Part-Time Fiance

“Thanks,” she said. “ I’m sorry for yelling at you about the tongs. And I’ll replace the sweatshirt.”

“No need. It’s been exposed to worse things than sparks.” He handed the tongs to her. “Don’t close the damper till the fire’s completely out.”

She nodded, but she was thinking, As if I’m actually going to touch that fireplace ever again!

“Is there anything else you’d like me to do for you?” he said pleasantly.

Delainey bit her lip as she recognized her own words quoted back at her. “No, I think that takes care of it.” What had he said his name was? Wagner, that was it. “Thanks again, Mr. Wagner.”

“Sam,” he said.

“What?”

“It’s just a quirk of mine, but I think a lady who entertains in her pajamas should be on a first name basis with her guests.”

Delainey gritted her teeth and brushed feebly at a sooty streak on her satin sleeve.

He smiled and turned toward the French door. “Want me to close this, or are you planning to just stand in here and freeze?”

Damn the man; he had the memory of a tape recorder. “I think I’ll let the place air out a little more first.” She looked down at the silver tongs in her hand, now smudged with smoke, and added tentatively, “Honestly, I’m not incompetent in general. Just inexperienced with fireplaces.”

“Well, that’s good,” Sam said. “Because I was really starting to worry about what might happen when you tried to take a shower.”

He was whistling as he crossed the patio toward his own back door.

I’m buying a poker tomorrow, Delainey thought. But not for the fireplace. Just so I’ll have it handy to use as a murder weapon.

The doorbell rang as Delainey was coming down the stairs the next morning, still tightening an earring. She peeked out to see a woman on the doorstep, every gray hair in place and a basket in her hand.

“Welcome to the neighborhood,” the woman said when Delainey opened the door. “My name’s Emma Ashford and I live right around the corner.” She held out the basket. “Muffins for your first breakfast in your new home. Actually, I tried to leave some for you last night, but your moving men seemed to think I was taking pity on them and by the time I’d explained, they’d cleaned up every crumb.”

Delainey inhaled the rich fragrance of vanilla and cinnamon which rose from the folds of the napkin which lined the basket. “So you baked these this morning? I’ll have to thank the moving men for being greedy, because I get muffins straight from the oven…. Won’t you come in?”

Emma hesitated. “I don’t mean to be a pest. I know you working girls keep a ferocious schedule.”

“Actually, I have all the time in the world this morning, because I’m stuck here while I wait for a delivery.” Delainey led the way to the kitchen. “Coffee?”

“Only if you’re making some for yourself.”

“It’s no trouble at all.” Delainey took two plates from the cabinet. One was white plastic with fake gold trim; the other was blue pottery. “Not very elegant, I’m afraid. China that actually matched was never a priority when I shared an apartment.”

“Of course not. Roommates can be so careless.” Emma settled herself at the breakfast bar and began to unpack the basket. “This most be your first real home.”

Delainey nodded and ran a finger across the rough surface of the counter where the previous owner’s hot skillet had damaged it. “It’ll be a while before I get it all into shape.”

“It always takes twice as long as you expect, and three times as much money.”

“Oh, that’s a comfort,” Delainey said dryly. She plugged the coffeepot in and reached into the cabinet for a pair of mismatched mugs. “Did you know the previous owners?”

“Not well. I’ve only been here a short while myself.” Emma split a muffin and set it on the blue pottery plate, pushing it across the breakfast bar to Delainey.

Delainey wanted to ask why she was living there at all. White Oaks was hardly a retirement community; from what Patty had told her, the average age of the residents was about thirty. But she couldn’t think of a way to phrase the question without sounding rude, so she turned her attention back to the coffeepot, which didn’t seem to be doing anything.

“That’s odd,” she muttered. “It was all right when I used it a couple of days ago.” She moved it to the other side of the sink and plugged it into a different outlet, and it immediately began to swish and sigh. “Oh, that’s great—a dead outlet, too, right in the middle of the kitchen. Maybe I can get an electrician to come while I’m waiting around anyway.”

“The same day you call? Unlikely.”

“I suppose you’re right. Will you excuse me for just a minute? I need to call the bank so my boss knows I won’t be in till late.”

“If it’s just a package you’re waiting for, the clubhouse manager will be happy to sign for it and keep it till you get home.”

“Actually, it’s a bed.” Delainey glanced across the living area at the futon where—she hoped—she had spent her last night ever. “A whole bedroom set, in fact. It was supposed to be delivered first thing this morning, but the department store called just before you got here to say the truck would be delayed.”

“What a nuisance. There’s no telling when they’ll actually show up.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Delainey said glumly. “I really can’t afford to take the time off, because I just started this job six weeks ago.”

“You said you work for a bank?”

“National City. I’m in the business-loan division.”

“Then we certainly can’t have you being late,” Emma said briskly. “You go on to work—after you’ve finished your muffin, of course—and I’ll keep an eye out for the deliverymen.”

“That would be lovely, but I can’t ask you to—”

“You didn’t ask. I offered. That’s what neighbors do.”

“Not the kind of neighbors I’ve ever had before,” Delainey said. She surveyed Emma Ashford more closely. Con artist? Nosy old woman? Neither, she concluded. Emma was just a nice lady who was probably a bit lonely in this community of younger people, and who had a little too much time on her hands.

Delainey had encountered dozens of women like Emma Ashford during her years at the teller’s window. In a backward sort of way, she’d be doing Emma a favor in letting her help—though nothing like the magnitude of the favor Emma was doing for her.

“Just show me which bedroom.” Emma stood up. “And I’ll take care of the rest.”

Almost everything about Delainey’s job was new. The promotion had taken her to a higher level of responsibility, with a new title and a new boss, and a new office that was an actual room, not just a cubicle. For the first time in her career she had both a door and a secretary. Delainey hadn’t yet decided which thrilled her more—running a fingertip across the silvery doorplate with her name engraved on it, or having Josie keeping track of the calls she needed to return and the appointments on her calendar.

When she came in, Josie was printing the day’s appointments list, and she passed it across the desk. “It’s already outdated, though. Mr. Bishop wants to see you in his office right away.”

Bless Emma Ashford, Delainey thought. Without the woman’s offer, she’d have been sitting at home waiting on a delivery truck instead of being here to answer the boss’s summons. And since it was the first time in a week that she’d done more than exchange greetings with him in the hallway, it would have been a particularly bad day to have been late.

Delainey gathered up the projects she’d been working on and crossed the hall to the corner office with its view of the downtown skyline. Someday, perhaps, this view would be hers…

She squashed the thought before it could get out of hand. Concentrate on the job you’ve already got, she reminded herself, and the next promotion will take care of itself. It was a philosophy that hadn’t led her astray in the ten years since she’d first sat behind a teller’s window as a trainee, too nervous about the sheer size of the piles of cash she was handling to worry about anything else. “RJ? You wanted to see me?”

RJ Bishop ran a hand through his heavy, prematurely gray hair and waved her to an overstuffed chair across from his desk. “Have a seat, Delainey. Time to catch up on what’s been going on. How are you enjoying the job?”

“I love it, RJ. In fact, I have an idea to run by you when you have a minute.”

“No time like the present.”

Delainey took a deep breath. “There are a lot of women in this town who have good ideas for small businesses, but they’re having a lot of trouble getting started. I’ve been thinking about how we could set up a business incubator to help them out. They could have a good address and a private office, but they could share some of the more expensive resources for a while until they get on their feet.”

There was a tap on the door and another of the department’s staff came in. “You wanted me, RJ?”

Delainey surveyed the newcomer with interest. She hadn’t worked with Jason Conners before—had barely met him, in fact. When she joined the team, he’d been wrapping up the financing on a venture-capital deal that had kept him out of the office much of the time.

“Sit down, Jason.” RJ looked at Delainey again. “A business incubator would be a pretty expensive proposition.”

“Not necessarily. We’d charge rent, of course, and a percentage of the profits.”

Jason hitched up his perfectly creased trousers and perched on the arm of the chair next to Delainey’s. “If there are any profits.”

Delainey turned to look him in the eye. “We’d have a high percentage of failures, yes, but one big success would more than make up for a dozen losses. Anyway, the gain for us would be much more than financial. The women who make their businesses work will be loyal to the bank because we gave them a hand when they needed it. We’ll have all their deposits and loans—and a great deal of goodwill, too.”

“Women only?” Jason sniffed. “It’s hardly worth the risk of being accused of discrimination, RJ.”

I haven’t missed much, not working with him, Delainey thought. “But I don’t want to take up any more of Jason’s valuable time with that discussion, RJ,” she said smoothly. “We can talk about it later.”

“Why?” Jason asked. “Afraid I’ll poke holes in your reasoning?”

“Let’s drop the incubator idea for now, Delainey, and move on to the Bannister deal.” RJ leaned forward. “I want to bring Jason up to speed on what you’ve been doing with Elmer Bannister’s numbers.”

Delainey pulled the folder from her pile and showed him the projections she’d done on how they could pull together the capital that Elmer Bannister needed in order to expand his factory.

RJ listened patiently, running a fingertip over the figures. Jason fidgeted.

Finally, RJ nodded. “It looks good,” he said. “Bringing together Elmer Bannister’s product and that particular group of investors. What do you think, Jason?”

Jason shrugged. “It’s not bad. I’ll call the investors and make the proposal.”

“Excuse me,” Delainey said. “You’ll make the proposal? RJ, I put this together. I should be the one to—”

RJ was shaking his head. “Not this time, Delainey. You could probably pull it off, but—”

Darn right I could pull it off, Delainey thought irritably.

“But we don’t want to risk your hard work by putting you on the front line like that just yet. You’ll help Jason when he makes the presentation, get some experience that way.”

While Jason takes the credit. But Delainey knew that further argument would get her nowhere. “Yes, sir.”

RJ grinned at her. “I think that’s all then. I’ll let you two work out the details.” He pulled his chair up to the desk and reached for a pen.

Dismissed, Delainey gathered up her folders. Jason ostentatiously held the door for her.

As if I’m such a little feminine flower that I couldn’t manage to pull it open for myself. She started down the hall.

“Delainey,” Jason said. “A word of warning. RJ likes his people to be a team. So the question is, are you a team player?”

She didn’t look at him. “I’ve never had a problem working in groups, Jason.”

“Good. Then you’ll be eager to be a part of the next deal I’m working on. Heard of Curtis Whittington?”

“Hasn’t everybody? What’s the merger king working on this time?”

Jason laughed. “Cute nickname—but I’d suggest you not call him that to his face when we have lunch with him tomorrow.”

“He’s in town?”

“Well, we’re not having lunch by conference call. Unless you’d rather not be on the team?”

Delainey kept her voice calm. “I don’t have any other plans.”

Jason laughed. “That’s what I thought. Century Club, one o’clock. In the meantime, do your homework.”

He strolled off down the hall, leaving Delainey chewing her bottom lip and wondering whether he was setting her up or offering her the chance of a lifetime.

Her secretary spent half the afternoon at the library, and Delainey went home a little early but with a briefcase stuffed to bursting with reading material about Curtis Whittington. Too bad she’d sworn off fires, she thought absently. It would be pleasant to sit beside a blaze tonight with a glass of wine, reading her way through the stack of magazines Josie had culled.

For an instant when she pulled up in front of the town house complex, she thought she had been caught in a time warp and flung back to the previous day. A big truck was parked in front, and two burly men were coming down the sidewalk. But it wasn’t a moving van this time, just a delivery truck from the department store. “Everything’s in but the bedside tables,” one of them called as she got out of her car. “We’ll be done in a minute.”

“I thought you were supposed to be here this morning.”

“Oh, it worked out better to reverse the deliveries,” the man said cheerfully.

“Better for whom?” Delainey said under her breath. Not for Emma Ashford, that was certain. Poor woman, casually offering to do a good deed that she expected would take an hour or two at most, and then having to wait around all day….

There was one good thing about it as far as Delainey was concerned, though. She wouldn’t have any trouble tracking Emma down to give her the flowers she’d brought as a thank-you gesture.

She gathered up the sheaf of pink roses and her bulging briefcase and followed a pair of bedside tables up the sidewalk. Coming in out of the sunlight, she blinked in the sudden dimness inside the town house. For a minute all she could distinguish was movement in the kitchen.

“Emma?” she called. “I can’t thank you enough for—”

But as her eyes adjusted, she saw that it wasn’t Emma in the kitchen. It was the cretin-next-door, and he seemed to be making himself right at home.

Sam Wagner looked up. “Flowers?” he said gently. “For me? Oh, honey—you shouldn’t have!”

CHAPTER TWO

DELAINEY stormed across the big room and set her briefcase on the breakfast bar. The magazines she’d stuffed inside slid out and cascaded across the counter and onto the floor. “What are you doing in my house?”

“At the moment,” Sam said, “I’m wiring in a new outlet. But if you object, I can stop.”

Her gaze dropped to his hands. His long fingers moved quickly and with a grace that surprised her, winding a pair of colored wires together and twisting a plastic cap over the joint.

She’d forgotten all about the outlet. Emma must have told him it needed repairing—but why? “Are you an electrician?”

“Not exactly, so don’t tell the union I’m fiddling with wires.” He fitted the outlet back into the box in the wall and reached for a screwdriver to fasten it in place.

“Then…are you the maintenance man for the complex?” That made sense, Delainey thought. With a hundred units on the estate, it would certainly be a full-time job to keep up with minor repairs for all the residents. And having a handyman living right on site would be a good idea, too, because he’d be able to respond faster in an emergency.

The use of a town house might be a part of his pay—and a job like that would certainly explain Sam Wagner’s faded jeans and sweatshirt and running shoes. A maintenance man never knew what messes his day might include. Though today, she noted, he was wearing khakis and a pullover sweater. He’s positively dressed up.

“Not officially.”

Delainey felt like stamping her foot. “Then what are you?”

“You sound so suspicious that I’d rather not admit to anything.” Sam gave a last twist to the mounting screw and put the plastic protective plate back in place over the outlet. “There. It should be as good as new.” He gathered up bits of wire and insulation and dumped them in the trash can. “Well, now that you’re here to supervise the delivery team, I’ll just take my flowers home and get them into water.”

Reminded of the roses, Delainey clutched the bouquet a little tighter. “Is Emma upstairs?”

“No. Why? You’re afraid the deliverymen couldn’t set up the bed without her advice? Though it is quite a bed, I must say. Even the deliverymen must not see one like that very often.”

“Of course you would have to go take a look,” she said irritably. “I hope you satisfied your curiosity.”

Sam shrugged. “I wasn’t being nosy.”

“Oh, no, of course not!”

“I was just doing my job as a supervisor, keeping a close eye on things. I’d hate to have you come home and find out they’d put it together upside down or something.”

“The real question is why you were supervising at all. What happened to Emma?”

“Bridge club, every Tuesday afternoon at the mansion. When the delivery people didn’t show up on time, she saddled me with the job and went off to play cards.” He began gathering up tools. “You must have been sleeping on a futon for a long time to make you go all out like that when you bought a real bed.”

Delainey willed herself not to blush. How she chose to furnish her bedroom was certainly none of his business. “She left you here alone?”

“You’re complaining? She could have just put a note on the door telling the delivery people to try again tomorrow.”

And since it wasn’t Emma’s bed, Delainey reminded herself, who would blame her for setting limits on her Good Samaritan offer? “I’m not complaining exactly. Just surprised, since she said she’d take care of it.”

“I know.” Sam nodded thoughtfully. “You’d think by the time a woman hits seventy-five, she’d learn to be responsible for doing what she says she’s going to. On the other hand, now you have your outlet fixed too.” He opened a yellow plastic case and began to fit tools into the slots and crevices inside. “Maybe you should go up and make sure they’re doing things right.”

Maybe she should, Delainey thought, because with any luck, he’d be gone by the time she came back down.

“Don’t forget to stomp your feet on the stairs to warn them—just in case they’ve been trying on your lingerie up there.”

She pretended not to hear him. “The outlet—what do I owe you for your work?”

His eyes brightened. “You mean you’ll pay me as well as bring me flowers?”

“I can’t imagine you wanting the flowers.” She opened the cabinet where her skimpy supply of dishes resided and got out a big, heavy glass mug. “I’ll stick them in water till Emma gets home. Which unit is hers?”

“She didn’t tell you?”

“She just said she lived around the corner.”

“Well, she does, sort of. That corner.” He pointed.

“What? That’s where you live. Wait a minute—you mean you and Emma—? No.”

“If you’d like to be precise, she’s my maternal grandmother.”

Delainey flipped a switch to turn on the light over the sink. Nothing happened. “Oh, great. You’ve messed up the rest of the wiring!”

“No, I just pulled the breaker so I wouldn’t electrocute myself while I worked.”

“More’s the pity,” she said under her breath. She filled the mug and with difficulty fitted in the bunch of stems.

Sam casually shook a finger at her. “Just for that remark, I should make you turn the power back on yourself. No, on second thought, I’ll do it. Before you ever touch the electrical system, I want to be at a safe distance. Easter Island might be far enough.”

Delainey wasn’t listening. “You live with your grandmother?”

“Last time I looked, it wasn’t a crime.”

“Aren’t you just a little old for that? And this is two days in a row you’ve been hanging around here in the afternoon…Are you on vacation or what?”

“Extended,” he said crisply.

There was something about his tone of voice that puzzled her for a moment. “Oh. You’ve been laid off? I’m sorry.”

Sam nodded. “Downsized. Given the pink slip. Axed. Made redundant. Shown the door. Have you ever noticed how many ways we have to describe losing a job?”

“Fired,” Delainey added helpfully.

“I was not fired.”

“Sorry. I was just playing the game. I’ve never actually been out of work, but—”

“Very lucky for you.”

“I know. I’ve been with the bank for ten years now. But I do understand how it affects a person to lose a job—it can be like losing his identity.”

“Oh, I’m not at that stage yet,” Sam said absently. “I still recognize myself in the mirror when I shave.”

Why bother to waste compassion on the man? “Well, good luck finding something to do.”

“Gran’s keeping me busy. Everybody she knows has something that needs fixed.”

That wasn’t what Delainey had meant, but she decided not to press the point. It would be no wonder if Emma Ashford was trying her best to keep her grandson occupied. Having a grown man lying about the house all day would get old in a hurry.

Sam crossed the kitchen to the pantry closet and moved aside half a dozen cans of condensed soup so he could reach the electrical panel at the back. “Good thing you haven’t stocked up the shelves,” he said. “Why they always put these things in the darkest and most inaccessible spot is beyond me.”

There was a click from the direction of the closet, and abruptly the light over the sink glared straight into Delainey’s eyes. Feeling a bit obstinate, she plugged the toaster into the outlet he’d repaired and pushed the lever down.

“What’s the matter? You didn’t think I could do it?” He leaned both elbows on the breakfast bar.

Inside the toaster, the coils glowed red. She unplugged it. “I was just making sure. So that’s what you meant earlier about not being the official handyman around here. Emma has you lined up as the unofficial one.”

“It keeps me out of trouble.”

Delainey had her doubts that any kind of job could accomplish that goal. “Well, thank you. Let me know what I owe you for the work.”

Sam picked up the last of the tools. “Oh, I couldn’t charge a fee.”

“Why on earth not?” She was so intrigued she forgot she was still holding the toaster. “Seriously, Sam, this could be a nice little business. There must be a huge demand for someone who’ll do the little jobs that regular contractors don’t want to bother with—things like broken outlets and drippy faucets and loose door handles.”

“If that’s a polite way to ask me to fix your drippy faucet and your loose door handle—”

“I haven’t got any—at least none I’ve found yet. I was speaking generally. You wouldn’t need much to get started. Just business cards, a nicely printed fee schedule, some advertising, a phone number and a reliable answering service.” She eyed the fitted case with its neat but limited assortment of screwdrivers and pliers. It was definitely an amateur’s kit, the kind of thing she’d have to buy for herself sometime soon. “You’ll need some better tools, of course, and maybe a truck or a van.”

“And the necessary licenses and permits. I wasn’t kidding about the electricians’ union.” He closed the toolbox with a click that sounded almost final.

“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that. But getting the money to start shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll help you put together a business plan and a loan application.” She delved into her briefcase, scooping out the few magazines which hadn’t already escaped when she set it down, and pulled out a gold case engraved with her initials. “Here’s my card. We do this kind of thing all the time.”