?"
Randy told him exactly why. "Because five hours ago you
grabbed me and kissed me like you were dying to throw me down on that
canopy bed and make love to me. Doesn't that count for anything?"
"It only proves that I have trouble keeping my hands off
you. I've
always
had trouble keeping my hands off
you—in Maine, in New York, even in the damn furniture
department here in Philadelphia. But I don't have any choice, Miranda.
If we start seeing each other and things don't work out, I can kiss the
presidency of C & D goodbye. And I'm not about to put myself in
that situation, even for you."
Seeing that Randy was about to argue with him, he went on
firmly, "And don't tell me that your father won't find out. The last
time some guy broke your heart you lost thirty pounds." Before she
could say a word he was striding away from her.
She started to go after him, then stopped and turned back
to her room, wiping away a tear. There was a limit to how far she'd
chase a man and she'd just reached it. For the next thirty minutes she
sat in her room and stared out the window, thinking about Maine and
trying not to cry. Then she remembered that it was dinnertime and
realized that she had absolutely no appetite.
Suddenly she was furious with herself. She wasn't going to
put herself through six more months of hell over a man; not eating, not
dating, driving herself crazy with feelings of remorse and rejection.
One gradual decline was more than enough.
The hotel had dining and dancing nightly, and she decided
that she'd be a masochist not to take advantage of them. Within an hour
she was dressed in the brightly colored sundress she'd brought along
for dinner with Luke, waiting for the elevator to come. A couple of
middle-aged businessmen walked up a moment after she did, talking about
whether the hotel restaurant was any good.