A Promise to Cherish (7 page)

His cocky, self-assured belief that anybody could be bought off only sickened Lee all the more. She was suddenly very, very sure she was doing what should have been done months ago. Suddenly her anger disappeared and a renewed sense of well-being swept over her. Her lips relaxed; her voice quieted.

“Suppose it would. And what would be the next unethical thing you’d ask me to do? And the next? And how long would it be before you asked me to make the transition from unethical to illegal? You know, F.A., it isn’t just the money—it’s something much deeper than that. It’s something born in an Indian that can’t be programmed out. Call it elemental respect for the earth . . . or whatever you like. It’s part of the reason I do what I do. I can’t stop development or urban sprawl. But I
can
do my part to see that it doesn’t completely annihilate the environment. I agree with you, Geronimo probably wouldn’t be a rich man if he ran this company or one like it, but he’d probably rather drink clean water than deposit ten thousand dollars in the bank.” Lee scanned her cleared desktop, then chuckled and smiled at F.A. “Come to think of it, Indians never were famous for saving for a rainy day, were they?”

Lee’s belongings were piled on the desk and the chair. She snapped the briefcase shut, picked up an armful of notebooks and folders, and turned toward the door.

“But what about that bid for this afternoon?” Thorpe squawked.

“Finish it yourself.”

“Girlie, you walk out of here, you give up unemployment checks, cause I ain’t claimin’ I laid you off. And don’t look for no recommendations from—”

The outside door cut off his spate. As if his recommendation was worth anything at all around this town, Lee thought, as she headed toward the parking lot.

Her red Ford Pinto was parked right beside Thorpe’s long, sleek Diamond Jubilee Mark V. The navy blue sedan was covered with a fine layer of dust, as if he’d recently driven through a jobsite. Lee dumped her load on the back seat of the Pinto, then straightened and studied Floyd’s dusty status symbol. Imbedded in the glass of the opera window—still intact—was the illustrious but now lusterless diamond.

With a sardonic smile Lee leaned over, breathed on it, lifted an elbow, and polished it carefully. She stepped back to survey it critically, nodded once, then clambered into her Pinto and drove away.

B
UT her cocky attitude had totally disappeared when, three days later, she’d turned up absolutely nothing resembling a job opening. As she paced the floor, she told herself she’d done the only thing possible. She was reviewing the miles she’d put on both her car and her feet during the past three days when her phone rang. Picking it up from the kitchen counter, the Honorable Sam Brown’s was the last voice on earth she expected at the other end of the line.

“Who the hell are you trying to hide from?” he said without preamble.

“What?”

“I’ve been trying to get your damn phone number for three days!”

“And just who might this be?” she queried with undisguised sugar in every syllable.

“This, my little Indian, is the Honorable Sam Brown speaking. Just why in hell aren’t you listed in the phone book?”

“Because I’m divorced and I don’t want any obscene phone calls. And why didn’t you just call Thorpe Construction for my number?”

“I did, but it seems Fat Floyd developed a conscience—belatedly, I might add—and declined to give out confidential information.”

“Why that fat rat!”

“My sentiments exactly.”

“So how did you get it?”

“I spent sixty-five bucks taking out a dumb redhead and buying her dinner, then plying her with a German wine because she works for Ma Bell.”

Lee was dumbfounded. “You
whaaaat?
”

“And all she was good for at the end of the evening was a chaste good night kiss.” He chuckled wickedly.

“I told you, Brown, I don’t accept obscene phone calls.”

“Too bad, cause the redhead finally gave over—your phone number, of course.”

“Brown, you scheming weasel, are you saying you bribed the girl to get my unlisted number?”

“Call it what you will . . . I got it, didn’t I?”

“For what?”

“I heard Fat Floyd gave you the ax.”

“Well, you heard wrong. I quit.”

“Bully for you. Have you got another job yet?”

“Are you kidding? I’ve been beatin’ feet from one end of this town to the other, but it’s hopeless.”

“Listen, I’ve got a proposition for you.”

“I’ll just bet you do, but I’m not that desperate yet. If it’s the same one you offered the redhead on her doorstep, keep it.”

“You’re the most suspicious woman I ever paid sixty-five dollars for, you know that?”

“And I’ll bet there’ve been plenty, right?”

“Quit your goading, Cherokee, this is legitimate business. I’d like to talk to you about coming to work for me.”

“You wh—”

“But I won’t discuss it on the phone. I never carry out an interview by phone, only face to face. Are you busy tomorrow night?”

“Brown, you’re crazy!”

He went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “I’m busy all day tomorrow, including lunch, or we could get together then. But I’ll be free by—oh, say, four thirty. Why don’t we meet someplace for cocktails and discuss it then?”

“Brown, I can’t come to work for you. It’d be like jumping from the pot into the fire!”

“Listen, I’d like to stay and listen to all this sweet talk, but I’m on the run as it is. Meet me at fifty-three oh-one State Line Road and we’ll discuss it sensibly. Fifty-three oh-one State Line . . . got that?”

“Sam Brown, I don’t trust you. What makes you think—”

But he’d done it again.

“Brown? . . . Brown, come back here!”

He’d left her with a dead receiver, and before the address escaped Lee’s head, she was scrambling for a pencil.

F
IVE-THREE-OH-ONE State Line Road turned out to be a place so grandiose that Lee drove right past it two times without even considering it might be the right spot. It was magnificent. Perched imposingly at the crest of a hill, it dominated the view with a white facade that reminded Lee of an antebellum mansion. Staring up at it, she fully expected Scarlett O’Hara to come flouncing through the door. The horseshoe-shaped drive rose toward the building, encircling a curve of lush green grass and an imposing flower bed that provided the only clue to the building’s identity—a stunning “C C” formed by vibrant red and white geraniums.

It appeared to be a country club, backing up to Ward Parkway, perhaps the most prestigious street in town with its countless fountains and mansions built by the oldest, moneyed forefathers. Lee had no doubt whatever that the place had a private membership of the highest echelon.

And Sam Brown was a member of
this?

Leaving the car, Lee critically swished a hand over her skirt—thank God she hadn’t worn slacks! Even the dress seemed less than adequate, for it was only a casual two-piece cotton outfit of brown and white stripes, the top an athletic looking slipover with ribbed waist, cap sleeves, and boatneck styling.

The shrubbery around the entrance looked artificial, it was so perfectly manicured. Tubs of potted flowers blossomed in colorful profusion on either side of the steps. Halting just short of them, Lee pulled a wand of lipgloss from her purse, checked her face in a tiny mirror, and applied a gleaming line of amber to her lips. Clamping her clutch bag beneath an elbow, she entered the “C C”—whatever it was!

She found herself in a vast room with high, wide windows off to the left through which the afternoon sun lit a tasteful grouping of antique furniture. A fireplace flanked the conversation area while enormous bouquets of silk flowers made the elegant old furniture appear even more valuable.

A discreet voice made her jump. “Ms. Walker?”

Lee turned to find a faultlessly dressed woman smiling at her from behind rimless glasses with a chain dangling from their bows. The woman looked like she might very well own the place.

“Yes?” a puzzled Lee returned.

“Ah, I thought so by Mr. Brown’s description of you. You’ll find him downstairs in the lounge. Just follow that stairway around and it’ll take you right to him.” With a graceful wave of her hand, the woman withdrew.

Lee followed the stairs as directed to find herself in a low-ceilinged bar with reduced lighting. She scarcely had time to note that Sam Brown wasn’t there before a smiling black man in formal waiter’s attire approached to ask, much as the woman upstairs had, “Ms. Walker?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Brown is waiting for you in the lounge, if you’ll follow me.”

He led the way to another elegant room much like the one upstairs, only smaller and more intimate, with soft lighting from tasteful table lamps. Again there was a fireplace on the far wall and a scattering of plush furniture placed in cozy groupings. Sam Brown stretched his tall frame up from one of the antique wing chairs flanking the fireplace.

“Here she is, Mr. Brown,” the waiter announced.

“Thank you, Walter.” To Lee, Sam said, “I see you found the place all right.”

“Not without some trouble,” she admitted, taking in his dark gaze as it swept her hair and face.

“Will the lady be wanting a cocktail?” Walter inquired.

“Yes, a Smith and Kurn,” Brown answered before the waiter left them discreetly alone. Then he turned to Lee, gesturing. “Sit down, Ms. Walker.”

In spite of herself she was pleased that he’d remembered her drink preference, and it tempered her voice as she chided, “Don’t you Ms. Walker me, Sam Brown. Why didn’t you warn me what kind of place this was?”

She perched on a Chippendale love seat while Brown chose the spot beside her rather than the chair he’d been occupying earlier. He turned sideways, lifting a knee partially onto the cushioned seat and resting his arm along its back. He scrutinized her with a half smile.

“Why? You look great, Cherokee.”

“And don’t call me Cherokee.” She looked around furtively to see if anyone had heard, but they were alone in the lounge.

“If Ms. Walker and Cherokee are both out, what should I call you?”

She didn’t know. “Try Lee,” she finally suggested.

“All right, Lee, you had some trouble finding the place?”

“Trouble! I drove right past it two times and never even gave it a glance. What is it, anyway?”

“It’s the Carriage Club.”

“And you’re a member, I take it.”

“Aha.” He reached for his cocktail from an oval table in front of the sofa. The entire grouping, including the pair of wing chairs, faced the fireplace, ensconcing them in a private circle of their own.

She turned her eyes to the coffee table. In addition to a bouquet of freshly cut spider mums and carnations, it held a silver bowl of macadamia nuts. Her gaze moved over richly papered walls to the polished andirons and screen in the fireplace. Slowly Lee’s eyes traveled back to Sam Brown to find him studying her.

“Is this supposed to change my opinion of . . . the decadent rich?” she asked.

He shrugged, but his grin remained.

Just then Walter returned with her Smith and Kurn, set it on the table, and inquired, “And will there be anything else for you, Mr. Brown?”

“Another of the same.”

As soon as Walter had faded away, Lee couldn’t resist querying, “What? Aren’t you going to ask for pickled mushrooms?”

“The decadent rich don’t need to ask. Walter knows exactly how I prefer my drinks.”

“So . . . you’re a member of good standing?”

His only answer was the continued amiable expression on his face, and against her will, Lee Walker
was
thoroughly impressed.

“I came here to talk business, Mr. Brown,” she said.

“Of course.” He leaned forward slightly. “Unlike most of the contracting firms in this city, mine has had a good year. The plumbing half of the firm has sustained the sewer and water half until it can get on its feet. All I need is one good estimator.”

“And what makes you think I’m good?”

“You damn near beat me out of that Denver job, and you did beat out an impressive lineup of competition. I want anybody who can do that working for me, not against me.”

“I did beat you out, and you know it,” she accused in a soft voice.

“Are we going to beat that old dead horse again?”

“I couldn’t resist.”

His brown eyes crinkled. Distracted, she reached for some nuts.

“Are you interested in the job offer?”

She didn’t want to be, but—damn his dark eyes!—she was. Walter intruded momentarily to lean low with a silver tray, and even over his back Lee could feel Sam Brown’s eyes following her hand as she lifted the nuts to her mouth, then licked away the salt that caught on her glossy lipstick.

She raised her eyes to confront him head on. “I want you to know right off the bat—I don’t do anybody’s dirty work. I bid ’em straight and fair.”