Nordic Heroes: In the Market and a Wholesale Arrangement (25 page)

B
ills, bills, bills, and more bills. Andrea Constantine studied the listing stack of invoices piled on her desk and fought off an overwhelming sense of panic. Panicking wouldn’t do her any good. It might make her feel ten times better, but it wouldn’t help. Money would help. Lots of money would help even more. And several truckloads of some large-denominational green stuff would benefit her most of all.

The telephone at her elbow shrilled, and the trucks in her daydream pulled away from the loading dock without having deposited so much as a single penny. She glared at the phone. Thirty more seconds and she’d have been stinking rich. Life, she decided in disgust, had a warped sense of humor. She snatched up the receiver.

“Constantine’s,” she announced with professional briskness. “Andrea Constantine here.”

“Where’s my money?” the caller snarled, not wasting time on pleasantries.

There was that annoying, distasteful, repetitive
money
word again, used by an equally annoying, distasteful, repetitive nuisance. “Mr. Hartsworth, I presume,” she said, her lips turning down at the corners.

“Damn right! Now where’s my money? And no more excuses. I shipped you a truckload of corn and I expect to be paid for it!”

“You shipped me a truckload of worm-ridden mush,” she contradicted in a firm voice. “You neglected to ice the corn properly, and your driver took two full days to get it here.”

“How can that be? Yakima’s only 140 miles from you!”

“Which makes the trucker’s arrival in Seattle forty-eight hours after departing your farm an incredible feat. How’d he go, by way of Hawaii? The heat coming off the tail end of his trailer was unbelievable. It’s a wonder we didn’t have popcorn!”

“You watch your mouth, little girl.”

Little girl? Andrea couldn’t help smiling, despite the gravity of the situation. She and Mr. Hartsworth had never met face-to-face or he’d have chosen a different description. At five foot eight, she couldn’t be called anyone’s “little girl.”

“Mr. Hartsworth, the federal inspectors looked at your corn and they agree with me. It’s worthless.”

“Buffalo chips! Now you listen here. I was supplying your pop with cobs since before you were born. You’re lucky I’m willing to work with you at all. So don’t try and tell me my business. This isn’t some girlie tea party, you know.”

“I quite agree—”

He bulldozed on. “If you don’t pay up, you’ll regret it, inspection or no inspection. I’ll see to it that your name is blacker than tar at midnight in a coal mine.”

She sat up straighter. That sounded fairly black, all right. And having her name so abused wouldn’t help her financial situation any. Still . . .

The man had dumped bad produce on her, and no one did that. If her father were still living, Hartsworth wouldn’t have tried such a stunt. The knowledge brought a sharp pang of loss. The knowledge also brought home the painful truth. If her father had taught her the rules of this particular game, she wouldn’t be in her present predicament.

Her hand clenched into a fist. One thing she did know with absolute certainty. If she allowed even one supplier to take advantage of her, they’d all start stacking up at her dock ten deep to follow suit.

“I refuse to pay for rotten produce,” she announced in no uncertain terms. “And you’re not the only one capable of a little tar-tossing and name-blackening.”

“Don’t give me your lip! You’ll pay all right. Because if I put out the word you don’t honor your debts, no farmer or broker will ever ship to you again. They’ll offload you clear into tomorrow. And I’ve half a mind to see that they do, maybe more than half a mind.”

“You don’t have more than half a mind!” She let loose before common sense—or any sense—could prevail. “And don’t threaten me. I don’t operate well under threats.”

“Maybe you’ll operate better under promises. Because I promise you, either have a certified check on my desk by five tonight or my lawyer’s gonna pick your bank account cleaner than a melon patch after a gleaners’ convention! You got that?”

“But—” She winced as his receiver crashed down, ending any further discussion. “That gleaners’ convention went through my bank account last week. And believe me, they didn’t leave a dime, let alone a melon.”

She stared at the phone. Maybe, just maybe, she shouldn’t have lost her temper. And maybe she shouldn’t have antagonized the man. And she definitely shouldn’t have allowed her old nemesis, pride, to do all her talking. She rested her chin in her hand. One of these days she’d remember that.

Andrea considered her options. Things were fast going from bad to real bad. If Mr. Hartsworth succeeded in his threats and blacklisted her wholesale market with the other farmers and brokers, she’d go bankrupt, something that was a distinct possibility, regardless.

She had to get it together. Where was her gumption? Her drive and ambition? Her get up and go? She groaned. It couldn’t have got up and went. It couldn’t have. Not now. Not when she needed every ounce of skill, determination, and finesseful finagling she possessed.

She ran a finger over the prisms hanging from her desk lamp, watching their glittering reflection dance on the walls of her office. All her life she’d searched for the bright side to even the gloomiest of disasters. She’d taken special pride in knowing that somehow, somewhere, she’d find one positive in amongst all the negatives.

Until now.

The only positive she could find was the absolute, positive fact she’d landed herself in deep, deep trouble. Matters were fast worsening, leaving her helpless to prevent the threatened demise of her company.

She sighed, admitting the sad truth. If Constantine’s Wholesale Produce Market were a dike, she wouldn’t have enough fingers, toes, and elbows to plug all the leaks. She’d better do something quick, or her father’s business would go under.

“If only . . .” She broke off and shook her head. If only her father hadn’t died. If only he hadn’t borrowed so much money from the bank. If only she wasn’t a woman in a man’s world. But Nick did die, he had borrowed money, and she
definitely
wasn’t a man. Which left her with one choice and one choice only, to swim fast or drown.

Too bad she only knew the dog paddle.

She let out a small sound of disgust. Honestly. That sort of attitude wouldn’t get her beans in this business. Keeping the company viable was important to her. She had something to prove. She wanted to prove to her father she could succeed in a man’s world, despite his feelings to the contrary, and despite the fact he’d never witness her success. And she wanted to prove to herself she could keep Constantine’s, Nick’s baby, afloat.

She faced the stack of bills, determination taking hold. “I won’t let you down, Dad,” she vowed in a resolute voice. “Somehow I’ll figure a way out.” Taking a deep breath, she reached for the first invoice.

“Andrea?
Cara?”

She glanced up and smiled warmly, the bill fluttering onto the stack. Joe Milano. Just what she needed—a long, cool drink of tall, dark, and handsome, with a sexy Italian accent to top it off. “Joe! How nice to see you. Come in and sit.”

“I like to see you, too. You look good. Very good.” He stepped into the room and gazed around with a touch of bewilderment. “But, ah, where do I sit? You do redecorating, yes? It is . . . different. Very nice.”

With a start, she realized the innumerable files, invoices, and reams of paper, which had taken up permanent residence in her life, also covered every available surface in her office. A hint of color warmed her cheeks. Leave it to Joe to call her particular brand of mass confusion redecorating. Inbred gallantry came as naturally to him as breathing.

“Maybe here,” she suggested, striving to lift a stack of order forms from one of the chairs.

“No, no!” Joe exclaimed, easing the burden from her arms with a disapproving frown. “I move them, no problem.” He staggered beneath the load, glancing around for a vacant spot to place it. His handsome face mirrored his growing alarm. “Er,
cara,”
he began. “You like these someplace special, yes? You tell me where, please.”

She hid a smile. “How about that corner over there?” she suggested, pointing to the least cluttered spot.

“Ah, fine,” he murmured in relief. He crossed the room in a few swift strides and dumped the pile onto the floor. Turning, he slapped the dust from his hands and beamed at her. “I am good help. Maybe I move another something, okay?”

She stared at the mess on the floor in secret amusement and shook her head. “You’ve done more than enough. Thanks.”

With a grin, he swept her into a bear hug, thick dark curls tumbling across his brow. “So how you been, huh?” He gave her a lingering kiss on each cheek, his mustache tickling her face. “I miss you. You miss me?”

She laughed, returning his hug. “Always. And I’m not redecorating. This is the stuff from Dad’s office, on top of my own. I’m still sorting through it . . .” Her throat closed over and she broke off helplessly.

Joe slid his hands to her shoulders and studied her, his dark eyes gleaming with instant sympathy. “Poor Andrea. And here I bother you with more troubles. Maybe I come tomorrow, yes?”

“No, no. You’re always welcome. Please have a seat.” Besides, she already knew what Joe planned to discuss—the poor quality of Constantine’s produce. More troubles, indeed. She struggled to recover her equilibrium and forced out a smile. “How’s Caesar?” she asked, preferring to put off the inevitable.

He relaxed into the chair, running a finger down the sharp crease of his trousers. “My poppa is fine, thank you so much. He asks for you all the time. You not visit for many weeks.”

Guilt swept through her. Caesar Milano’s arrival in the U.S. twenty-two years ago had coincided with her mother’s death. He and her father had struck up an immediate friendship. Since then, she’d practically lived at the Milano house, the adored honorary daughter of a household overrun by males, a household that, until recently, hadn’t included Joe. As the eldest son he’d remained in Italy to care for his aging grandparents, not joining his father until a few years ago. To her delight, Joe had accepted her just as readily as all the other Milanos, becoming like another big brother.

“I’m sorry I haven’t come by. Business. You know how it goes,” she offered.

His gaze held reproof. “This is not good, Andrea. Your business, it is too much. I worry about you. Poppa, he worries about you. My brothers, well . . .” He gestured in dismissal. “They not worry, but they are too stupid to know better.”

“I’m sorry,” she said sincerely, hastening to add, “Not about your brothers. I mean about not visiting more often.”

He studied her for a minute, his brow furrowed in concern. “Er,
cara,
I
 
wonder if maybe you not come because of our little problem?”

“No! Of course it isn’t,” she denied, the lie bringing stinging warmth to her cheeks.

He shot her an apologetic glance. “It is embarrassing. I understand,” he quickly soothed. “Your poppa make contract with my poppa. This is fine. Okay. We know Nicky, he do the right thing by us.” Joe gave an expressive wave of his hand. “Now Nicky is dead. Poppa, his heart is broken. He not like to talk business with his little Andrea. You understand?”

All too well. It was the story of her life. Men dealt with that aspect of life and the women stayed clear, at least in traditional Greek and Italian households. This conversation wouldn’t be happening if she had a brother or a husband. Most of her business problems were a result of that very fact.

“I’m sorry the produce went bad so fast,” she said, deciding to cut to the chase. She eyed Joe hesitantly, wondering if he’d mentioned such an awkward, troublesome, wrath-inducing problem to Thor Thorsen. With any luck he hadn’t. And with a bit more luck he wouldn’t. She cleared her throat. “You, ah, don’t need to bother Thor about this. I’ll refund you for the produce myself.”

Joe drew himself up in apparent insult. “You think I come here with the hand out? No! I come to see how you do. I should not like to say it,
cara,
but you don’t look so hot. All this work, it is gonna kill you.”

“What do you suggest I do? Joe, I’m a woman.”

He grinned, his gaze roaming over her in admiration. “Well, yes. I have noticed this.”

She threw him a fierce frown. “That’s not what I meant! I mean the prevailing male attitude that a woman shouldn’t be in the produce business. It’s ridiculous. I’m twenty-seven. I know what I’m doing.” Well, she admitted with painful honesty, she sort of knew what she was doing. “Stop treating me like I have cotton candy between my ears and let’s get down to brass tacks.”

He stared at her in confusion. “Cotton candy and tacks? What do you want with these?”

She smiled. “Business, Joe. Let’s get down to business. We need to reach an understanding about our contract.”

A long moment of silence stretched between them. Andrea could see him debating how to proceed. To go against a lifetime of conditioning must be difficult, she acknowledged. He might be only in his early thirties, but generations of Milanos continued to believe certain topics were the province of men alone. Clearly, this was one of them.

“It is very hard. You understand?” he said at last.

“Yes, I do understand. My father felt the same way. He didn’t like women in business, either.” She spoke firmly, willing her voice not to falter. “But he’s gone now and I’m the only one left. Talk to me, Joe.”

He shrugged fatalistically. “Okay. We talk.” His dark eyes were very serious, almost bleak, the usual humor and mischief missing. “This contract your father signed, it is good for everybody. We get food fast, we pay only a little more, and we order any time, and Thor, he delivers. This you cannot do for us. So, we are happy. Who gives us the produce is not important, so long as it is good produce.”

Andrea stared at him in concern. “And it hasn’t been. I realize that. I’m having trouble with my suppliers.”

“This trouble, it is over soon?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I’m doing my best.” She swallowed, struggling to push the truth past her pride. “But I guess my best isn’t all that good.”