Somehow the innocent little speech had gotten back to him and the next week, he’d sought her out in the canteen on the pretense of asking how everything was going.
“I’m well on my way to making you fabulously wealthy,” she assured him with an impish grin as she held her plastic coffee cup between her hands.
“I’m already fabulously wealthy,” he replied.
She sighed. “In that case, you’re in a lot of trouble.”
He’d smiled at that—the first time she’d seen him smile since his wife’s death. The late Mrs. Coleman had been a beauty—blond and delicate, a perfect foil for his size and darkness. Since her death he’d been strangely lost, and his temper had become legendary. He spent more time at the plant than at his office, and threw himself into the accumulation of other plants to complement it. His holdings and his wealth had mushroomed in the months between, and the pressure was telling on him. His hair was growing silver at the temples; his eyes were boasting dark shadows. His tireless business dealings were becoming the talk of the plant. Mr. Coleman was out to become a billionaire, some said. Mr. Coleman was after a business rival, others said. Mr. Coleman was going to make his empire the biggest in America, if he lived, others commented. But only Keena seemed to see through the relentless businessman to the lonely, grief-stricken man underneath. The other employees might think Mr. Coleman was indestructible, but Keena was certain that he wasn’t. She would run into him occasionally in the elevator or in the cafeteria. She recalled one time in particular when his eyes had seemed to seek her out. With his coffee in hand, he strolled over to her table and sat down beside Keena and her friend Margaret as naturally and easily as if the three met for a coffee break every day.
“How’s it going, Miss Future Famous Designer?” he asked Keena with an amused glance.
Keena had laughed and given him a flip reply, something about an interview in Women’s Wear Daily. Hadn’t he seen it? Margaret finished her coffee and excused herself quickly.
“Did I say something I shouldn’t have?” Nicholas asked, staring after the young woman.
“The company brass makes most employees want to run for cover,” Keena explained in a dry tone.
“You aren’t running,” he observed.
“Ah, yes,” she agreed. “But then, I’ve never had much sense.”
He chuckled into his coffee, taking a long sip of it. “The patternmakers sing your praises, by the way. They told me your specs were the first they’d had in five years that were written in English.”
“High praise, indeed, and I hope I’m going to get a ten thousand dollar a year raise as an inducement to keep them in a good mood?” She grinned.
“Cheeky, aren’t you?” he asked with narrowed eyes.
“It’s my dimple,” she replied in all seriousness.
He shook his head in mock despair. “Incorrigible.”
She looked at him—so businesslike and somber in the vested gray business suit that strained against his massive, muscular frame—and dropped her eyes almost at once.
After that day he’d made a point of having coffee with her once in a while. Infrequently, he’d invited her out for a meal, and they’d talk a great deal. She’d asked him once if he had any family, and he’d replied stiffly that what there was of it wasn’t to his liking.
“It still hurts, doesn’t it?” she had asked quietly then.
He stared at her, his face closed up. “I beg your pardon?”
She met his eyes with compassion and utter fearlessness. “You miss her.”
He seemed to see right into her mind in the long minute that followed, and the hauteur slowly drained out of him.
“I miss her like hell,” he admitted finally and with a faint, fleeting smile. “She was the loveliest creature I ever knew, inside and out. Generous to a fault, shy.” He sighed heavily, his face darkening. “Some women can tear a man down with every word. But Misty made me feel every inch a man every time she looked at me. We married because it was necessary to keep the businesses in the family. But we grew to love each other desperately.” He glanced at her. “Yes, I miss her.”
She smiled at him. “You were lucky.”
He scowled. “Lucky?”
“Some people go through life without ever touching or being touched emotionally by another human being. To love and be loved in return must be magic,” she finished gently. “And you had that for ten years.”
His eyes had searched hers before they fell. “I never thought of it that way,” he said simply.
“Shouldn’t you?” Her voice had been gentle and low. And while he was still thinking about it, she changed the subject completely, telling him about some ridiculous mix-up that had occurred in the cutting room that afternoon.
It was sad that he and Misty hadn’t been able to have children, she had always thought. They would have made him less lonely. But she could see that he seemed to find solace in her company, and they had worlds of things in common, from a mutual love of ballet and the theater to classical music and art. She found in him a mentor as much as a friend, a tutor and a protector. Nicholas never made a pass at her himself and was fiercely protective. He scrutinized the few suitors she had over the years and gave her his advice, welcome or not, on the men she went out with. If she had to work late, he escorted her home himself. And when he felt that she was ready, he’d found her a job as an apprentice designer in one of New York’s grandest fashion houses. He’d encouraged her, pushed her, bullied and chided her, until she climbed straight to the top, which was quite a climb for the only child of a poor, widowed textile worker in the small Georgia town of Ashton. She didn’t like to remember her childhood at all. In fact, Nicholas was the only person she’d ever told about it. But then, Nicholas was like no one else. In a real sense he was the only true friend she’d ever had since she left Ashton. And shortly after she’d come to New York, she was relieved to know that Nicholas maintained an apartment in the city.
The phone rang, and she barely heard it, so deeply was she immersed in memory. She was used to Mandy getting the phone, making coffee, serving meals, but this was Mandy’s day off, and it took her five rings to realize it. She dragged herself to the end table and picked up the receiver.
“Hello?” she murmured, stifling a yawn.
“That kind of day, was it?” came a deeply amused voice from the other end of the line. “Get on something pretty and I’ll treat you to dinner at The Palace.” She felt her spirits revive. “Oh, Nicholas, we haven’t gone there in months! And they make the most marvelous chocolate mousse.”
“Can you make it in half an hour?” he asked impatiently. “I’ve got to catch the eleven o’clock plane to Paris, and we won’t have much time.”
“Has anyone ever told you that people who don’t slow down get ulcers?” she asked, exasperated.
“They would have to catch up with me first,” he told her. “Half an hour.”
She stared at the dead receiver. “Nicholas is an enigma,” she muttered as she slipped into a long green velvet gown with a deep V neckline and a side slit. He was every inch the high-powered executive, and he had millions, but he wouldn’t delegate any responsibilities. If a deal had to be closed, he’d close it. If there was a labor relations problem at one of his plants, he’d negotiate it. If there was an innovative process being presented, he’d go to see it. He pushed himself relentlessly even now,