Barbara Daly - Too Hot To Handle

“Hey, buddy, you want a cab or not?”

Alex gazed blankly through the window at the man, then climbed into the cab and tried desperately to restore his interest in the business deal that had seemed so important an hour ago.

“I WILL NOT BE spoken to in that tone,” Jeremy said. His voice shook. “I know you’re the boss, but it doesn’t give you the right to be abusive. I have other options, Sarah. I turn down job offers right and left, higher pay, bigger assignments, because in the past—” he emphasized the words “—I have enjoyed working here.” His chin quivered. “But I cannot work for a person who tells me my artwork has to be cremated before burial.”

“Oh, Jeremy,” Sarah said, genuinely remorseful. “I am so sorry.” First Ray, now Jeremy. Jeremy was her ace computer-art person; she couldn’t get along without him. She couldn’t get along without any member of her small staff. Business was picking up as advertising agencies, in-house publicity departments and independent print salespeople grew familiar with her name and her product, but it was still a struggle to meet the overhead and pay salaries that were well below market. One glitch, one late delivery on a contract, one angry client taking his work elsewhere and she’d be bankrupt. Friendship and loyalty were all that kept these people with her, and she was alienating them one by one.

She slid her fingers through the silky waves of her hair, realizing that even her scalp itched. She felt feverish. She ached all over. But aspirin wasn’t going to help. “I am not myself today.”

“Or yesterday,” Jeremy said. “Or three weeks ago Monday.”

Sarah straightened up and spoke briskly. “I’m having a few personal problems,” she said, “but it was both unkind and unprofessional of me to take it out on you. Please accept my apology.”

“What about the artwork for the Designer Discounts mailer?” He eyed her suspiciously.

She cleared her throat. “I would appreciate it if you’d make one more stab at capturing the magic of a new shipment of Italian designer clothing.”

“You mean the artwork stinks.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

He gave her a flashing smile. “Then why didn’t you just say so?” He picked up the artwork and turned to leave Sarah’s office. “Hey, Macon,” he said as the two of them met in her doorway.

Sarah saw the significant glance that passed between them as Jeremy exited.

Macon came in, shut the door and sat down. “Well, you sure haven’t gotten…”

“Don’t say it!”

“Okay,” Macon said, ever agreeable. “I’ll put it another way. Your date Saturday night wasn’t all you hoped and dreamed it would be.”

“To say the least.” Its hopes, disappointments and unexpected turns had left her hotter and more restless than ever.

“What happened?”

She fidgeted for a moment. “I couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t what? I mean, if I were talking to a guy I’d know what he meant, but…”

Irritation increased the prickly sensations in her skin. “Macon,” Sarah said. “When did you become my counselor? Who hired you? Who’s paying you?”

“It’s pro bono work,” Macon said. “I’m not charging you a dime.”

“Exactly what you’re worth.”

“Sarah, what happened?”

She couldn’t sit still another minute. She swirled up and went to the windows of her office. They were filthy. Nothing unusual about that. The building management company wouldn’t have them washed until a tenant threatened to write to the Housing Commission. From her eleventh-floor perch she could see through the grime a characteristically odd assortment of Chelsea rooftops. She saw water tanks and ventilation equipment surrounded by tarred surfaces already beginning to steam in the mild heat of spring. She saw elegant roof gardens, where trees and potted houseplants either flourished on their steady diet of toxic New York air or died, to be replaced at once by professional plant-maintenance crews. Nothing personal.

A Himalayan cat prowled among the expensive terracotta planters on one of the roofs, its long, pale hair fluffing up in the soft breeze. Maybe that was what she needed, a cat.

“What I need is a window-washer,” she murmured.

“What?”

Her self-appointed counselor waited. In the middle of a fleeting daydream—the window-washer blowing kisses at her as he worked, her teasingly opening the window and watching as he came into her office, leaving no doubt in her mind that he was already aroused and ready for her—Sarah suddenly realized there could be no better repository for her anguished thoughts than the compact mass of pure objective intelligence who was so generously offering her his ear.

“I met a really promising prospect,” she told him, “but when the moment of reckoning arrived, I couldn’t go through with it.”

“Tough scene to get through,” Macon said, shaking his head. “Frustrating for both of you.”

“Unfair,” she muttered, sinking back into her chair. “And the worst part was that he was so nice about it.” He’d said he understood. He’d handed her his card with an invitation to call anytime. Her life was filling up with business cards. They made damned poor lovers.

She could tell from his expression that Macon couldn’t see why that had been the worst part. “I felt so guilty,” she explained. “I really had led him on, with the worst of intentions, of course.”

“The question is why couldn’t you go through with it?”

A deep sigh rose all the way up from her tortured center. “Because earlier in the day I ran into the only man I ever actually fell in love with.”

“Wow,” Macon said. “And he’s married, right? Or an ex-con. Or…Mafia!” His eyes lit up with interest, turning his thick glasses into twin flashlight beams.

She gritted her teeth. “No, he’s as perfect as ever.” Even more perfect, if that were possible. What a grim thought.

“So you chased him down and he snubbed you.” Macon looked properly outraged.

Sarah leapt up again and began to pace the confines of the small, rose-walled office. The tension had built up so high inside her she felt as if she were about to come out of her skin. She could have asked Alex to come in. He would have come. One touch and she’d have led him to her bed. “He saw me, actually, and followed me home.”

“Ha!” Macon said. “He’s a—”

She spun. “No, he’s not a stalker. He’s…”

She had to gather up her courage to go on. “We were teenagers. He was my first lover. It was an experience so exquisite—” she halted, frightened by the threat of tears, by the impact of the memories that controlled her life even now “—I knew I wanted only that, with that person, for the rest of my life.”

“And he didn’t?”

Dear Macon. He couldn’t believe a man she wanted would not want her. “I guess I wasn’t good enough for him. At least, I wasn’t good enough for his mother, the ever-so-famous movie star, and he didn’t have the courage to defy her.”

“You weren’t good enough? Or your Aunt Becki wasn’t the kind of…”

“Whatever,” Sarah snapped. Of course she’d told Macon about Aunt Becki. She told everyone about Aunt Becki. Tall and blond like Sarah, but more beautiful than Sarah could ever dream of being, she’d been the mistress of a film producer, Todd Haynes. Although he had loved her deeply, he couldn’t take the publicity of a divorce from his wife or the potential pain it would have caused his children.

Aunt Becki had loved him, too, so much that she’d been willing to accept what she could have of him. He’d provided her with a lovely little house in Beverly Hills, where he spent as much time as he could. And then, when Sarah’s parents died, this cutthroat industry type had welcomed Sarah into that house as generously as Aunt Becki had, accepting without protest his mistress’s need to shelter and comfort her sister’s child.