How to Score (18 page)

So why couldn’t he get her out of his head?

The phone rang. Once again, there was that weird electric zap of anticipation at just the thought of talking to her. Scowling at himself, he crossed the room and answered it.

“I’m losing my mind,” Sammi said promptly.

“Over what?”

“Well, for starters, over Chase.” She proceeded to give him a play-by-play of the evening at his apartment, ending with, “… and then we looked at each other, and well… I kissed him.”

“You kissed him, or he kissed you?” He still wasn’t clear exactly how it had happened.

“A little of both.” She paused. “A lot of both, actually.”

He could picture her smiling on the other end of the phone. Chase swallowed and strode to the window. The situation called for the standard question, yet it seemed all wrong to ask it. He asked it anyway. “And how did that make you feel?”

“It’s really hard to describe.”

“Give it a try.”

“Well… I’d have to say it was excruciating.”

Chase’s heart nose-dived. “You found it painful?”

“Painfully exciting. I’ve never felt so turned on in my life. I felt like I was on fire, burning up from the inside out.”

He started to feel that way himself, just listening to her. “Really.”

“Yeah. And then I did it again.”

“You kissed him again?” Chase only remembered one long, continuous, moving-all-over-each-other’s-faces kiss, not two separate ones, but she might have perceived things differently.

“No. I hurt him again. I accidentally bopped his wound.”

“That wasn’t enough to hurt him.” As soon as he said it, he realized it was an inappropriate insight for a detached third party to have. “I mean, it couldn’t have been very forceful if you were kissing at the time. It’s a law of physics that proximity diminishes force.”

“It was forceful enough to make him flinch, and then he got up and went to sleep on the couch.” He heard the dog bark through the phone. He pictured her rubbing his giant head. “And the next morning, he acted like he couldn’t wait for me to be gone. And he hasn’t called.” Her voice held a forlorn waver. “I guess I really blew it.”

“Nah. I’m sure you’ll hear from him.” Although Chase was reluctant to phone her for a totally different reason than she thought. Even though he raised his voice and slowed his speech when he talked to her as Luke, he was afraid that she’d recognize his voice on the phone.

“I hope so,” Sammi sighed. “I could sure use a bright spot in my life, because everything else is sliding south.”

“What else is happening?”

“My landlord did it. He sold the home to someone who plans to tear it down, and I have to move out in five weeks.”

“Where are you going to move?”

“I’m not sure. If worst comes to worst, I guess I’ll store my stuff and move in with my sister for a while.”

“Doesn’t she live in a garret?” Oh, hell; had she told that to Chase or Luke?

Fortunately, it didn’t become an issue. “Yeah. I didn’t say it would be pleasant. Hopefully, though, I won’t have to move that soon.”

“Why not?”

“If a building has historical significance, the Historical Preservation Commission can keep it from being torn down while it’s being appraised for the National Registry of Historic Sites. One of the museum board members is also on the Preservation Commission—they’re both volunteer positions—and I called him. He’s agreed to get a stay on the demolition permit.”

Chase grinned. He liked the way her mind worked. “Very resourceful. That’s terrific!”

“Not from my landlord’s perspective. He’s going to be furious. And I’ve probably created yet another problem with my boss.”

“The woman who won’t retire?”

“Yeah. She’ll have a fit that I called a board member.”

“Why?”

“She doesn’t like me to have contact with the board. She thinks it undermines her authority.”

He frowned as he paced his living room. Sammi was going to have a rough day tomorrow. He wished there were some way he could make it better.

Maybe there was, he thought, stopping in midstride. Maybe he could take her to lunch. A short workday lunch might kill two birds with one stone: it would pick up her spirits while getting date number one out of the way quickly and easily.

He grinned at the plan, trying to ignore the way the thought of lunch with Sammi picked up his spirits, as well.

“I’ll relay the message to Sammi, Mr. Gordon,” Arlene said into her office phone the next morning. “Good-bye.”

As soon as the other line clicked off, Arlene banged her phone into the cradle, then pushed out of her chair. How dare Sammi call a board member without her permission! Arlene was the senior curator; she and she alone would talk to the board of directors.

It was a principle she’d learned from Chandler. He’d always insisted on restricting access to the major stockholders. He’d said the key to managing them was to limit their contact to opposing views, especially within the company. And Lord only knew that Sammi had opposing views.

Well, Arlene would put a stop to this. Anger churning in her chest, she stalked off in search of Sammi and followed her voice toward the library.

Arlene stopped at the threshold of the mahogany-walled room. Sammi stood before a group of elderly ladies, her back to the doorway, wearing a long brown 1930s-era dress.

Hellfire—she’d forgotten that Sammi was conducting one of her ridiculous historical luncheon tours, dressed up as Chandler’s mother. Harriet and Chandler Sr. had built the mansion in the 1930s and lived here for three decades before retiring to Florida and leaving the place to Chandler Jr., and Sammi’s tours always focused on the mansion’s early days.

Lord, but she hated the whole historical-tour concept. Sammi had gotten the board to sign off on the half-cocked idea while Arlene was home recovering from the heart attack, and now Sammi conducted the tours regularly.

Today she was wearing a feathered cloche like Harriet Phelps always favored. It always irritated Arlene to see Sammi dressed up as Chandler’s mother, but today, it really made her blood boil. Sammi was trying to undermine her, just like that old bag had done all those years ago.

The old woman had been wearing a feathered hat like Sammi’s the day she’d marched into the executive offices of Phelps Oil, her thin lips taut, her double chin tilted up, her eyes cold as a trout’s. It had been nearly forty years ago, but Arlene remembered it as if it were yesterday.

“Mrs. Phelps—how nice to see you.” Arlene had looked up from her desk and smiled.

The older woman had stared, her eyes icy enough to sink the
Titanic
.

Arlene’s mouth had gone dry, but she’d forced her lips to keep smiling. “I’m sorry, but Chandler is in Bartlesville at a meeting this afternoon.”

“I know.” Her voice had a chilled, clipped tone. “I came to talk to you.”

Arlene had been wearing the pearls Chandler had given her for Christmas. She’d touched the neckline of her navy paisley dress, feeling the warm stones beneath her fingers. “To me?”

Harriet’s frosty gaze had fixed on the pearls. “Yes. Let’s go into Chandler’s office.”

“I—I don’t think… ”

Harriet had marched into the office, leaving Arlene with nothing to do but rise from her desk and follow her. The receptionist had eyed them curiously.

“Close the door,” Harriet had ordered.

Arlene hesitantly had closed the heavy wooden door.

“Sit down.” Harriet had pointed to a chair.

Arlene had crossed the room, her heels sinking into the plush Persian carpet, and stiffly lowered herself onto a cordovan leather chair opposite the desk. Harriet had stood in front of the desk, her arms folded, her expensive Chanel bag dangling from her right wrist. “I know what’s going on with you and my son, and I want it to stop.”

Arlene’s mouth had opened. Air refused to go in or out.

“Immediately.” The older woman had unsnapped the quilted leather bag, then pulled out an oversized black leather checkbook and a gold pen. “How much?”

“I beg your pardon?”

She’d poised the pen over the checkbook. “How much do you want to go away and never see my son again?”

“I—I… ” Arlene’s mind had frozen.

“I’m prepared to write you a check right now. What about five thousand dollars?”

Arlene had stared at her blankly.

“Ten?”

Nausea had risen in her throat.

“Oh, all right.” The older woman had sniffed peevishly through her thin, patrician nose. “Fifteen.” She’d turned her back to Sammi, placed the checkbook on the desk, and begun to write.

“I-I don’t want your money,” Arlene had stuttered.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” The pen scratched on the check. “Of course you do.”

“No! I won’t—I won’t take it.”

Harriet had ripped out the check, smacked it down on the desk, and straightened. “This situation can’t continue. It’s untenable, and I just won’t have it. You will leave the employ of this company at once, and you will never see my son again. Do you understand?”

Arlene’s heart had thumped hard in her chest. She’d lifted her head, looked the old woman in the eye, and spoken in a voice that had been as soft as it was firm. “I understand that I was hired by Mr. Phelps. I understand that he is my employer. As such, I understand that he, and he alone, can fire me.” Arlene had stiffly risen to her feet. “I also understand that I have work to do, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get to it.”

The woman’s chins had quivered with rage, and the feather had wobbled on her hat as Arlene had turned and marched out.

The feather on Sammi’s hat wobbled now. “If you’ll move this way, I’ll show you the kitchen,” Sammi was saying. “It was designed by Sir Allan Frank, and it was way ahead of its time.”

The gawking ladies shuffled after her. Arlene glanced at her watch, then turned on her heel. She couldn’t yank Sammi out of the tour without creating a scene. She’d have to talk to her later.

Seemed like she was always needing to talk to the young woman about something she’d done or said without Arlene’s approval. The fact was, Arlene didn’t approve of Sammi working there. She certainly didn’t approve of the way the board had rushed out and hired her, assuming that Arlene wouldn’t come back.

True, Arlene had planned to retire in six months, and true, she’d been out for three of those months, but nothing had been set in stone. It was her decision, when to retire—and after spending all that time home alone with nothing to do, she’d rethought the entire concept.

Especially if retiring meant that Sammi was going to take over. In the three months the girl had run the museum by herself, she’d turned things upside down. She’d converted the old carriage house into a photo exhibit hall, she’d launched these ridiculous living-history tours, she’d posted little historical notes all over the place, and now she wanted to put together an exhibit of Justine Chandler’s clothes in the basement.

Which made Arlene furious. Justine didn’t deserve to be immortalized. Chandler had loved
her
. His wife had been nothing but an obstacle standing between him and Arlene. For forty-seven years, Arlene had tried to ignore the woman’s existence, but now, thanks to Sammi, she was going to have to paw through her trunks and handle all her things.

Arlene had complained bitterly to the board. “The clothing exhibit is a prime example of how Sammi’s derailing the museum’s mission. This place isn’t a fashion museum. It’s a waste of resources to have two curators, anyway.”

“Now, Arlene, this is a big museum,” the board president had said. “There’s plenty of room for a new exhibit, and Sammi’s bringing in some terrific new ideas. Besides, we need someone in place who can take over when you decide to retire.”

Arlene had argued that she should be able to choose her own person to mentor, but the board wouldn’t hear of it. So here they were, paying two executive directors’ salaries—although hers was significantly higher; she’d made sure of that—while Sammi disrupted the peaceful routines she’d followed for years.

Adding insult to injury, all of the museum employees seemed positively enchanted with her. Arlene’s own assistant, Gretchen, had eagerly jumped on Sammi’s bandwagon, even giving up her lunch hour to help with the historical luncheons.

She’d never once offered to skip lunch to help Arlene with anything, Arlene thought as she stalked past Gretchen’s empty desk on her way back to her office.

Which hurt. Arlene hated to admit it, but everyone’s positive reaction to Sammi made her feel like second-best.

Again.

With a sigh, Arlene settled behind her desk and reached for the mail.

“Excuse me.”

She looked up to see a man with thick gray hair standing in the doorway. He looked like a thinner, older version of the man who played “House” on TV.

“Can you tell me where I can find Samantha Matthews?” he asked in a deep baritone.

“She’s conducting a tour right now. May I help you with something?”

“No. It’s a, uh, personal matter.”

Arlene’s stomach tightened. Wasn’t that always the way with men—going after the girls half their age. Her mouth flattened. “I see.”