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from
Silhouette Desire...
Chapter One The honour of your presence is required Sam Balfour spared a last disinterested look at the wording on the invitation and then lightly tossed it and a dozen others onto the large mahogany desktop. S. Edward Balfour IV sat back in the burgundy leather chair that was two sizes too big for him now that the years had begun to shrink him, tented his fingers atop a generous belly, and looked across the desk at his nephew. “You’re making a point with that gesture, aren’t you, son? Do I get three guesses now as to what that point might be?” “No need for guessing. Let’s just let these serve in lieu of a November progress report, why don’t we? I’m sorry, Santa, but our fellow man is living down to my expectations again this year, rather than up to yours. Three good-hearted givers out of fifteen bottom-feeding takers. I just got word that the last one, the youth counselor in Florida, took off for Vegas within three days of getting a cash gift. I warned you about cash gifts. Three, Uncle Ned, three out of eighteen. That’s a new low.” “All right, I suppose I’ll agree to accept that deviation from the usual monthly report. But please let me remind you, Sam, the gift is always given with an accompanying note that instructs the recipient to do what he or she feels best.” “Right. And for most of them, what they feel best is to keep their good fortune to themselves, and the hell with everyone and everything else. Kind of like the guy who grabs his bread from the middle of the loaf — and then leaves the bag open so that the rest of the slices get stale. Hey, as long as I’ve got mine, who cares about anyone else, right?” “And here I was going to add that I was wondering if that new low, as you call it, disappoints or delights you, Sam. But that would be only a rhetorical question, wouldn’t it, son?” “It doesn’t matter what I think, Uncle Ned. That’s not the point,” Sam said, not liking the defensive tone of his own voice. “You’ve been doing this for nearly ten years now, and each year the numbers get worse. What’s it going to take to convince you that people aren’t what you’d like to believe them to be? By and large, we’re a bunch of grasping, self-serving bastards, some of us putting a good face on it for the world, sure, but all of us really out for number one, and nobody else.” “And some of us may even be cynics,” Uncle Ned said, his tone more amused than accusing as he sat forward in his chair once again. “I agree, Sam, that the responses to this year’s gifts have been fairly disappointing. When I began this, more than half of the recipients took their gifts and turned them into something good, something that served others rather than merely themselves.” “Yeah, I know — considering the greater good over the individual benefit. Terrific in theory, lousy in practice.” “Not entirely. You said there were three.” Sam felt sorry for his uncle and employer. “Look, you gave it your best shot, Uncle Ned. But let’s just send the three who passed the test their million bucks, have them sign their confidentiality agreements, and put this project to rest, okay? No party this year. It’s senseless. Unless you want to invite all the others as well, and watch their faces as Bruce explains the rules and only three of them get checks.” “You’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you?” Sam shrugged. “Maybe. No. No, I don’t think so. I mean, what’s the point? As far as I’m concerned, the ones who react the way most of them do are the normal ones. Only an idiot gives away what he can keep. You know — don’t look a gift horse in the mouth? You gave, they took, and why should any of them do anything differently?” “Oh, Sam. You’re breaking an old man’s heart here. You really are.” Sam half-sat on one corner of the large desk. “I’m only saying what I believe. Besides, Uncle Ned, I’ve shown you the articles in the newspapers. That dame, that Leticia Trent, she isn’t giving up. Word is getting out on what you’re doing.” “Yes, yes, I know. The reclusive billionaire Santa Claus who gives out unexpected gifts so he can watch what the lucky recipients do with them, and then awards the generous with one million tax-free dollars in their Christmas stockings. It’s rather shocking, how on-the-money she is with her stories. But it’s only rumors so far, remember, no more than speculation. I’m not worried. I’m rather flattered, in fact, to be seen as some modern-day Kris Kringle.” He patted his stomach. “I’m even working on the bowlful-of-jelly belly.” Then his uncle sobered. “This is what Maureen wanted, Sam. This is what she and I did those last few years before she was taken from me. This is her legacy. I’m not going to stop, not until the world has run out of good people, and I don’t think it ever will.” “I understand. I’m sorry I brought it up,” Sam said, reluctantly giving up the fight. His Aunt Maureen had been bedridden for the last five years of her life, and the generous project had been her idea. She and Uncle Ned would scour the newspapers, the Internet, every day, looking for possible worthy recipients of unexpected gifts, be the gift money or something else of particular interest to the individual selected. If the person kept what was given, used it selfishly, that person was out of the running for the larger gift at the Christmas Eve gathering. The initial gift would have been earned, as Maureen saw it, but no additional gift would be coming to these people. Sam privately thought that Maureen and Uncle Ned were playing God with other people’s lives, but he had always kept that opinion to himself. It was watching his uncle’s generous heart being bruised year after year that made Sam want to see an end to the project. Sam also knew his uncle’s arguments for keeping the project going. Uncle Ned had sworn that the searching, the choosing, the anticipation, the joy when people they’d chosen had done such magnificent things with their gifts, had kept his beloved wife alive long past the predictions of her doctors. Now maybe the project was doing the same for her husband, a thought which, when he admitted it to himself, scared the hell out of Sam. Because if Sam didn’t believe in the goodness of man all that much, what he really hated was the reclusive billionaire part, as his uncle had been hiding from the world since the day Maureen died. “Sam?” “Yes, sir,” Sam said, picking up the invitations that would not be sent this year, intending to toss them in the trash. “You might want to hang onto one of those.” His uncle opened the top center drawer and pulled out a dark green file folder. Sam knew the drill. Green, for giving. “I’ve selected one more recipient for you.” “You don’t give up, do you?” Sam reluctantly took the folder. “Even if this one works out, Uncle Ned, you’d still only be four for nineteen. You wouldn’t consider that a good return on your investment if these people were stocks or bonds.” “But that’s the point, Sam. People can’t be toted up on a balance sheet. People can’t be assigned to the profit or loss columns of a ledger. I wish you understood that. You worry me, son. Your poor opinion of people in general worries me, as you’ve no good reason to hold such low opinions. Anyone would think you grew up in a hovel, downtrodden and oppressed in every way, rather than here, which I would think even you would say is the lap of luxury.” Sam smiled. “I know. I almost developed a speech impediment, trying to talk with that entire set of silver flatware in my mouth.” Uncle Ned tipped his head to one side and smiled at his nephew. “Did you ever consider that it might be the company you keep that’s colored your judgment, inside and outside of your business dealings with some of the less than munificent of corporate leaders? Not that they aren’t all beautiful women.” “They are that, and always in it for what they can get out of it — or out of me. Thankfully, they’re also disposable and interchangeable, rather like the corporate leaders. But we’ll leave psychoanalyzing my inappropriate response to being born with a silver spoon in my mouth for another time, okay?” Sam said, holding up the folder. “I’ll take this to Bruce and get him started.” “No, Sam, you won’t. There’s been a change of plans. This one you’ll handle yourself.” “Me? Uncle Ned, come on. I handle the paperwork, the gifts, the funds transfers. I take care of the invitations — all three of them this year. I arrange for the damn million dollar checks and the Christmas Eve party. Bruce takes care of everything else, the meeting, the greeting, the hosting, and most especially the delivering of the initial gifts and the follow-up. Not my job, not my table, you know?” “You’ll do what I tell you to do, Sam,” his uncle said, his tone the one that had, in earlier years, been the terror of several boardrooms. “This one’s local. You won’t have to travel or lose any time from your busy schedule of running my companies and sleeping with any pretty woman with a pulse. Although that redhead last month would have tempted a rock.” Sam looked at his uncle in astonishment. “Pardon me? What was that? You’re keeping tabs on me as well as your recipients? Wonderful. You’ll have to excuse me now, so I can go find Bruce and break his nose for him.” “Leave Bruce alone, he only does what I tell him. Depressingly well in your case. I had to warn him not to bring me any more, shall I say, interesting photographs of you and your interchangeable and disposable young ladies. Frankly, I’m surprised they don’t all have constant chest colds, the way they dress. You’re my sole heir, Sam, my brother’s child. I love you. But I don’t like what I’m seeing. You’re turning cold, and perhaps even hard. You may well be on your way to being a user, and will end up a lonely, disillusioned old man.” “And here I thought you liked me,” Sam complained, trying to deflect his uncle with humor. “I’m your namesake, remember? Raised at your knee, taught everything you know? I never realized I was such a sad disappointment to you.” “Don’t fight me on this, Sam, because you won’t win. You’ve known nothing but the cutthroat world of business, and you’re very good at it. Well, and your ladies. According to Bruce, and those photographs that have been burned into my retinas, you’re more than very good with them. In fact, I believe Bruce’s last communication to me before I told him to stop included the words he could give seminars.” “Well, thank you, Bruce.” Sam grinned. “I’d still like to break his nose. After that, I may ask him for a few eight-by-tens.” “Smiling and being funny won’t get you out of this, Sam. Humor me. Let me try to show you what Maureen showed me. I’ve sidelined Bruce and his camera.” “You’re actually serious, aren’t you?” “Deadly serious. Beginning to end, Sam, you will handle this prospective millionaire. You will bring me all the reports. I don’t know what will happen, although I’ve chosen this person very particularly, and will admit that my hopes are high. I want to see if you’ll have your bad opinion of your fellow humans re-enforced, or if you’ll begin to see what Maureen taught me to see — that the good in this world outnumbers the bad.” “But never outnumbers the greedy,” Sam said under his breath on his way back to his own suite of offices in the immense Philadelphia Main Line mansion. He tossed the green folder on his desk, refusing to look at it, and went to lunch. He was pretty sure he was having blonde today … # While holding a phone to her ear, Paige Halliday frantically rummaged through a sheaf of notes on a desk piled six inches high with sliding stacks of papers. “No, Claire, I’m sure I’m right. I just can’t find my darn notes! Ten lords–a-leaping. Not twelve. Twelve is … damn, what’s twelve, Claire? Oh, God, maybe you’re right and I’m wrong. Where am I going to find a dozen lords-a-leaping? I didn’t think I could find ten. Are you sure? No, wait, I found my list, I’ve got it in front of me right now. It’s twelve drummers drumming. Ten leaping lords. You got those? Please say you’ve got those. Yes, I’ll hold.” Paige slumped against a corner of the desk, wondering why she’d so blithely said sure, no problem when her client had asked for a display of the Twelve Days of Christmas at the last minute, making the display a part of their mall-wide after-Christmas sales. What were they planning? On the fifth day after Christmas my true love gave to me five golden rings — marked seventy percent below the normal sale price? On the ninth day after Christmas my true love gave to me — nine ladies dancing through the home goods departments in search of January White Sale bargains? And all of the display done in life-size, no less, because the mall atrium was huge, and a smaller display would be dwarfed. “Dwarfed,” she grumbled to herself. “Dwarfs I’ve got in stock. It’s the freaking eight maids a-milking that are going to kill me … hello? Claire? No good on the lords-a-leaping, huh? Okay, then how about — damn, Claire, someone’s at the service door. Probably another delivery. I’ll call you back, okay? Don’t forget the four calling birds. No, I don’t know what calling birds look like. What normal person would know that? Just wing it — ha! Get it? Wing it. Oh, hell. There goes the doorbell again. I’ll call you back — gotta go.” Paige put down the cordless phone and jammed her hands against the sides of her head as the person at the delivery door had stopped leaning on the doorbell in exchange for banging on the door. Not that anything could muss her short pixie-cut cap of black hair, but she hoped the pressure of her fingers against her temples might push her aching brain back into place. She counted to three, dropped her hands to her sides, and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. In the land of Paige Halliday, owner and operator of Holidays by Halliday, October was frantic and November was nuts. December was October and November put together, and then squared. The fact that the Christmas season brought her more than sixty percent of her yearly gross usually was enough to keep her moving, keep her functioning at the highest level. But that didn’t mean anything kept her sane between the day after Thanksgiving and December twenty-fourth, as the turkeys and cornucopias came down and the Santas and angels went up. “Keep your shirt on out there, I’m coming as fast as I can!” she called out as she hastily worked her way between mounds of ribbon rolls and plastic crates filled with oversize Christmas balls piled everywhere she could find space for them. She sucked in her breath and her already-flat belly, to edge between a grinning eight foot high snowman and a reindeer whose nose was supposed to be both red and electrified, but wasn’t, and into the back room. The knock came again, and she might have been a little bit careless as she pushed at the stack of corrugate boxes filled with loose silver sprinkles; loose because, after the reindeer fiasco, she’d already opened one box to check the contents. “Be right there — damn!” She opened the door while picking bits of silver sprinkles from the tip of her tongue before closing her eyes and shaking her head, sending sprinkles showering from her hair, her face, her shoulders. She’d caught the box before it fell, but the contents had sprinkled on her a bit. There, that’s better. Sorry about the delay in answering. So? How may I help you?” she asked, not really looking at the man who stood in the alleyway. “That would depend,” the man said, and the amusement in his decidedly sexy voice had Paige blinking the last of the sparkles from her eyelashes and concentrating her attention on her visitor. Well, would you look at that. Even the man’s eyes smiled. Hooboy. Why did all the good ones show up when she looked like an escapee from a institution for the terminally idiotic? “That would depend on what?” she asked, once more brushing at the sprinkles on her shoulders. Silver dandruff. Wonderful. “Are you Paige Halliday?” “If I say no, will you come back in an hour, when I’m decent?” she asked him, wondering if his teeth were capped. If not, his children should go down on bended knees to thank him for such beautiful straight teeth. “Do you have a delivery for me? If there’s a God, it’s the pink artificial tree from Beekman’s Supply. Green trees I’ve got in that garage behind you. White ones. Pink? Not so much.” “I’m sorry, no. No pink tree. It’s starting to rain. May I come in?” “I don’t know … um …” She squinted at him. Nice tie. “Do I know you?” “No, Ms. Halliday, you don’t. Do I need a note of introduction from my mother?” Paige felt her cheeks growing hot. “No, no, of course not. It’s just … it’s just that you don’t look like a deliveryman, er, person.” “That’s … very comforting, thank you.” Great. Now she was a master of understatement, of the obvious. The guy sure didn’t look like a delivery … person. He looked like that perfectly mussed haircut had cost more than the down payment on her condo, his dark suit twice the value of her delivery vans. Tall, slim, handsome, he looked like money should ooze from his pores when lesser people can only sweat. Still, Paige didn’t know the man. “If you could tell me why you’re here? I mean, if you’re here to talk about decorating your home or business for the holidays, I’m open Monday through Friday. I even have a door on the main street, so you didn’t have to come all the way around here into the alley.” “Nobody answered my knock on the front door. And it’s after business hours,” he said. “But I saw lights on inside, so I thought I’d take a chance. I’m harmless, Ms. Halliday, I promise. In fact, I’m the bearer of good news. And it’s raining harder now.” “Oh, all right, all right, come on in,” Paige said, backing away from the door. “Careful of that leaning tower of boxes over there. I don’t think silver sprinkles would go too well with that suit.” “I agree. They look much better on you.” “Uh … thanks.” She turned to lead the way back into her workroom-slash-office. “What’s your name, anyway?” She watched as he went nose-to-nose with the reindeer as he maneuvered his way toward the doorway. “Bru — that is, that reindeer is a real bruiser, isn’t he? I’m Sam,” he said, clearing the doorway. Paige had caught the hesitation, the quick recovery. Still, she stuck out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Bru-sam.” He took it, his grip comfortably firm, his contact just a split-second longer than maybe it should have been. His eyes, now that she was closer to him, were a lovely warm brown. And they were still smiling. “Just Sam, please. I tend to stammer when in the presence of women as beautiful as you, Ms. Halliday.” Paige visibly deflated. “Oh, great. You’re selling insurance, aren’t you? Look, I’m perfectly happy with the coverage I’ve got, and I told the guy that when he called last week, okay?” “I’m not selling insurance, Ms. Halliday,” Sam said as he reached into his suit jacket’s inside pocket and withdrew an expensive cream-colored envelope. “I’m here to give you something.” “Sure you are,” Paige said, brushing at the silver sprinkles on her shoulder yet again. “Why, you’re about the fifth person this week to stop by in the rain, just to give me something.” She leaned back against the high worktable, wishing she had worn something classier than black jeans and an old Christmas-green angora sweater to work today. “Is that so? Lucky you.” She had a feeling she wasn’t making a great first impression. Especially since she couldn’t seem to shut up. “Okay, look, Sam. I’m sorry, I really am. I’m not usually such a grouch, but I have these maids a-milking to find, not to mention the calling birds and the leaping lords, and I only have a couple more days to do that, let alone get them ready for prime time. You’re not seeing me at my best.” Sam nodded, just as if he understood what she’d just said — and she barely understood what she was saying. “This is quite an operation you have here, Ms. Halliday,” he said, looking around the room that should have been twice as big to fit in what she’d found a way to fit into it. “I think this is what is called controlled chaos.” “Only if the person saying that is being really, really polite. I’m hoping to expand into the empty building next door, after the holidays, but for now it’s a bit of squeeze in here. The rest of the year isn’t this bad, or this hectic.” She looked around the room, seeing it with his eyes, the eyes of an outsider, looking in. The tall topiary trees for either side of the Heckman’s front door. The red and white striped pole with the Welcome Santa sign on it. Not to mention the seven swans a-swimming she’d already located. Most especially not to mention that two of those swans looked like they were getting way too friendly with each other. “Would you like to go next door to the cafe for a cup of coffee?” Paige asked brightly, trying to redirect Sam Whatever-his-last-name-was away from the pseudo-copulating fowl. “It can get kind of claustrophobic in here, and Joann’s coffee is really good.” And maybe the sexy smell of your cologne will get lost in the other smells and I wouldn’t feel so much like jumping your bones. But she didn’t think it would be such a good idea to say that. It wasn’t even a good idea to think that. “A cup of coffee sounds very tempting, Ms. Halliday, but I’m afraid I have a dinner engagement in another hour, across town. I’m only here as a favor to a friend. So, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to just hand you this envelope and be on my way. The letter inside, I understand, is self-explanatory.” “Oh.” Paige stared nervously at the envelope, but didn’t attempt to take it from him. “All right. Um … thank you?” “Not me, Ms. Halliday,” he said, and suddenly the man didn’t look quite as amused. “Believe me, I have nothing to do with this. Although delighted to meet you, I’m just the messenger.” “You don’t look like a delivery guy or a messenger,” she told him honestly. Was he flirting with her now? She was pretty sure he was, at least a little bit. Okay. What was good for the goose was good enough for the six geese a-laying, or something like that. She blinked several times, doing her best to look adorably flustered, as they said in the romance novels. “So, no, Sam, I don’t think I believe you.” He was staring at her now. Positively staring at her. Maybe she looked good in silver spangles? Who knew, it might be a whole new look for her. “You should believe me, Ms. Halliday, because I’m telling you nothing but the truth. I’m the messenger. My … a client of mine felt he needed someone he could trust to take care of this matter for him. So I may be a messenger, yes, but I’m a very well paid messenger.” Paige quickly shoved her hands behind her back as she panicked. “You’re a lawyer, Sam? The person who sent you here is one of your clients, is that it? You did say a client, right? That’s a summons, or something? I’m being sued?” “Absolutely, not. Look, just take this and —” “Not yet, no, thank you. Is this about the Gobble-Gobble For Dollars contest display in Bailey’s Super-shop? Hey, nobody got hurt, you know. It wasn’t that big a turkey, which is why it all happened in the first place. And it was only a blow-up plastic thing. How bad could that hurt? The kid shouldn’t have been trying to ride it, right? Who tries to ride a turkey? And where the hell was his mother? She has to be equally culpable. That’s the word, right? Culpable?” “Gobble-Gobble contest? Turkey riding? I think you might lead a very interesting life, Ms. Halliday. I’m not a lawyer, no. But please do consider me sworn to secrecy as far as my client goes, even though I’m not a priest, either. No, definitely not a priest …” He was looking her that way again. Why? She wasn’t that interesting. Was she? He stepped closer to her. “Hold still. One of those silver spangles is very close to your eye. We need to get rid of it.” “We do?” Paige held her breath as he cupped her chin in his hand and used the index finger of his other hand to lightly stroke the skin beneath her right eye. He was so close to her, so intent on what he was doing. She could see little reddish flecks in his warm brown pupils. The slight laugh crinkles around the outside of his eyes. She felt herself almost falling towards him. Okay, so her body wasn’t moving. Her mind, however, had already jumped into bed with him, and was ripping off his clothes with her mental teeth. He continued to stroke her skin, out and over her cheek. His fingers trailed down her face, followed the line of her chin. If either of them had a knife, there was enough tension in the air to give even a freshly sharpened blade a run for its money. Paige swallowed, and heard the sound of that swallow in her ears. She was so … suave. Sam smiled. Yes, all the way up to and including his eyes. “There, all done, you’re safe now. For the moment, at least,” he said as he stepped back, his neat double-entendres circling fast and furious around her slightly muzzy head. “Huh? Oh. Right. Er … thanks?” “You’re very welcome, but the pleasure was all mine.” He lightly tapped the envelope just between her breasts, once, twice, and then held it there until she grabbed it from his hand. “It has been interesting, Miss Halliday. Meeting you, that is. It’s time for you to read your letter. But I think we must find a way to do this again some time soon. For now, I’ll find my own way out.” Paige quickly looked down at the envelope, and the way her name had been written on it in a dark, bold, definitely masculine script. “Uh-huh,” she said, mentally saying goodbye to the handsome man who had to be the best-looking and best-dressed messenger in history, and hello to, well, she wouldn’t know that until she opened the envelope, would she? “Sam? Don’t forget to watch out for the top box of sprinkles. Oh, and the door will lock automatically behind you.” Once she heard the heavy door close, she pulled a stool from beneath the worktable and eased herself onto it, so that her shaking legs didn’t have to worry about supporting her. What the hell had just happened? Who was that masked man? Most importantly — was she nuts? A stranger comes knocking on your door, and you open it, you let him in, you let him … touch you. You let yourself think about how else he might be able to touch you? You even consider giving him detailed directions on where and how to touch you? He had said they must find a way do this again. Soon, he’d said. She hoped he could find that way soon. She’d even be willing to offer to help him look. “Well, this isn’t good. I’ve really got to get out more. I’m beginning to have sexual fantasies, or something,” Paige said out loud, fanning herself with the envelope until she remembered that, yes, she was holding an envelope. She laid it on the work top. It looked harmless enough. It wasn’t going to jump up and bite her, for crying out loud. She stared at the envelope until she thought she might be ready to read what was inside it, and then picked it up, sliding loose the unglued flap. Sam had told her to read the letter, so she’d read the letter. Inside was one sheet of paper, typed. Unsigned. Ms. Halliday, this communication is to inform you that a benefactor who wishes to remain anonymous has become aware of your continued outstanding good work with the Lark Summit Orphanage, and wishes to reward your laudable volunteer spirit with a small token of appreciation. Please contact the Sales Manager at Maintown Motors at your earliest convenience. What awaits you there is yours, to do with what you wish. Be assured it is true, Ms. Halliday, that to give is more blessed than to receive. “That’s it? That’s all? Give what? Receive what? That’s it?” Paige turned the letter over, to find that, yes, that was indeed it. Just those few words. No other explanation. The phone beside her rang, and Paige jumped, her mind immediately leaping to the idea that Sam was calling her, to explain the letter to her. She picked it up and pressed the Talk button. “Sam? What does — oh, hi, Claire. No, no, I wasn’t expecting anyone else. Not really. You’re kidding! You found the calling birds? That’s wonderful.” She slid onto on the stool, still looking at the letter, wishing for more words to appear, or to at least understand the few that were written there. None did, so she put down the sheet of paper, the typed side face-down. She had more important things to think about right now. “Gee … that really is great. So, um, inquiring minds want to know, Claire — what do calling birds look like?” -------------------------- Order The Tycoon's Secret online at Amazon.com or at BarnesandNoble.com (In Australia? Order online at www.rendezvousbooks.com) Check out the first three books in the Gifts From A Billionaire series: |
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1999-2004 Kasey Michaels. Email Kasey: kasey@kaseymichaels.com
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