The Husband Sweepstake

His eyes gleamed with laughter. Erika was sure of it, even though the expression was gone almost as quickly as it had appeared. She was intrigued despite herself. “And who are you?” she asked.

“I’m Stephen’s new assistant.”

“I gathered that from the uniform.” She waved a finger in the direction of his ascot. “He could certainly use a helper. Or perhaps I should say that the residents could use two Stephens.”

He looked down at the dark suit as if not quite believing what he was wearing. “He does seem to keep himself busy.”

“And your name?” He didn’t answer immediately, so Erika prodded, “In case Stephen’s not here, it would be handy to know who I’m talking to.”

“If it’s not Stephen,” he pointed out gently, “it’ll be me. But you can call me Amos—” He bit off the sentence, leaving the name hanging.

Erika was absolutely certain the word he’d swallowed hadn’t been a last name at all. He’d actually almost had the cheek to say she could call him Amos darling. But at least he’d maintained enough sense to zip the lip before he’d finished, while she could still pretend not to have heard. It was much less embarrassing for both of them that way.

“I’ll tell him you stopped by. I’m sure he’ll be heartbroken to have missed you,” Amos said, and started to turn back to the clipboard he’d been looking at when she came in.

Just who does this guy think he is? she thought. “Well, let me fill you in on the routine around here. It’s cleaning day, so—”

“Are you referring to the housecleaning service or the dry cleaners?” he interrupted politely. “I’ve already been instructed that since it’s Tuesday, your housekeeping team will be arriving before long. And Stephen has made a note to arrange an extra laundry pickup today as well, since you just got home from your trip. So he already has all the usual things covered.”

Erika eyed him for a long moment. The urge to squash him was rapidly becoming unbearable. She would have to either put him in his place, or walk out—and soon. “You know,” she mused, “if you want to be successful around here, it might pay to take a few lessons from Stephen on customer service.”

His eyebrows lifted. “But, Ms. Forrester, I was simply trying not to waste your time. Why should you have to repeat instructions that Stephen has already taken care of?” He looked innocent, and he sounded solicitous.

Erika didn’t believe an iota of it.

“I presumed you would rather have Stephen look after your needs, since he’s already accustomed to your routine. But if there is anything you’d prefer me to do for you,” he went on gently, “you need only ask.”

She hitched her black leather tote bag higher onto her shoulder. “I’ll do my best to think of something,” she murmured. “Because I’d hate for you to feel at loose ends around here while Stephen’s doing all the work.”

The brisk walk from her apartment complex to Ladylove’s building in Midtown Manhattan refreshed Erika, and by the time she arrived at her office, she’d almost forgotten about Amos darling. He was hardly worth thinking about, anyway, she told herself. With that kind of attitude, he wouldn’t last long around an upscale apartment complex, no matter how pleasant he was to look at.

The tapestry-lined elevator whooshed Erika to the top floor. In her corner office, her personal assistant was just setting a steaming cappuccino beside the pile of already-opened mail on the blotter.

Erika checked on the threshold. “How do you do it, Kelly? Always have a fresh cup waiting for me when I come in?”

The little redhead grinned, her gamin face alight with mischief. “The company spy network, of course. Didn’t you realize how efficient it is?” She took Erika’s trench coat and hung it in the small closet. “You have an appointment with your personal fitter this morning, by the way. She’s bringing over some dresses so you can choose one to wear to the banquet Saturday night.”

“See if you can catch her before she leaves the store. I need a white silk blouse, too, because I spilled a glass of red wine on mine when I was in Rome.” Erika frowned. “Wait a minute. What banquet? There’s nothing like that on my calendar.”

“Not officially, but then you’ve been out of the office for more than a week. The invitation came while you were gone. However, since last Friday’s Sentinel announced that you’ll be attending, I thought it best to be prepared—so I sent a check for two tickets, and I called the fitter about a dress.”

“Sometimes,” Erika muttered, “I’d like to do the opposite, just to spite the tabloids.”

Kelly shook her head. “Issuing a challenge like that would only make them more interested. Then they’d run stories about you every day instead of only two or three times a week. Besides, the banquet is for a good cause.”

“They’re all good causes, Kelly.” Erika sat down behind the graceful Georgian table which she used as a desk. “Has the Sentinel announced yet where I’m going on my summer vacation? I can’t make up my mind, but I’m sure they’ve already figured out what I’ll decide.” She sipped the cappuccino and flipped through the mail.

Kelly clicked her tongue. “It’s a wee bit early in the day to be sounding cynical, now.”

“And it’s a wee bit too far from Dublin for you to be using a brogue.”

“Not if it makes you laugh. One plain white silk blouse, coming up. And Erika—I know how you feel about the Sentinel, but you should read today’s edition anyway.”

Kelly pulled the office door closed behind her, and Erika sank back in her chair and reached for the neatly folded newspaper at the bottom of the stack of mail. At least she could find out what the good cause was that she would be supporting by going to a banquet on Saturday…. No, Kelly had said that story had run last week. In any case, the redhead’s voice had sounded almost too casual—as if she was issuing some kind of a warning. So what horrible thing had New York City’s most-highly-circulated gossip sheet said about her this time?

Or had they just gotten hold of a photo that was more terrible than usual? Erika had thought, herself, that the one which had first appeared a couple of weeks ago—the one which seemed to have become the editor’s favorite—would be impossible to top. She’d been chewing a bite of arugula when the paparazzi’s flash went off in her face, and she thought the result had made her look like a serial murderer with a toothache.

But for a change her own face didn’t jump out at her as she scanned the pages. She frowned and started over from the beginning.

She found the story, finally, on page six. It was no wonder she hadn’t seen it before, because this time it wasn’t about her—not directly, at least. The story was an engagement announcement and the photograph which accompanied it was of a dimpled, childlike woman and a man Erika barely recognized. And the editors had waited till the very last paragraph to point out that the prospective groom had been engaged before—to Erika.

She sipped her cappuccino and read the story again, slowly and thoughtfully.

Denby Miles’s previous engagement was to Erika Forrester, who was then the trademark face (and is now also the CEO) of Ladylove Cosmetics. The match was broken off shortly after Erika’s father, Stanford Forrester III, completed the purchase of Mr. Miles’s portfolio of perfume formulae to add to Ladylove’s armory. There was and continues to be some speculation about the timing of the breakup.

“What she did to him stank worse than Denby’s perfumes,” one society matron—who wished to remain anonymous—told the Sentinel. “Leading him on just to get those chemical formulas, and then dropping him flat. I’m just glad the poor boy is finally over his broken heart.”

Erika folded the paper and flung it as hard as she could. It slammed against the office door and flopped onto the carpet.

The door opened a crack, and Kelly peeked warily through the opening. “Does that mean I shouldn’t clip this one for your scrapbook?”

Erika said grimly, “Remind me to send the Sentinel’s editors a gift next Christmas. A new sledgehammer—because at this rate they’ll have worn out the one they’re using now.”

“Yeah, I thought that line about Denby’s perfumes stinking was a little low,” Kelly agreed. She picked up the paper and smoothed the ruffled pages. “There are a couple of his scents which really aren’t bad at all.”

Erika tried to bite back a grin. “Well, no wonder their source wanted to remain nameless, saying things like that. It was probably Denby’s mother. Honestly, Kelly, what did I ever do to annoy the tabloids so much?”

“You seriously don’t know?” Kelly perched on the arm of a chair. “Think about it, Erika. A supposedly brainless blond makeup model takes over her father’s business and—instead of falling flat on her gorgeous face—makes more of a success of it than he ever did. That’s what you did to annoy them. You didn’t stay in the slot they’d picked for you.”

“Well, wouldn’t you think they’d give it up by now? It’s two years since I broke that engagement, and since my father died.”

“And every time a new Ladylove ad comes out, your picture reminds them of how wrong they were. Enjoy it, Erika. It’s a measurement of your success.”

“Sort of like being named the Chamber of Commerce’s Man of the Year? I’ll try to keep that in mind.” Erika picked up her pen. “By the way, Kelly, about that banquet Saturday night—have either you or the Sentinel decided who I’m going with?”

“They haven’t said.” Kelly maintained a deadpan expression. “And I thought it should be your choice.”

“That’s reassuring. Which good cause am I supporting?”

“Adult literacy, I believe.”

“Literacy? I wish I understood how my eating rubbery chicken and listening to a speaker drone on all evening is supposed to help the cause of reading. Can you give me one good reason why I shouldn’t just stay home and take a book to bed instead?”

By the time Erika paid off her cab in front of the apartment complex, Stephen was on the sidewalk to greet her. “Just the person I wanted to see,” she said, handing him the blue-and-silver dress bag she was carrying.

“Welcome home, Ms. Forrester,” he said as he ushered her into the lobby. “I was sorry to miss you when you arrived last night. There’s fresh espresso in my office, if you’d like a cup.”

“You’re a love, Stephen.” She sank into the guest’s chair in his office—an extra-comfortable wing-back covered in a heathery tweed—and put her feet up on the small matching footstool, watching as he hung her dress bag next to an identical one on a hat stand beside the door. “This is wonderful. What happened to your assistant? Did you send him home for the night, or has he already quit?”