An Act of Love

• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  

"Look," He Said, "Last Night Was Just One of
Those Things."


"We both wanted it, hut both of us know it's over. I
enjoyed it and so did you, so what are you so upset about?"


What could she say? Because I'm disappointed in myself?
Because you don't give a damn about me? "I could ask you the same
thing," Randy murmured.


Luke shrugged. "Maybe it comes down to the fact that I'm
not interested in a purely physical affair."


"Are you saying that's all it could ever be? That I'm not
the type of woman you want to associate with?"


"Yes," he said bluntly, and walked away.

BROOKE HASTINGS is that rare individual who can combine many careers and
excel in all of them. In addition to her writing, she is active in
California politics and community affairs and maintains a home for her
husband of many years and their two children.

Dear Reader,

Silhouette Special Editions are an exciting new line of
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Copyright© 1983 by Deborah Gordon

Map by Ray
Lundgren

First printing 1983

ISBN 0 340 34379 6

For my father-in-law, Jules Gordon

Miranda Dunne's stomach emitted a low, insistent growl.
She had known her father's secretary, Pat O'Donnell, for far too many
years to feel any embarrassment; on the contrary, the knowledge that
she was actually hungry brought nothing but surprise and then relief.
For the past six months her once-healthy appetite had hidden out in
parts unknown, and the fact that it had rejoined her on her visit to
New York made her think that leaving California permanently might not
be a bad idea.

Pat smiled, looking up and down Randy's slender body but
making no comment on the twenty-five pounds that had disappeared since
her last visit to the office at Christmastime. "Didn't you eat anything
this morning?" she asked.

Randy shook her head. "Not really, even though they plied
me with food on the plane. There I was, trying to get some sleep, and
the flight attendant kept coming around with one meal after another."

She mimicked the motherly first-class stewardess with a
piquant accuracy which was too good-natured to be truly cutting. "
'Would you like some cheese and crackers, dear? It's imported brie. No?
How about some fresh fruit then'?"

Pat lazed back in her chair, enjoying the performance, and
Randy went on, "An hour later it was cold cuts. 'Corned beef, roast
beef or pastrami, dear. You're so thin. Are you sure you don't want me
to fix you a sandwich?' And an hour before we got into New York I woke
up to the smell of omelets and sausage. I settled for toast and coffee.
I figured Dad would take me to his favorite French restaurant for
lunch, and I didn't want to spoil my appetite." Or what's left of it,
she thought to herself.

She glanced at her watch. "My stomach says it's five after
ten even though the time in New York is five after one, so why am I
dying for cream sauces and French pastry?"

"Because you love to eat." Pat hesitated, a look of
concern on her face. "At least, you
used
to love
to eat. What have you been doing to yourself in Los Angeles? Trying
some crazy new diet?"

Randy didn't tell the truth because the truth was much too
painful to discuss. "I was up for a part in a movie and I had to lose a
lot of weight," she said. Her breezy smile was totally convincing. "I
didn't get the part, so I can't
wait
to gain back
at least fifteen of the twenty-five pounds I lost. I was a little too
heavy, Pat—over one twenty-five."

"You're five-seven. One hundred and twenty-five pounds
isn't too heavy except in Hollywood." Pat glanced back over her
shoulder at the closed door to her boss' office, then added, "Bill told
you to meet him at twelve-thirty?"

Randy nodded. "Right. He's usually prompt to the point of
neurosis. What on earth is going on in there?"

"
That
," Pat answered, "is the
sixty-four-thousand-dollar question." She tossed a report she'd been
editing into a file folder and put it to one side of her desk. From her
bottom drawer she produced a box of breadsticks, holding it out for
Randy's inspection. "Want one?"

"If he's going to be out soon, I probably should wait."
Randy eyed the breadsticks covetously. "On the other hand…
Do you think it would be all right if I knocked on the door and asked
him how much longer…"

"I wouldn't," Pat answered firmly. "Take a bread-stick,
Randy. As you've just pointed out, your father never keeps people
waiting, so if he's taking this long, there's a good reason for it."

Her curiosity aroused, Randy tried a different tack. Bill
Dunne had a device on his telephone that permitted Pat to listen in on
his private conversations. It was powerful enough to pick up anything
in his office above a whisper, and Bill left it switched on for all but
the most confidential of meetings. He'd installed it so that Pat could
take notes without being physically present or, if a meeting was
running overlong, listen in and decide whether or not to rescue him.
After nineteen years as his secretary she was almost an alter-ego.

Randy winked at her and reached for the phone, but Pat
promptly pushed her hand away from the receiver. "It's personal, not
business, Randy," she explained. "I couldn't violate your father's
privacy." She held up the box of breadsticks again.

With the charming shrug of a con artist who's been caught
in the act, Randy accepted the box and rapidly disposed of a pair of
breadsticks. Then she cocked an inquiring eyebrow at Pat.

"Well?" Her tone was as teasing as it was eager. "Who's
Dad talking to?"

A discreet silence greeted this query. Randy thought
privately that Pat O'Donnell would have made a wonderful secret agent.
In the intensely competitive world of department store retailing
neither the bribes of competitors nor the machinations of the press
could induce her to confide even the most minor detail of the company's
business. Amused, Randy tried again.

"Remember, Pat," she murmured conspiratorially, "you're
talking to the heiress apparent. Come clean. Is the fate of millions
being decided behind that closed door? Is Dad buying stolen Paris
designs or hatching schemes to take over Neiman-Marcus?"

Randy's melodramatic questions were of less interest to
Pat O'Donnell than her mocking reference to herself as "the heiress
apparent". Although amused by Randy's cloak-and-dagger tone of voice,
she had no intention of satisfying her curiosity. Instead she began to
pepper her with questions.

"Heiress apparent? Are you leaving California? Resigning
from the repertory company? Does your father know? Or are you going to
tell him at lunch today?"

Randy was spared the necessity of answering by the sound
of a door being flung open so forcefully that the intricate silver
doorknob smashed into the hand-painted wallpaper on the adjacent wall.
A tall, powerfully-built man charged out of her father's office like an
enraged bull, his head down, so that only his wavy brown hair was
visible. Randy wondered if his face matched his beautifully
proportioned body, which was as perfect as any professional actor's. He
stalked across the oriental carpet, repeated his ungentle ministrations
on the outer door and disappeared from view.

Randy had winced with each violent slam. "Who," she asked
incredulously, "was
that
?" Not only had the man
treated her father's beautifully furnished outer office with careless
disdain, never in her life had she witnessed such a display of temper
from one of the company's employees. Given Bill Dunne's low-key
approach it was surely unnecessary, and given his commanding
personality, it was definitely foolhardy.

"
That
," Pat said, mimicking Randy's
tone, "is our newest vice president, Luke Griffin. He supervises the
fifteen branch stores. Incidentally, he's also your
competition—at least,
my
money's on him
to succeed your father as president of this humble little empire.
Although after the scene we just witnessed…"

Pat's voice trailed off as her boss emerged from his
office. The usually suave William Dunne was looking distinctly harried,
his customarily perfect appearance marred by a loosened, off-center
tie. His graying blond hair was in disarray, as though an anxious or
exasperated hand had recently been run through it.

His expression changed to one of apology when he noticed
Randy, who was standing stock-still, clutching the box of breadsticks.
He promptly walked over and enfolded her in a lingering hug. Upon her
release, she straightened his tie and smoothed his hair, then submitted
a bit nervously to his inspection of her appearance.

His eyes traveled from her long blond hair, which fell
several inches below her shoulders, to the dark blue eyes that matched
his own, down the length of her body. Her silk-blend, printed
shirtwaist dress was appraised with a professional eye. "First," he
informed her, "I want to know how you manage to look so glamorous when
you've been flying half the night. And second"—he looked
mildly sheepish—"tell me who designed the dress. It isn't
anyone we carry, but we should."