Heart of Hurricane (6 page)

"Uncle Bill is on the phone," he replied grimly, and Althea felt her already sagging spirits sink all the way to her knees. The last thing she needed right now was a session with her uncle.

Wearily Althea brushed the dirt off her hands and knees as best she could, and climbed the steps. Greg was right on her heels as she went upstairs to her apartment, and hovered over her like an overprotective father when she picked up the receiver.

"Hello." Althea carefully kept her voice neutral. "What can I do for you, Uncle Bill?"

"For a start, you can let me have a couple of thousand," Bill Holland stated without preamble. "I'm overdrawn at the bank and I've got some creditors I can't put off much longer.''

Althea closed her eyes and sighed deeply, despair and exasperation mingling in her expression. She had known he wanted something, of course. Her aunt and uncle never contacted her unless they wanted something. They seemed to think that she owed them payment for the years she and Greg had lived with them. Privately Althea considered that the work she and her brother had put in at their hardware store during those years, along with the insurance her parents had left, had been more than adequate compensation. Nevertheless, in the past, rather than embroil herself in an unpleasant quarrel, she had always acceded to their demands for money, especially since the amounts had rarely been more than fifty or a hundred dollars. But two thousand? She certainly didn't have that kind of money to toss away. And she didn't kid herself: any money she gave to Edna and Bill was as good as lost.

"I'm sorry, but I can't possibly loan you that much. The most I can spare is about two hundred."

"You could raise it if you'd mortgage that barn you live in."

"I'm afraid I can't do that," Althea replied tightly, struggling to hold on to her temper. The house had been a bone of contention between them ever since Althea had inherited it. Edna Holland had fully expected to inherit her mother's property, but Grandma Thurston had never approved of her daughter's choice in a husband and had left everything to Althea. Edna and Bill had been livid. Spitefully, they never missed a chance to make some snide remark about her inheritance. "This is my home," Althea stated with soft forcefulness. "I won't jeopardize it for anyone."

"Well, let me remind you, Miss High and Mighty, that in the past I provided you with a home and the education that got you that cushy job you hold. You owe us, girlie," he sneered nastily.

Cupping her brow with her hand, Althea massaged her forehead, moving her thumb and forefinger in slow, tiny circles over her throbbing temples. She didn't even bother to point out to her uncle that she had earned her degree through a scholarship and a series of menial part-time jobs. Or that, from the time she graduated from high school, she had paid them for her room and board. The only reason she had even stayed with them was to be near Greg.

"Look, Uncle Bill, I'm sorry you feel that way," Althea said with a weary sigh. "But the fact remains that I simply don't have two thousand dollars to give you." Greg made an outraged sound but Althea silenced him with a wave of her hand. "Perhaps in a month or so, if I earn a bonus, I'll be able to help you out, but right now all I can spare is a couple of hundred."

A long, angry silence followed. "All right," Bill Holland growled finally. "I'll take the two hundred for now, but you'd better come up with the rest before too long. Otherwise, your aunt and I will be forced to take legal action."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means, girlie, that you stole my wife's inheritance, and we intend to get it back ... one way or another. So just you have that check ready when I come by tonight to get it." Before Althea could respond, he hung up.

Jerking the buzzing receiver away from her ear, she slammed it down into its cradle and stood rigid for a moment, trembling with a combination of fear and suppressed fury. That horrible man! Would she never be rid of him? Logic told Althea that he was just bluffing, that he didn't stand a chance and he knew it, but just the thought of losing her home, the only real stability she had ever known, sent an icy chill through her. Coming on top of everything else, this was really a low blow.

"Why, that sorry, low-down, good-for-nothing ..." Red-faced, Greg sputtered to a stop, unable to find a word vile enough to call their uncle. "Do you mean he's got the nerve to try to mooch two thousand dollars from you?"

"You should know by now that Bill Holland has the nerve to try anything," Althea replied wearily, giving him a wry look. "Not that it will do him any good. I can't give him what I don't have."

"But surely you're not going to fork over the two hundred?"

"If it will keep him off my back, yes." When Greg would have argued, Althea raised her hand and cut him off. "Greg, please! Let's just drop the subject, shall we? I know what I'm doing, believe me." Turning away, she headed for the door. "Now, come on, let's get back to the yard work while we still have some daylight left." Without waiting for a reply, Althea loped down the stairs and slammed out the front door. When Greg followed a few minutes later, he found her once more on her knees, vigorously working the soil of the flowerbed with a hand cultivator.

Althea worked in the yard the rest of that day and all the next. By Sunday evening the lawn was mowed, the walkways and drive were sharply edged, every bush and hedge had been clipped, the flowerbeds, which were a mass of bobbing blossoms of every color and kind imaginable, had been thoroughly weeded, cultivated, watered, fertilized and sprayed. Everything was picture perfect ... yet Althea was still eaten up with nerves.

All weekend long she had vacillated between hope and despair, telling herself one minute that everything would be fine, and certain the next that she would soon be standing in the unemployment line.

Monday morning Althea reluctantly dressed in a dusty-rose silk shirtdress that buttoned down the front all the way to the hem. The soft material skimmed delicately over her breasts and hips, while a self belt gathered it in snugly at her waist. Long full sleeves, whose wide French cuffs were fastened with tiny pearl cufflinks, softened the garment's mannish cut. She left the top two buttons of the dress open, exposing the graceful line of her bare throat. In her ears she wore tiny pearl studs, and around her left arm clipped a fine gold chain. Her shoes were high-heeled white leather sandals.

But when it came to her hair, rebellion set in. Telling herself that he had only insisted that she discard her dowdy clothes, Althea stubbornly twisted her golden hair into a loose chignon on the back of her head.

Hoping to avoid most of her fellow workers, she deliberately arrived at the office early. She was in no condition to contend with the stir her changed appearance was bound to cause. She was also hoping she would have a chance to calm down and get herself in hand before her boss arrived.

No such luck. She had barely deposited her purse in the bottom drawer of her desk when Ward called through the open door that separated their offices. "Get in here, Miss Winters."

With a sigh, Althea squared her shoulders, lifted her chin and started for the door. She felt like a condemned prisoner taking her last walk.

Sweet heaven, she's beautiful.
Excitement spread through Ward's body as he watched Althea glide toward him. Slowly, methodically, his eyes savored every detail of her appearance, starting at her dainty feet and working up over her shapely legs, the utterly feminine dress and the alluring curves it covered, all the way to the cameo perfection of her lovely face. He felt a spurt of anger when his eyes encountered her severe hairstyle, but not by so much as a twitch did his impassive features reveal his inner feelings.

"Sit down, Miss Winters."

As she complied, he rose and came around the desk. Althea fixed her eyes on the onyx-and-gold pen-and-pencil set directly in front of her. When he passed her chair, she assumed he was headed for the credenza which held the coffeepot. A demanding and difficult employer he might be, but to Ward's credit, he had never expected her to wait on him.

"Oh! What are you doing?" she cried when she felt his fingers digging into the chignon on the back of her head. "Stop that!"

Althea tried to stand, but a hard hand clamped on her shoulder and held her in place while nimble fingers searched through the coil of blond hair. Rapidly the metal hairpins rained to the floor, hitting the carpet in a series of soft plops. Althea's outraged sputtering was ignored, and within seconds the silky tresses were tumbling free. Using both hands, Ward ran his fingers through the golden mass and spread it across her shoulders.

"There, that's better," he stated with hard satisfaction. "Now, leave it that way." To Althea's utter astonishment, he calmly walked back around the desk and sat down.

Indignation swelled in her chest until she thought she would surely burst. She was quivering with outrage and longed to tell him exactly what she thought of his high-handed tactics, but the look in his eyes warned her that she would lose if she pressed the issue. Teeth clamped tightly together, she stared at him in cold silence.

Unperturbed, Ward returned the look for several strained moments. She aroused in him a curious mixture of anger, desire and uncertainty. He was absolutely furious with her for deceiving him, and yet he could not help but admire her spunk. And there was no denying that he found her ravishing and utterly fascinating.

"Suppose you start by telling me exactly why you felt it necessary to hide behind that hideous disguise?" he demanded gruffly, angered by the trend of his thoughts. "I was told that, in the office at least, you didn't care for attractive women," Althea replied as steadily as she could manage. One of his dark brows lifted, telling her he had caught the little dig, and she felt an instant flick of satisfaction. "Mrs. Fisher?"

"Yes." There was no point in lying. It was obvious where she'd gotten her information.

"So you deliberately made yourself as unattractive as you could?"

"Yes. It was my understanding that if I didn't, I'd never get past the preliminary interview." She gave him a challenging look, one delicate brow arching upward. "That is true, isn't it?"

"Perhaps," he hedged. "But don't you think your solution was a bit drastic?"

"I needed the job."

Ward plowed his hand through his hair and glared at her, his mouth thinned in annoyance. "For pity's sake! How long did you think you could get by with this masquerade?" His gaze raked over her beautiful face and curvaceous figure. "How could you even stand going around looking like that?"

"If I hadn't given in to a foolish whim last Friday, you would never have known," Althea stated haughtily, tilting her chin and daring him to contradict her. "And I told you, I need this job," she added, with soft emphasis on the word "need."

"So you can continue to coddle your brother?"

"I do not coddle Greg, I . . ." Althea clamped her mouth shut, cutting off the angry retort. She forced herself to settle back in the chair and release her grip on the arms. She was furious, absolutely enraged by the unfair question, but she couldn't afford to lose her temper. "I need the job to support myself and pay for Greg's education," she replied through stiff lips.

Interesting.
Ward's deceptively lazy gaze ran over her rigid face.
She has a temper, all right, but for some reason she keeps a tight rein on it. Why? Is she that afraid of being fired? Possibly, but I don't think that's it. At least, not completely. It's almost as though she's afraid to let go.

He had never been so intrigued by a woman in his life. And it wasn't just because she'd suddenly turned from an ugly duckling into a swan right before his eyes. Lately, more and more, Althea Winters had occupied his thoughts. Many times—while working, when he was alone in his apartment, even when he was out with other women—he would find himself thinking of her, wondering what she was doing, who she was with . . . and it had scared hell out of him. Never before in his life had he been attracted to a plain woman.

At the Masons' party, when he had discovered that his coolly efficient, spinsterish assistant was actually a breathtakingly lovely woman, his reaction had been a confusing mixture of pure joy and sheer outrage. For months he'd squirmed, like live bait on a hook. How dare she pull the wool over his eyes!

Yet, he was fiercely glad that she had, because she was right; looking as she did now, she would never have gotten past that old dragon Mrs. Perkins. Then he would never have met her. The very thought caused a queer little pain in his gut, and Ward frowned, not at all sure he liked the strange new sensations that seemed to be attacking him at every turn.

If you had any sense, Kingman, you'd tell her to hit the road and stay the hell away from you. You don't need this kind of complication in your life.
His jaw clenched as his gaze ran over Althea's beautiful face and the slender curves outlined so lovingly by the soft silk dress. Absently he noted that she had terrific legs—long, lightly tanned and shapely, with delicate, trim ankles. Oh hell! Who are you kidding? You're not about to send her away.

So what the devil am I supposed to do with her? I sure as hell won't get much work done with her in the same office.
He remembered how the dark blue gown she'd worn to the Masons' party had molded itself to her cute little rear, and groaned silently. He'd be an idiot to keep her around. Yet firing her was out of the question. There was no way he was going to let her walk out of his life. Not now. Besides, she was the best damned assistant he'd ever had. Ward propped an elbow on the arm of his chair, rested his chin on his fist and regarded her intently.