Tongue-tied

His thoughts returned to Christine, who waited outside his door. Despite her overachiever mentality, he regretted approving that damn promotion because ever since then, Christine had let him know repeatedly that she was available for more. Much more.

But he was also personally to blame for that headache.Never, ever kiss a woman after two martinis. Women like Christine took such slightly inebriated overtures to mean there was hope. Forget that it happened a full year ago, the result of a long day’s work that turned flirtatious after a few drinks…an overture that went from hot to cold within seconds. For Johnny, anyway.

Blowing out a gust of air, he turned his head slightly toward the intercom. “Thanks, Shelia, let her in.” Shelia’s physical appearance reminded him of that English actress, Judi Dench. Mature, professional and punctual Shelia had organized his work, and often his life, since he founded OpticPower five years ago.

The door opened with a swoosh and in blew Christine, dressed in one of her designer suits—this one so purple, he imagined her as one of the irises in that Van Gogh painting. An iris topped with blond-streaked hair and a too-toothy smile. “Good afternoon, Jonathan.”

His butler William called him Mr. Dayton, like most OpticPower employees. Christine and her peers called him Jonathan. No one had called him “Johnny” in years…until last night. For a moment, he could even hear Robin’s voice, soft and full of surprise, when she’d stepped outside the diner and found him waiting.

He watched Christine swagger toward him, a quasi-masculine movement that looked funny on her scrawny frame. She eased herself into one of the leather guest chairs that faced his desk, and slowly sat down. Her face was overpowdered, caking in the lines around her mouth. For a moment, he wondered where those lines came from. Couldn’t be from laughing.

Never breaking eye contact, she crossed one leg slowly over the other, a move obviously intended to give him a flash of her black satin garters.

It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the finer attributes of womanhood—or the flash of skin against lace or satin—but being inappropriately manipulated, whether by words or gestures, was one of his hot buttons. Although he hadn’t felt manipulated last night when Robin slammed down that coffeepot and zeroed in for a kiss.That was a gloriously spontaneous act, full of passion and want….

“You seem…distracted.” Christine looked peeved.

“I was…going over some figures in my head.” A very luscious, curvy figure. “You wanted this meeting—what’s up?”

A look of hurt shadowed Christine’s eyes. Straightening in her seat, she said crisply, “It’s the Nexus project. Teresa sidestepped the end-to-end test and now we have a noncompliant test process on a critical delivery.”

Johnny leaned forward on his desk, hands folded in front of him. “It’s not like Teresa to bend rules—”

“Brad repeatedly put up roadblocks, so she was forced to create her own test environment.”

Sometimes managing managers was like running a day-care center. Not that he’d ever done that, but he sure as hell could after being CEO of OpticPower. Teresa was a senior manager, as was Brad, and yet their ongoing squabbles were hurting a critical project, which in the long run, could hurt the company. And Johnny’s priority, always, was to protect the company. “You undoubtedly have a plan.” Christine always did. Slap a long black wig on her, and she could be that cartoon character Natasha, Boris’s manipulative, conniving sidekick.

She leaned forward, planting an elbow next to a carved wooden mask that sat on Jonathan’s desk. He’d bought it on a trip to Africa several years ago because he liked its mythological story, how tribes in the Congo believed it transformed its wearer into the “Wise Protector and Healer.”

“Brad’s got to go,” Christine said, gazing intently into Johnny’s eyes. “He’s not a player, he’s a problem. I want to replace him with Scott, who works seamlessly with Teresa. It’s the only way we’ll get the test situation resolved and back on track.”

A pungent scent, like spicy orchids, assaulted Johnny’s nose. He recognized the French scent, but most women dabbed it on their skin. Christine must have poured the stuff on. He wondered if she always sloshed on perfume when in the killing mood. “How long before the test can get back on track?”

“A week.”

She hadn’t even paused to breathe before that quick response. Oh, yeah, Christine had already planned this, down to the last gory detail. He mulled it over for a moment. He had no real data on this situation, but then he wouldn’t. He hadn’t built this multimillion-dollar business by micromanaging every single management employee—he’d built this monumental success by focusing on the big picture. And by protecting its vested interests and employees. His stomach knotted. If only he’d been half as successful protecting his own family—a family for whom he’d been more the father than his own dad had been.

“I’d like your buy-in,” urged Christine.

Of course she did. It gave her license to kill. Johnny had dealt with these power plays before—he’d give his response just the right spin.

“Before you can Brad, talk to him. He’s a valuable asset—let’s try to make the situation work before losing a key player.”

Christine’s eyes widened. “I said he’s not a player, and yet you used that word—” She immediately pursed her lips and Johnny realized where those lines around her mouth came from. “I know what you’re doing. You’re saying one thing, but thinking something else. And no one can ever figure out what that is because you’re—” She pursed her lips again.

“Don’t stop now.”

She tugged at the lapel on her jacket, and Johnny noticed the new Rolex on her wrist. Probably treated herself to an expensive bauble after the promotion. No way was she going to say the wrong thing, although she’d admitted enough by her overreaction. He scratched his cheek, mainly to hide a smile that threatened to break. Must be tough being a newly promoted vice president these days.

She dropped her hand into her lap. “I was going to say,” she said, infusing her voice with phony goodwill, “that you’re inscrutable, that’s all. Actually, that’s an admirable trait. We shouldn’t be able to read your thoughts. What kind of CEO would that be?”

A stupid CEO. He’d learned long ago that business was like playing cards—best tactic was to always keep a poker face. “You don’t like my not immediately agreeing with your plan of action?”

She paused. “What kind of vice president would I be if I liked you saying ‘no’ to me?” That phony tone again.

“Actually, I don’t think you like anybody saying ‘no’ to you.” It was a dig, but she deserved it for flashing that garter. “Please give Teresa’s feedback to Brad,” Johnny instructed. “After that, if he and Teresa still can’t work together, you and I will talk again.”

Christine nodded, halfheartedly, and stood. But she didn’t move. Instead she stared at the mask on his desk.

“I’ve never understood why you like that…ornament.” She looked around the room. “Everything else in this room is elegant, sophisticated.” Her gaze traveled across the strategically lit gray walls, the charcoal couch under the oil painting with bold slashes of color, his polished oak-and-chestnut desk. Then her gaze returned to the mask, peering at it as though some hideous little creature had crept into this sanctuary.

Johnny leaned forward and said conspiratorially, “When no one’s in here, I put it on and dance around the room.” The horrified look she gave him was worth the ridiculous comment. He straightened. “On your way out, please ask Shelia if she’d order in lunch. The usual.”

Christine was still staring at him as though he might start dancing any moment. Then she turned and walked briskly to the door, but stopped abruptly when she reached it. “Oh, by the way,” she said, glancing over her shoulder, “there’s a dinner tonight. Len’s department is celebrating the release of several products—care to go?”

Len ran the global products division, and Johnny was fully aware they’d hit their release schedule ahead of time, with customer satisfaction high. He’d already ensured every employee in that division got a little extra thank-you in their next paycheck.

But that thank-you didn’t extend to being Christine’s date. “I have another engagement. Give Len and his team my best.”

Christine hesitated, her tiny eyes glinting with the unvoiced question “what engagement?” Despite his determination to maintain an even countenance, Johnny caught himself smiling at the thought of seeing Robin again. Because at this instant he suddenly knew he really did have an engagement, even if the lady didn’t know it yet.

And he kept smiling, even as the door clicked shut.

“YO, DOTTIE, grab some java, make the rounds.” Al barked the order to the waitress, who stood behind the kitchen sink, sneaking a puff off a cigarette. On the chipped plaster wall behind her hung a red-and-white No Smoking sign.

Dottie blew out a thin stream of blue smoke. “Who died and made you boss?”

Al cocked one bushy eyebrow at Dottie. “It’s almost quittin’ time, and you need to finish your tables.” He gave his head a shake, as though he were talking to a petulant child and not a middle-aged waitress. “And put out that cancer stick. You know the rules.”

Dottie made a great show of stubbing out her cigarette, then shot a look at Robin. “Did Mr. ‘I Run the Show’ order you around last night, too?”

“Order her around?” Al snorted loudly. “I had to do more than that! She’s been eighty-sixed from serving coffee in the dining room!” He guffawed, then tossed a wink at Robin over his broad shoulder. “But that’s between her ’n me.” He swerved his gaze to Dottie. “Right now,you need to finish your tables.”

“I’ll finish you if you keep this up,” Dottie sassed back, checking her makeup in a small handheld mirror that she kept on a corner of the sink.

“I heard that,” said Al.

She set the mirror down. “You were supposed to.” Dottie crossed to the coffee machine, grabbed a pot and took her sweet time walking to the dining area—with Al watching her every undulating movement.

Robin wiped her hands on her apron, enjoying the show. Yesterday, after Dottie and Al had argued, Dottie had stormed out with a few choice observations about Al and his kitchen guerilla tactics. Robin thought she’d never see Dottie again and then Dottie had shown up for work today at 5:00 p.m. sharp—not her usual fifteen-or-so minutes late—acting as though nothing had happened.

But Robin would have had to be blind to believe that! Something had happened. Dottie wore a new short black skirt, tighter than what she usually wore, and her brassy blond hair was in a new curly ’do that gave her features a softer, sexier look. Robin had wondered what brought about the change in the older, tough-as-nails waitress…and got an inkling to her answer when Al sauntered into work wearing a freshly washed and ironed white shirt, a new pair of chinos and a big grin. Not only were both on time, Robin guessed they were starting to make time, too.

They still bickered and quibbled over everything, but now the exchanges had a teasing edge. Robin loved it—and also felt a bit envious. To use words that way must be absolutely divine. To verbally play with them, toy with them, seduce with them…Who needed sex shops? Robin glanced over the grill and saw Dottie heading back from the dining room, her red glossy lips smiling suggestively at Al the whole way. Poor guy. He was scraping his spatula across the grill double-time. Robin figured it was best if she left work pronto—that way, the two of them could close up alone.

But as she tossed her apron into the dirty-linen bin and grabbed her sweater for the walk home, Robin felt a pang of nostalgia. Here she was going home alone, the way she did every night. But last night, for a lovely, passionate interlude, she hadn’t been solo. She’d been part of a couple, the way Dottie and Al were tonight. The way the whole darn world seemed sometimes. Her mom often told her if she’d just stop shying away from guys, show them that she was interested, she’d have more beaus than Scarlett O’Hara.

What Robin felt her mom never understood was that it wasn’t about shying away—it was about speaking up. But because she was quiet with most people, they took it to mean that she wasn’t interested. That’s one of the reasons Robin admired Emily Dickinson. From what Robin had read about the famous poet, they were alike—quiet on the outside, passionate inside.