L.A. Caveman (22 page)

"No I haven't contacted Jake, and it's
impertinent of you to suggest such a thing." It was the first time
she'd heard Ian sounding shrewish, irritable. "You need to take
matters into your own hands, young lady, if you wish to control
your destiny. Or someone else will do it for you."

"I'm not so sure it's a good idea
anymore, Ian. Did you know that sales have doubled since that
interview?"

Ian was silent for a very long time,
but Stanna heard his harsh breathing. "Doubled?" he finally
repeated. "Doubled? That simply cannot be. You mean they're cut in
half!"

Stanna held the phone away for a
moment, looking at it. Then she repeated, "No, Ian, doubled."
Carefully she added, "Isn't that good news?"

The screech that came out of the
handset bore no likeness to Ian, the gray-haired elegant patriarch
who'd hired her.

"They can't be doubled! It was ready
to collapse, it was beaten on from every direction! You idiot!
You're wrong! How can this be?" He was ranting. Stanna just
listened in astonishment. This was more than a little surreal. Was
she talking to
Ian?

Gradually he got himself under
control. "I apologize. I... I must be off my medication. Yes,
that's it. Quite." He breathed heavily for another minute and then
took his leave. "I'd better go. Please forgive me, dear. Have a
lovely day."

She hung up the phone, staring at it,
her thoughts in a tangle. Ian was angry sales were up. Yet he’d
said the purpose of issuing a statement was to save the magazine.
Something wasn't right.

More determined than ever to talk to
Jake, she returned to his door and knocked.

Nothing.

This time she tried the doorknob. It
turned, and before she could let second thoughts deter her she
entered the office quickly and shut the door behind her, flicking
on the light switch.

She had to hurry. An idea had taken
shape after talking to Ian, and she eyed the file cabinet, her
suspicion solidifying into near-certainty as events of the past
months became clear.

With Jake gone, she could search for
Ian's old files. She knew he'd kept them in the back of the bottom
file cabinet, behind the secret partition he'd only told her about.
He might not have had the chance to clear them out without
observation, since Jake's firing of him was so sudden. She had a
pretty good idea of what she'd find there.

If she were right, she'd be able to
more than redeem herself with Jake.

With no hesitation this time she
pulled open the drawer, reaching far back with slender fingers to
find the latch. Flipping it, the drawer opened further.

Bingo.

She lifted out two thick accordion
files, tucked them under her arms. Quickly, shut the drawer firmly,
glided to the door and flipped off the light switch. In all it had
taken less than a minute.

She quietly opened the door and
stepped out into the empty hallway.

Pulling the door shut behind her, she
adjusted her grip on the files and trotted back to her
desk.

She didn't see Jake's surprised
expression turn to bitter cynicism as he rounded the far corner in
time to see her leave his office with her arms full.

Ian sat in his silk bathrobe in his
luxuriously appointed den and stared without seeing at the
tapestries on the wall.

His ace in the hole had just
disappeared.

Stanna was his. She was supposed to do
what he suggested. What was this rebelliousness of hers, anyhow?
Hadn't he hired her, trained her? Hadn't she confessed she wished
he were back?

He hadn't counted on her having any
business sense. She was supposed to rely on his. She was supposed
to be the key that got him back into his throne room corner office
in the sky, complete with its riches.

He slowly shook his head. He was
coming out of the shock she'd given him and was beginning to feel
the first twinges of true fear. The feeling took awhile to
identify. He hadn't felt fear in decades.

He was feeling it now.

The clock was running out on him. When
it did they would kill him. It probably would be a spectacularly
messy way to die, if he knew his boss and his associates. And he
did, oh so well.

He leapt to his feet, his pulse
beating threadily. Suitcases, where were his suitcases?

Australia. They wouldn't
find him in Australia.

Jake’s voice grated harshly on her
ears, and she couldn't believe she'd heard him
correctly.

"Excuse me?"

"I said, unless it's sex you want, get
out of my office. I don't have time for you."

She faced him, her complexion heating
with the memory as well as with sudden burning shame. She put a lid
on it and adopted an indifferent attitude. Tilting her head up to
his forbidding face, she said, "Now that you mention it, sex would
be nice. As nice as what I came in here to tell you. Nicer, even."
She looked around, her eyes lighting on his desk.

"Yes, very nice. Sex on the desk? You
could just bend me over it, lift my skirt. I'm not wearing
underwear today."

Seemingly unable to help himself, he
took a step toward her. His eyes flicked hungrily over her body.
Then his icy mask clicked into place and he said, "I don't have
time for games anymore."

"You started it."

He refused to bite. His cold regard
faded to irritation. His practiced look of indifference affected
her. Why couldn't she affect him anymore? He merely lifted a brow
and viewed his watch. Sounding bored, he said, "There's nothing you
have I can't get somewhere else. And truthfully, I’d prefer
to."

The force of the insult struck Stanna
like a blow.

But even as he pierced her with his
most forbidding look, she couldn't bring herself to feel nothing
for him. Didn't he remember how good their bodies felt together? Or
the magical night in the hills?

Did she imagine everything, after
all?

Was the man even capable of an emotion
as "womanly" as love?

She raised her eyes to his aqua ones
in mute entreaty. She stepped toward him, her hand lifting with a
mind of its own to touch him.

To prove what he'd just said was a
lie.

She saw a flicker of some deep emotion
simmer in his eyes. Pain?

But he stepped back, folding his
arms.

She found it hard to breathe with the
disappointment that rippled through her. Placing the accordion
folder gently on his desk, she turned as gracefully as she could
and left his office.

The numbness that encompassed him was
like a comforting old friend.

But as he watched her leave he
actually had to grab the edge of his desk and pinch the mahogany
beveling to keep himself from going after her. That look on her
face... it wasn't possible to fake that kind of emotion, was
it?

Jolene had.

But Stanna wasn't Jolene, his brain
persisted. She was a spunky yet gentle, strong yet incredibly
delicate woman who'd won his admiration and respect long before his
untimely business trip.

If he weren't so entrenched in his
eternal vigilance against betrayal, he would’ve told her he loved
her that afternoon at his house. He knew that now.

Wasn't it a good thing he hadn't, the
cool, numb part of him whispered. She'd sure shown her true colors
when she walked out of his house, hadn't she? An uncomfortable
tightness in his throat reminded him he'd invited her to
leave.

But then her cooperation with Ian
behind his back! Jake should feel relieved.

Then why did he feel so damn
miserable? He pounded his desk with a string of oaths.

A drive. He needed to go for a drive,
alone.

He headed out, leaving the two thick
accordion files behind.

Telly gave one last tiny spritz of
spray to her spiky locks and stood back to enjoy the effect. Her
ankle-length, tastefully gauzy skirt in muted beige tones went well
with her cheerfully red-patterned silky Chinese shirt. Classy but
adventuresome. Demure yet artistic. She peered at the mirror trying
to see herself from a man's perspective.

Specifically, an art
museum-frequenting kind of man.

Checking her slender gold watch, she
grabbed her matching purse and glided out of the apartment. Just
enough time to make it to the Getty Art Museum if she hurried. She
had a good five hours before her afternoon work shift
started.

She drove.

Two months,
her mind jeered. It
had been two months since her campaign to capture her elusive soul
mate. She was beginning to believe he didn't exist. Or, perhaps one
of her ex boyfriends was The One, and she didn't clue to it in
time. Tony, maybe. Sure he was a bit dull and predictable, but he
was stable and decent-looking and sometimes gave her orgasms, at
least when she closed her eyes and fantasized about others. But
maybe she'd missed the boat.

Surely she'd find dozens of eligible,
intelligent, worldly, sensitive men at the Getty. Just because her
last few dates were unsavory... her last, let's see... Telly ticked
off each finger on her two hands for each one. When she ran out of
fingers she gave up.

She fisted one hand and pounded the
black steering wheel in gentle frustration. Then caressed it with
the same perfectly manicured hand in apology.

The guttural rumble of her Mustang's
engine gobbling up the miles on the 405 freeway reassured her. At
least she had her car. Her beautiful, powerful classic car wouldn't
let her down.

Just then she heard a loud 'pop' and
an ominous squeal and unusual putt-putting. A freeway shooting?
Then she noticed thick blue-white smoke streaming out from under
her hood. Someone in the left lane yelled something while speeding
past her, but she was already flicking her turn signal and pulling
onto the freeway's breakdown lane.

Los Angeles traffic zoomed past her
without even slowing, the wind making her car rock slightly. She
turned off the engine. The horrible squealing sound stopped. Smoke
continued to billow out.

Not knowing what else to do, she
crawled over the seat to the passenger side and got out. She raised
the hood, turning her head away from the smoke. When it dispersed
slightly, she peered in confusion at the engine. It looked all
right. No fires anyway.

She got in again and started the
engine but the squeal and renewed smoke made her shut it off again,
silently cursing her car, her last mechanic, and her life. It
simply could not be worse than this, stranded at the side of a
smoggy L.A. freeway on her way to find Mr. Right.

If there were any justice in the
world, some hunk in a BMW would pull over and rescue her and they'd
laugh as they told this story to their children about how they met.
If there were any justice at all anywhere.

She looked at the traffic
hopefully.

A large pickup truck was slowing,
stopping in front of her car. A tow truck. The man driving it
stepped out, seemingly oblivious of the rushing freeway traffic
mere inches from his door.

He waddled over, reaching up to wipe
his nose with the back of his hand. Eyeing first her, then her car,
he smirked and pulled himself up to his full five feet
plus-a-little. "Hello there, little lady. I bet you're glad I
stopped, huh?"

His beady eyes crawled over her body.
"My name's Dave," he offered her in a feeble attempt at civility.
His eyes roamed even as he held out his dirty hand.

Telly wondered how far away the Santa
Monica pier was. She could fling herself off of it, she thought
reasonably.

No longer caring if she were thought
rude, she gestured at her car. "Can you tow me to the nearest
repair shop?"

His eyes glinted at her malevolently.
Her skin crawled. "It'll cost ya."

She didn't want to be there. She
didn't want to be negotiating with this walking oinker. "Fine, just
do it."

Chuckling dirtily, Dave hooked up her
Mustang to his truck. Hating the helpless look of her car dangling
half off the ground, Telly forced herself into the evil-smelling
nimbus of sweat and cigarettes that was the cab of the tow
truck.

Dave hopped in. He just sat there
looking at her. "What?" she finally asked, dreading what the answer
might be.

"Pay up front," he finally informed
her, grinning unpleasantly and naming the high price.

She paid it, feeling trapped in a
nightmare.

Now
it couldn't get any worse,
she amended.

The trip lasted too long --
any
amount of time would have been too long with him -- but she finally
saw The Greasy Monkey, a surprisingly clean-looking repair
facility.

Her last sight of Dave was of him
patting the hood of her Mustang too familiarly and waddling back to
his cab, hitching up dirty jeans.