In a Heartbeat (9 page)

In a Heartbeat

As soon as Max closed the door behind him, Angela strained to pull the heavy audit bag on the floor behind her chair around to her side, so she could search for a thick press board folder: the permanent file.

Like most accounting firms, Falstaff and Watterson maintained a complete file of copies of important documents, schedules that spanned years of operations, and other boring but important information. The detailed accounting system descriptions resided in the permanent file.

Part of her job was to ensure these descriptions were up-to-date and accurate. If she wasn’t aware of these direct ship invoices, there was a good chance they hadn’t been documented in the accounts payable system description. She opened the overstuffed folder to the table of contents.

Section I. Background Information

A. Dun & Bradstreet Reports.

B. Product Literature

C. Press Releases & Newspaper Articles

D. Industry Audit Guides

Section II. Accounting Systems

A. Flowcharts, System Descriptions and questionnaires.

Angie’s finger slid down the list of contents and paused at

“newspaper articles”. Every time a client, or a client’s product, appeared in a newspaper or magazine, the firm clipped the article and stored it in the permanent file. It was a long shot, but…

She quickly passed the faded green workpapers and headed straight for the juicy stuff, the newspaper articles.

The articles were filed chronologically with the most recent on top.

Not quite the most recent, Angela thought. The office probably clipped the announcement of the new CEO from the paper last week. She’d have to ask Max to stop by the office tomorrow to pick up any updates for the file.

The top article talked about Hayden’s new product line. She flipped to the next page. A yellowed photograph of Jim Owens looked back at her.

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Nothing new here, she’d seen his picture before. She was about to flip to the next page when a small photograph at the bottom right corner caught her eye. Jim Owens stood talking to another man. To his immediate right stood a slender dark-haired woman. Angie squinted at the fine print of the caption: Owens and his daughter, Elizabeth, discuss the future of Hayden Industries with…

It was true! Hank was dating the owner’s daughter. Bile rose up in her throat. In her heart she had suspected it wasn’t a love match, but she hadn’t suspected Hank of something this low. This… She shook her head. No wonder the company was supplying him with that big fancy house. She remembered Tom’s curled lip.
It’s not what you know but who
you know.
Well, she knew a lot more now, thank you very much.

The door opened. Angela let the file pages fall back in place.

“The copying machine outside is broken again, so I had to run up to Sales to make a copy.” Max tossed the copy of the Timone invoice over to her. “Anything else?”

Angela hesitated, then pulled the invoice copy and a legal pad over to her. “I think I need to ask Tom Wilson a few questions about these direct ships. How about checking out the audit program to make sure you’ve signed off on your sections. Have you written your memo yet?”

Max frowned. “You know how much I hate writing those things.”

Angela smiled. “All part of the job, Max, all part of the job.”

He was still grumbling when she slipped out of the conference room.

* * *

“I’m leaving now, Mr. Renard. You have a good evening.”

Hank glanced up from his desk, suddenly aware of the absence of ringing phones and slamming file cabinets. “Thank you, Cathy. I’ll see you tomorrow.” After she left, he checked his watch. Six o’clock.

He reluctantly stood and stretched the kinks from his shoulders.

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In a Heartbeat

house waiting for him. He was in no hurry to jump into the fray, but Owens was calling the shots. Fishing in his pocket for his car keys, he found another set there. A set of keys with a tiny heart. He smiled.

Unfinished business.

Hank walked down the hallway toward the opened door of the conference room. He found her standing at the end of the long table, staring through the picture window to the parking lot beyond.

“I hoped you might still be here.”

She lurched, apparently startled by the sound of his voice. Her hand covered her heart. “You scared me half to death.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, stepping into the room. He began to shut the door, but at her anxious look, he pushed it open again.

“My brother should be here any minute.” She stepped back.

Something had changed. Earlier she had been comfortable in his presence, almost teasing. Now…

“I only need a minute.” He smiled. She averted her eyes. His smile faded. This wasn’t going well. “I wanted to apologize. Elizabeth had no right—”

Angie snorted, casting her gaze up to the ceiling. “Elizabeth.” She shook her head. “What did you call it last time? Her urban attitude?”

The reference threw him for a second, then he remembered silky blonde tendrils slipping from a chauffeur’s cap. He leaned back against the wall, sensing that she needed the space.

“You never did explain why you were driving a limousine that night.”

Her gaze shifted to him and lingered before she began an intense study of her fingernails.

“I’d appreciate it if you would forget you saw me that night. It’s not the sort of thing Falstaff would approve of.”

“Like staying at my house for the weekend?” At least that got him a reaction. She disregarded her fingernails and leveled her gaze on him. A cold, ice blue gaze.

“Exactly.”

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Her chilling tone punched him in the gut. His reference to Elizabeth hadn’t brought about that frosty reaction, something else had. He took one step toward her. She glanced again to the open door. “Seems like Falstaff and Watterman have a lot to say about running your life. Why do you stay there?”

“I’m good at what I do. Public accounting pays well.” She ran a finger down the table. “Their rigid code of conduct isn’t any different from the other firms.”

“So you’re in it for the money?” Money as an incentive he could understand.

“I have my reasons. Private reasons.” She tossed him a look that placed him lower than fish bait. “At least I’m honest about how I earn my paycheck.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Her glare suggested she knew something. Whatever she had discovered obviously placed him on some shit list.

A movement by the window caught his eye. A white stretch limousine pulled up to the curb.

“I have to go.” She gathered her purse and computer case. “My brother’s here.”

He barred her way. “Not until you explain that last statement.”

“Look,” she sighed, “we’ll be finished here tomorrow, then you won’t have to see me until we come back to observe the physical inventory.

Can’t we just end this discussion and part as business associates?”

“No,” he thundered. Then, more softly, “Tell me.”

She looked straight into his eyes. “Jim Owens’s daughter.”

He stared at her a moment, at her accusatory expression. She was fierce, no doubt about it. A smile tilted his lips. “I suppose I should have expected this after Elizabeth’s little scene earlier. I knew eventually someone would imply something. I just didn’t expect it this soon.”

He looked down at her shocked face. She obviously didn’t see the humor in the situation. How could she? She didn’t know all the facts.

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“And I didn’t expect the someone to be you.” She tried to push her way past him, but he caught her arm and spun her around. “Wait. I owe you an explanation.”

She stared pointedly at his hand, making him feel like a brute for forcing her to stay. She glanced up. Her blue eyes narrowed in an expression of anger and deep disappointment. “You owe me nothing.”

Her glare stabbed him to the bone. All humor dissipated. He had to make her understand. “Not true. Now listen—”

“Let me go--” She tried to squirm out of his grasp but he held fast.

“Not until I tell you—”

“Take your hands off her,” a man demanded from the open doorway.

Hank sized up the stranger. “Who the hell are you?”

“Stephen.” Angie took a breath and gestured toward Hank. “This is H.P. Renard, the man I told you about?”

“Oh yeah.” Stephen smirked. “The one you said was as cold as the calculator he must have been named for.”

Cold! She said he was cold—a cold, impersonal calculator? Hank swung his gaze to Angela. A flattering blush tinged her cheeks. At least she had the decency to be embarrassed.

“You can take your hands off my sister now.” Stephen nodded to Hank’s grip on Angela. “Or I can take them off for you.”

Hank let go of her arm. “I wasn’t harming your sister. I was just trying to—”

“I know what you were just trying,” Stephen said. “And you won’t be trying it again any time soon.”

Angela rubbed the spot where Hank’s hand had been. “You okay, sis?” Stephen asked.

Hank bristled at the insinuation, and waited for Angie to defend him, to admit that he would never hurt her, to reply that Hank wasn’t that kind of man.

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Instead she nodded and walked toward the door. Stephen turned toward him. “You touch Angie again and it’ll be the last thing you touch.”

Hank watched the blond strongman leave with Angie under his wing.

So she found out about Elizabeth.
I wonder how she gained that bit of
information? I wonder how much she knows?
An unsettling queasiness roiled in his stomach. It shouldn’t matter. Angela wasn’t part of this unholy arrangement with Owens. He was the victim, not Angela. Still, the accusations in her eyes when she spat out Elizabeth’s name twisted in his gut. What did she say? Tomorrow was their last day? Why did that announcement disappoint him so? Maybe it was for the best. He had enough women trouble to deal with. He still hadn’t decided how to approach Elizabeth with her father’s scheme. Owens’s two-week deadline was rapidly approaching and he was no further along now than he was when he was handed that first check.

He patted his pocket in search of a roll of antacids. Lately, he seemed to be living off the chalky stuff. Instead, he felt the sharp outline of notched metal, Angela’s keys. A smile slipped to his lips. She may think tomorrow would be the last day he would see her, but she was mistaken.

“I’ve told you before, Stephen, I’m capable of taking care of myself.

You didn’t need to play the heavy back there.” She slid in the front seat and waited for her brother to close the door and slip behind the wheel.

She supposed she could have ridden in the back and stewed in silence, but riding alone in a cavernous limousine never suited her. Too much like riding in the back of a funeral hearse, and a reminder of all she had not experienced.

“Heck, Angie, you can’t even walk the dog without getting hurt.”

Stephen glanced over at her leg before turning the key in the ignition.

“How’s the ankle?”

“It’s fine, but that’s not—”

“And your heart? I saw how red your face was back there. You were straining too hard, too stressed. That’s not good for your heart.”

“That was embarrassment, not stress, and—”

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“Did you take your pills at lunch like you’re supposed to? I think as soon as we get home you should lie down and take a nap.”

“I’m not a child. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a full grown adult.”

Stephen snorted, an unfortunate family characteristic. “Full grown?”

He laughed, looked over at her briefly, then back at the road. “You know you’re not like everyone else, Angie. No matter how much you wish you were normal, it’s not going to happen. You have to take special care, special medicines. I don’t know why you insist on working. It’s not good—”

“Don’t tell me how to live. I’m not going to spend my life lying in bed being coddled.” She glanced at the fading red ring about her wrist. No man had ever held her in so firm a grip, as if she was made of muscle and bone, not spun sugar. Hank was certainly not one to coddle her, but then he was too busy coddling Elizabeth. She turned her face to the window.

It was an old argument, one she and Stephen had been over too many times to count. So they stewed in silence while Stephen negotiated the rush hour traffic. She knew she wasn’t like anyone else. She didn’t need his reminder. She knew she was different every time she felt her heart beat, but that didn’t stop her from having dreams and desires, just like a normal person. Just like a normal woman.

The limousine stopped at a red light in front of a popular bar and restaurant. Stephen glanced over at the crowded parking lot. “Timothy’s is packing them in tonight. Not bad for a weeknight.”

“No, not bad,” she echoed, glancing over at the red neon sign mounted to the roof of the restaurant. The name turned her thoughts in a different direction.

“Stephen, have you ever heard of a Timone Industries on Ritchton Street?” she asked.

“Timone Industries.” He tried the words out on his tongue. “Not much call for my ladies in that neighborhood. Why do you ask?”

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“Just curious.” She turned back to the window, wondering if Stephen realized how much he sounded like he belonged in another less socially accepted business.

“Right. Out of the blue, you just happen to ask me about some dive in a seedy part of town?”

“It’s not a dive. It’s a business associated with Hayden. I had some questions about the type of business.

“You better not be thinking about going down there. That’s a tough area.” He glanced over her way. “Maybe it’s a good thing you can’t just pick up and drive anywhere with that leg of yours.”