Diana Palmer - Escapade

“I know,” he replied. “She puts on a good act when she’s dressing like a third-rate prostitute, piling on makeup, flirting outrageously, and publicly announcing that she wants to have some man’s children.” He chuckled. “And how they run! But one day she’s going to find someone who’ll mistake that image for the real woman. And I’ll feel sorry for her when she does.”

“I hope it never happens,” Amanda remarked.

“So do I. Her scars are deep enough. Like yours.” His eyes narrowed on her face. “Someone should have taken a horsewhip to Harrison years ago. I considered it a time or two, on your behalf. What he did to you was criminal. I could never make him see it.”

She was surprised and touched that he’d cared enough to try. “He could be cruel,” she agreed. “But he wasn’t all bad. He did find good people to take care of me, and I always had everything I wanted.”

“Everything except love,” he agreed. He touched her chin, and his fingers felt hard and cool against her face as he lifted it. “Some lucky man is going to enjoy you one day, Amanda, with all that love and need welled up in you, just waiting to pour out.”

She smiled at him, ignoring the sweet explosions that were going off all over her body. “Just as long as he can cook and use a vacuum cleaner,” she teased.

He laughed, not offended at all. His eyes went back to the horizon. “At least you won’t be hiding out anymore.”

“No, I won’t,” she replied, realizing this was the perfect opportunity to assert herself further. “Joshua, what about the job press? Are you really going to side with Ward Johnson and close it down?”

“Here it comes,” he grumbled, glaring at her. “Can’t we get away from that damned job press? What do you know about running a job press, anyway?”

It was impossible to wring a decision out of him. She’d long since learned that he was a past master of the Socratic method—answering questions with questions.

“I know more about it than Ward Johnson seems to. He’s running the operation into the ground. Josh, I’d like to take over management of the newspaper and job press in San Antonio,” she blurted out.

“We had this conversation before Harrison died. The answer is still the same. No,” he said.

“You might hear me out before you make any snap decisions. I’ve thought about it a lot. I have a degree in business administration. I know how to manage a business.”

“You have the education, yes.” He turned to her, his face hard and unyielding. “You don’t have the experience, the ruthlessness, to handle people.”

Management doesn’t always require ruthlessness. “I’ve been working at the paper for two months. I’ve managed everything recently, and I’ve noticed a lot of flaws...”

“You’ve been substituting for Ward Johnson when he was out of the office,” he returned. “That’s a far cry from managing on a day-to-day basis. And what do you want me to do with Ward, fire him after fifteen years of loyal service just so you can play Madam Executive?”

She flushed with temper, her green eyes darkening, her face flushing. “You’re forgetting that I own forty-nine percent of the paper,” she said through clenched teeth. “And that it’s been in my mother’s family for almost a hundred years!”

“You’ll get control of that forty-nine percent only when you comply with the terms of the will,” he said with a cold smile.

“I’ll contest it!” she raged.

“Your father’s mind was as sound as mine. You haven’t got a legal leg to stand on.”

She felt as if her face had gone purple. Rage sparkled in her pale green eyes, making them as glassy as ice.

“Until you reach twenty-five, or marry,” he reminded her bluntly, “I suggest you follow Ward Johnson’s lead. Then we’ll talk.”

“Ward Johnson can go to hell,” she said icily. “And you can keep him company, Joshua!”

His wide, masculine mouth curled up at the corners in amusement. “When you were about seventeen, you had all the spunk of a two-hour-old bunny rabbit,” he remarked. “That was when I started to needle you. Remember?”

“Made me furious,” she corrected, almost choking on the flash of temper. She took deep breaths to regain control. “Made me mad enough to throw things.”

He nodded. “It was what you needed. Harrison had made a puppet out of you,” he added, his face hard. “A damned little doll whose strings he pulled. I taught you to fight for your survival.”

Slowly the rage left her. Yes. He had done that for her. And once she’d started to challenge her father, her life had changed. She, who had never raised a hand in class in school, who had never spoken back to an adversary, was suddenly able to stand up to anyone.

“It seems I learned well,” she said after a minute. She glanced up at him with a rueful smile. “But it’s uncomfortable to fight, just the same.”

“Or lose. But both experiences teach valuable lessons,” he returned. His eyes were almost transparent for a few seconds. He could have told her that he knew as much as she did about being overwhelmed and dominated. His childhood had been no joy ride. But that was something he never discussed. Not even with Brad.

He stepped away, taking a long draw from the cigar. “Disgusting habit,” he muttered. He pulled a tiny tape recorder from his pocket and depressed the record button. “Dina, remind me about that no smoking seminar at the Sheraton next week. I’ve got a board meeting that morning, so I’ll forget otherwise.”

Amanda smiled secretly, amused at his gesture. Dina had been his secretary since his father’s untimely death from a heart attack ten years ago. She knew where all the bodies were buried, and she was efficient in a frightening way. Amanda had once wondered, quite seriously, if Dina was psychic, because she seemed able to anticipate every move Josh made. Even now she probably had an alarm programmed into her computer to remind him of that seminar he’d just remembered.

“Why are you grinning like the Cheshire cat?” he asked curtly. “Another dangling thought?”

The smile vanished. Her hands clenched in her pockets as she prepared for yet another fruitless argument. “About the job press...”

“No,” he repeated with cold emphasis.

She threw up her hands. “I could get more out of a stone wall!”

“There’s one.” He indicated the sea wall that protected the front of the house. “Try it.”

Her shoulders sagged. She was too worn out to fight any more today. “Will you at least look at some figures on the press before you kill it?” she asked quietly, determined to set at least that much accomplished.

“All right. But that’s all I’m promising.” That deep south Texas drawl of his was deceptive. It didn’t denote an easygoing disposition. Quite the opposite, in fact. “And I’m not kicking out Ward Johnson.”

“I wouldn’t really want you to go that far,” she confessed. “He has problems at home.”

“And you collect broken things and broken people,” he said perceptively. “Like the stray cat that was badly bitten by a neighborhood dog and had to be taken in,” he recited. “And the pigeon with a broken wing. Then there was, of all things, a garter snake that the gardener cut with a weed eater!”

“It was only a little snake,” she defended herself.

“The bleeding heart of the world,” he scoffed. “You care too much about the wrong things.”

“Somebody has to.”

“I suppose. But don’t look at me. I’ve got a business to run.” He turned his wrist abruptly and glanced at his watch. “I have to get ready to go into Nassau.”

“You wouldn’t like to take a day off?” she asked. He looked surprised. “A day off,” she began, a grin lighting up her face. “It’s when you don’t work for an entire day. You go snorkeling or sunbathe or sight-seeing...”