Hoodwinked

“Shame on you,” Maureen said. “You’ll upset it and it will get sick.”

“Good. I hope it dies! It just ate a whole morning’s work and it won’t give it back!”

“Here. I’ll save you. Get up.” Maureen grinned at her, sat down, and within five minutes had pulled out the backup copy of the file, copied it, and put Charlene back in the chair.

Charlene stared at her suspiciously. “I don’t trust people who understand how to do things like that. What if you’re an enemy agent or something?”

“I can’t possibly be. I don’t even own a trench coat,” Maureen said reasonably. “Mr. Blake wants the latest cost-overrun figures on the Faber jet. I’d have asked for them on my terminal, but I imagined you having hysterics if you had to try to send it via your modem.”

Charlene’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t even know how to turn on the modem, if you want the truth. I never wanted this job in the first place. Computers, modems, electronic typewriters—if the pay wasn’t so good, I’d leave tomorrow. You try sitting here trying to explain to everybody short of God that Mr. MacFaber hasn’t set foot in the office for the past year. Just try. Then explain to all these people who keep calling him that he can’t be reached by phone because he’s sitting on the banks of the Amazon contemplating the ancient Incas or something!”

“I’m really sorry,” Maureen said. “But I do need the cost-overrun figures.”

Charlene sighed. “Okay.”

She got up and fumbled through her immaculate filing cabinets until she got what she was looking for and handed a file to Maureen. “Don’t lose it and don’t let it out of your sight. Mr. Johnston will kill me if it vanishes.”

“You know very well the vice president in charge of production worships the ground you walk on.”

Charlene smiled smugly. “Yes, I do know. If he doesn’t watch out, I’ll have him in front of a minister. He’s sexy.”

“I think so, too, but we can’t all look like you,” Maureen told her. “Some of us have to look like me.”

“I like your new hairdo and makeup,” Charlene said kindly.

“I’m still going home alone, though.” Maureen shrugged. “Maybe someday I’ll get lucky.” She glanced around the plush, carpeted office. “Have you ever seen your boss?”

“Once, at a dead run, when I first got this promotion three months ago. Mostly I get memos and phone calls and relayed messages. He’s not bad looking, I guess. A bit old for my taste. Graying around the edges, you know, and a little on the heavy side. Too much high living, I suppose.” She frowned. “Although it could have been that bulky coat he was wearing.” She shrugged. “He had on dark glasses and a hat—I wouldn’t know him in a police lineup.”

“You’d think his picture would be around here somewhere, wouldn’t you, since it’s a family corporation,” Maureen remarked.

“There was a picture, but it didn’t come over with the stuff from the old building, God knows why.” Charlene sighed. “Bring that file back when you finish, okay?”

“Okay. Thanks.”

She took the file back to Mr. Blake and sat down at her computer again. Odd, some of the figures looked different. But a quick glance at the sheet she’d been copying from told her that they were correct. With a tiny shrug she got back to work.

The canteen was full when she got there. She’d long since decided that rushing out to a restaurant was wasted time, and fighting the hectic traffic just killed her appetite. Even if the canteen food was artificial tasting, it was handy and cheap.

She bought herself a cold meat sandwich and a diet soft drink and sat down as close to the window as she could get. She felt self-conscious around all these people, most of whom were men, although nothing about her clothes was the least bit provocative. She was wearing a beige suit and pink blouse, with her hair in a neat French twist at her nape. She looked young and elegant and not too unattractive, she thought. The makeup did help, but nothing would change the fact that she wore glasses. She’d tried contact lenses, but she’d grown allergic to them and kept getting eye infections, so she’d given up. Anyway, she was never going to be a raving beauty. As if that mattered. None of the men around here ever looked at her, anyway.

She munched on her sandwich, watching the antics of a squirrel in the big shade tree next to the canteen with a faint smile. It took a minute for her to realize that she wasn’t alone anymore. A shadow fell across her as the big, dark man she’d met yesterday sat down two seats away with his lunch pail, glancing coldly at her as he opened it.

She didn’t look back. She’d already had enough of his arrogance. Her sandwich began to taste like cardboard, but she didn’t let him know it.

“You work for Blake, don’t you?” he asked.

She kept her eyes on her sandwich. “Yes.”

He put his sandwich in a wrapper on the table and opened a thermos to pour some of its contents into a cup. “Does it pay pretty good?”

“I get by.” She was feeling more nervous by the minute. Her hands trembled on her sandwich, and he saw it and frowned.

He glanced her way with coal-black eyes that seemed to see every pore in her skin. “I’ll bet you do,” he replied. “You don’t dress like a penniless secretary.”

That was vaguely insulting. She almost told him that she bought her clothes at a nearly-new store that specialized in low prices and high quality, but he was a stranger. Not only that, he was an arrogant and rude stranger, and she didn’t like his insinuations.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to work,” she murmured, averting her face.

“What do you people in quality control do?” he asked coldly, watching her. “If you did your job properly, that new jet wouldn’t have embarrassed the company on its first test flight.”

She colored delicately and wished she could escape. He made her feel guilty and she almost apologized. He was the most intimidating man she’d ever met. “Mr.—Mr. Blake works very hard,” she protested. “Maybe it was a mechanical problem,” she added with bravado. “You’re a mechanic, aren’t you?”

She hadn’t raised her voice, but he glanced around anyway. Assured that no one was close enough to hear them, he turned his attention back to Maureen.

His eyes narrowed. “That’s one reason I was surprised by your very obvious attempt to concoct an engine problem yesterday for my benefit,” he said.

“I told you, I had a corroded battery cable, and I didn’t have to concoct it. You saw the corrosion yourself.” She clasped her hands nervously. “I think you’re very conceited.”

It was like waving a red flag at a bull, she thought, fascinated by the black lightning flashing in his eyes.

“I’ve had that dead-battery routine pulled on me before,” he interrupted curtly.

She started moving away. “I don’t pull routines. And I can change the oil and spark plugs, and even change a fan belt if I have to.”

“A woman of accomplishments,” he said. His eyes narrowed, calculating. “You know something about engines, then?”

“About Volkswagen engines, yes,” she said. “My uncle was chief mechanic at an import shop for years. He taught me.” She lifted her chin. He brought out something deeply buried in her—a temper she didn’t know she had. She felt her face going hot and her hands trembling, but she couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “And just to set the record straight, you appeal to me about as much as this sandwich did.” She waved it at him.

He lifted an eyebrow, and there was something almost sensual in the set of his wide, chiseled mouth. “Odd. I’ve been told that I don’t taste half-bad.”

She didn’t know if he was joking or not. Probably not. He wasn’t smiling, and his face was like stone. It didn’t matter, anyway; she wanted nothing else to do with him. She turned and left the canteen quickly, on legs that threatened to fold up under her. He’d ruined her lunch and the rest of the day. She’d never talked angrily to anyone in her life. He was really bringing out her latent beastly qualities, she thought, and almost laughed at the way she’d bristled. That would have amused her father and mother. The thought made her sad. She quickened her steps back to the office.

Mr. Blake had more correspondence for her to cope with after lunch, and again she was late leaving the office. But this time, thank God, the red-and-rust-colored pickup truck was missing from the parking lot, so she climbed gratefully into her small car and went home.

Bagwell was playing with a lava rock on a chain when she went in through the back door, but he dropped it the minute he spotted her and began to dance and prance and purr.

“Pretty girl!” he cooed. “Pretty girl! Hello!”

“Hi, Bagwell.” She smiled, stopping by the cage to unfasten it and let him out. He climbed onto the overhead perch and ruffled his feathers, tolerating her affectionate hand on his green head for a minute before he tried to make a meal of it.

“Vicious bird,” she muttered, grinning. “Biting the hand that feeds you. How about some apple?”

“Ap-ple,” he agreed. “Ap-ple.”

She put down her purse, kicked off her shoes with a sigh, and shared a tart, crunchy Granny Smith with him. “Bagwell, the days get longer and longer. I think I need a change of scenery.”

“Good ap-ple,” he murmured, preoccupied with the slice of fruit he was holding in his claw.