The Fiancée Fiasco (5 page)

"Boyd." Winthrop greeted him with a smile that turned into a sigh when he gestured toward Roseanne. "Please meet Miz Archer. Miz Archer, Boyd Henderson, my chief of operations."

"Miz Archer." Boyd had the same manner as Winthrop of generalizing the title before her name. "A pleasure."

"Roseanne, please." She shook his hand and caught the quick assessment in his eyes. She could almost read the questions as if they were in a cartoon bubble over his head.
Winthrop, with a woman? The first woman in four years? Is there something going on here?

Although Boyd appeared to dismiss the questions, they'd been there for at least a moment. Which meant Winthrop had been wrong. Given a nudge of encouragement, people could easily believe he and she were having a romantic relationship.

Boyd took a position on Winthrop's right as the three walked toward the baggage claim area. Roseanne claimed a position on his left.

"Anything I need to know?" Winthrop's tone was businesslike.

"Everything's under control at the plant," Boyd replied, "if that's what you mean. But, Win..." He stopped and ventured a glance in Roseanne's direction.

Winthrop glanced that way too, then turned back to Boyd. "It's okay, you can talk freely."

"Win, there was a big drop in the stock this past week."

A frown creased Winthrop's forehead. "Yes, I noticed. What do you think is causing it? The Boeing contract we haven't signed yet?"

Boyd looked frustrated. "No, Win. It's— Well, it's the news of your, er, reconciliation with Sylvia. People don't know, uh, what effect that might have on your productivity."

A faint smile stretched Winthrop's lips. "Sounds as though the general consensus is the effect will be negative."

"It does look that way," Boyd concurred unhappily. "But what really worries me is the size of the drop. People aren't going to hang onto something that's decreasing so quickly."

Winthrop nodded, resigned.

The problems Sylvia had caused with her gossip article seemed to be growing, Roseanne thought as they entered the baggage claim area.

The moment they walked through the door, as though on cue, the carousel's motor revved up and the machine started to revolve.

"Watch this." Boyd leaned behind Winthrop to wink at Roseanne.

Over the top of the machine's ski slope ramp slid a medium-sized leather suitcase. Winthrop stepped forward and yanked it off the carousel.

"Is yours always first?" Roseanne queried, following up on Boyd's cue.

Winthrop grunted something and then said aloud, "Yes."

"How do you do that?" she asked, now curious. "Time your arrival at the airport or something?"

Boyd shook his head, his grin wider than ever. "It doesn't matter when he comes. Machines obey Win."

Roseanne raised an eyebrow. "I see." Now she remembered the way he'd fixed her office chair, just giving it a slight shake. Was it possible Winthrop had some sixth sense, some strange connection with machines and mechanical devices? Even if this were true, he didn't appear to enjoy it very much. At the moment he looked downright sour to have retrieved his luggage first off the carousel.

"I'm afraid I'm not as lucky." Roseanne smiled at the irrepressible Boyd. It was hard not to like the man. "My bag is usually dead last."

"Figures," Win grumbled, keeping his eye on the carousel.

Roseanne shot him a glance, wondering if this were some sort of an obscure, engineering insult.

"About Sylvia," Boyd went on as the three stood there waiting for Roseanne's luggage. "This is getting to be a serious problem, Win. We've got to take care of it."

Win kept his eyes on the ramp. "What do you suggest
we
do, Boyd?"

The other man hesitated. "Well, you could make a statement to the press. Give your true intentions." He shifted weight and added uncertainly, "Whatever they are."

Win turned toward his chief of operations with a deep sorrow in his eyes. "What do you think, Boyd? You believe I'm planning on getting back together with Sylvia?"

The question caused Boyd significant discomfort. He glanced briefly toward Roseanne. "How should I know, Win? You're so damned private. For all I know—" He shrugged, plainly at a loss.

"What if I told you I wasn't? Could you find your way to believe it?"

Boyd let out a breath and tried to smile. "Sure, Win.
I
would believe it. But you know how the public is—they remember how you two used to be so much in love, the darling couple of Houston. They want to believe in fairy tales."

"Yeah, fairy tales." Winthrop laughed shortly.

Roseanne flicked a glance up at him. He returned it, one side of his mouth curved in a wry smile. For whatever reason, Roseanne thought, his marriage had been no fairy tale. Wryly, then, she smiled back.

Boyd looked from one to the other. "Ah hell, Win," he complained. "You let me put my foot in my mouth here, didn't you?"

Winthrop turned to give him a questioning frown.

"You two," Boyd pointed at him, accusing. "Here you come into town for the first time ever with a girl on your arm, and I refuse to get it." Boyd hit his head with one hand as if to emphasize how thick it was.

Winthrop was still trying to digest this while Roseanne jumped right into using Boyd's obvious misapprehension.

"Don't feel bad, Boyd." She looped her arm through Winthrop's. "It was all very sudden."

"You're—married then?" Boyd's amazement was evident.

"No, not married—yet," Roseanne answered coyly.

Winthrop's brows snapped downward. "Now, wait a minute here—"

Boyd held up his hands, palms out. "You don't have to explain a thing, Win." His broad smile returned. "Not a thing. Boy, this sure puts the problem of Sylvia to rest, doesn't it? I mean, the stock can settle down and stop dropping so dramatically. I didn't want to say anything before, Win, but it was getting kind of dicey there. But this, this sets everything to rights." Looking vastly pleased, Boyd beamed on the two of them as though they were royalty.

"Now, before things get out of hand," Win tried again, "I am
not
—"

"What did you say, Boyd?" Roseanne hastily interrupted. "About the stock situation getting dicey?"

"Well, it doesn't matter now." Boyd sounded very pleased. "But the SEC was making unhappy noises, like they wanted to start investigating."

"—marrying anybody. You're joking," Win said, in reaction to Boyd's information. "The Securities Exchange Commission? But why would they—?"

"Doesn't matter. Like I said, with Miz Archer here, everything's going to be okay."

For the first time, Roseanne detected a hint of uncertainty in Winthrop, as if maybe, just maybe, he were willing to try out her remedy after all.

"Oh, there's my suitcase," she told them. "I just have the one." Releasing Win's arm to take Boyd's, she began walking him toward the exit. If she could manage to get both herself and her luggage into Boyd's car, Carruthers would have a hard time getting her out again.

"Don't mind, Win," she told Boyd. "We had something of a tiff on the way down here...You know how volatile he can be."

"Volatile? Win?" Boyd appeared to have trouble imagining such a thing.

"Oh yes. Isn't he terrible? Don't tell me he doesn't lose his temper with you all at the plant?"

"Not that I can remember."

"Oh, well." Roseanne gave a light, tinkly laugh. "I suppose I'm the only lucky one to be on the receiving end of that temper."

"You're going to be on the receiving end, all right," Win muttered, having retrieved her suitcase and caught up to them. "Miz Archer—" He gestured to one side with his head. "May I have a word alone with you?"

Relying on everything her feminine instincts told her about Boyd, Roseanne threw him a piteously beseeching look.

"Now Win," Boyd protested, responding like a dream. "A public airport isn't the place to settle anything. Look, the car is right outside." There was a glitter of understanding laughter in his eyes as he winked at Roseanne. "I'll take you two lovebirds home so you can finish this quarrel, er, in a proper manner." Then he stopped in his tracks, clearly thunderstruck. "That is, Miz Archer, unless you'd be staying at one of the hotels in town."

"Certainly not," Roseanne cut in before Win had a chance to open his mouth. "Win promised to show me his house." She prayed Winthrop lived in a house. For all she knew it was a condo—or a cattle ranch.

"You are going to see something very, very volatile," Win promised under his breath as he opened the front passenger door for her. "Mark my words, Miz Archer."

"But can't you see it's working—?" Roseanne managed to whisper back.

Then Boyd was opening the driver side door and climbing in. Muttering vague curses, Winthrop folded himself into the back seat.

Boyd Henderson didn't seem to realize that it was after one o'clock in the morning, local time. Whether it was simply having his boss back in town again or the news of Winthrop's alleged engagement, he was in hyper-drive.

It was fortunate Roseanne was there to take the brunt of it for Winthrop did not appear to be in a very communicative mood. He sat in the back seat, his chin in his hands and his gaze out the window, while Roseanne and Boyd chattered gaily in the front seat.

On the spur of the moment, Roseanne came up with a lovely little story of how she and Winthrop had met—at the top of the Space Needle in Seattle while looking for Roseanne's house. She then proceeded to invent a charming little romance—two formal dates, a picnic in Ravenna Park, and a ferry ride to Bainbridge Island. She could only hope Winthrop was listening. He was going to need to know the details later and quite frankly, Roseanne wasn't sure she'd remember them all.

It was a fairly long drive from the airport to Winthrop's house. In the darkness, all Roseanne could see were the passing signs of neon-lit businesses, a strip shopping center or two, and freeway off ramp signs. She'd never been to Texas and was eager to see what it really looked like in the morning—assuming of course that she lived that long. Winthrop's silence was beginning to sound ominous.

Boyd dropped them off in front of a house in a suburban cul-de-sac, refused the offer of coffee—made by Roseanne, not Winthrop—and bid them farewell with a supremely cheerful, if lascivious, grin.

There was a moment of silence as Boyd drove away. Behind them Winthrop's house loomed. From what Roseanne could see of it in the dark, it appeared to be constructed of wood in a rangy, contemporary design. Long low steps led to a wood porch running the length of the house's front. Certainly not ostentatious, but potentially classy. She'd have to see the inside.

But Winthrop made no move to pick up the suitcases or enter the house. Leaning against a wood support for the porch, he crossed his arms over his chest. From there he regarded Roseanne. Even in the dim light, she could feel the power of his eyes.

"Well, Miz Archer," he remarked in a suspiciously benign drawl, "I suppose you're feeling mighty satisfied with yourself."

"Actually—" Roseanne lowered to perch her bottom on the edge of her suitcase—her feet were killing her. "Yes."

His tone grew colder. In fact, she could hear particles of ice hanging off of it. "And just what do you suggest we do now?"

Roseanne hid a yawn behind one hand. "Well, if you haven't misplaced your keys, I suggest you open the door and let us inside."

"You've got to be kidding."

"I couldn't be more serious." Roseanne stood up and reached for the handle of her suitcase. "Carruthers, I'm exhausted. Can't whatever lecture you want to give me wait until morning?"

"No, it can not." He straightened from the post and came toward her, now looking more alarmed than angry. "Miz Archer, you don't intend to spend the night here?"

Roseanne gave him a dour look. "Even you couldn't be so heartless as to leave me out in the cold."

"But Miz Archer." Winthrop glanced meaningfully around at the other large houses clustered in the cul-de-sac. "Your reputation."

Roseanne would have laughed if she couldn't see that he was dead serious.

"People will think," Winthrop went on, hesitating discreetly, "that we're sleeping together."

Instead of laughing, Roseanne gave him a weary smile. "That's the general idea. It's your reputation at issue, not mine, Carruthers. Do you want people to think we're engaged or don't you?"

"I don't have much choice now, do I?" Winthrop bit out. "What with your pretty little story for Boyd."

"Boyd jumped to his own conclusions." Roseanne tucked her hands under her arms. It was chilly out in the night air, but Winthrop seemed to want this discussion out of doors rather than in. "He got the idea we were engaged all on his own, if you'll recall. I simply did not disabuse him of the notion."

"Oh, and I suppose Boyd came up on his own with some cock-a-mamie story about picnics on Bainbridge Island?"

"Oh, good." Roseanne sighed in relief. "You were paying attention after all."

"Paying attention? It's hard not to hear the nails going into your own coffin."

Roseanne couldn't help chuckling. "Really, Carruthers, I don't know what you're afraid of. This is going to be very easy. Now please open the door before we both catch our deaths of cold."

He looked at her a moment longer, obviously frustrated, but also exhausted. For a minute she almost felt sorry for him. He really didn't have a chance against her quicker mind and more determined will.

He bent and picked up the suitcases, then trudged to the front door like a doomed man.

"Come on in," he said, opening the door. "It looks like you're staying here for tonight."

Roseanne stepped up to the front door and passed through it in front of Winthrop. "Now why do you make that sound like a sentence of execution?"

"Believe me, I wouldn't mind taking an ax to your pretty little neck," Winthrop said grimly behind Roseanne.

A high-ceilinged living space opened before her. A series of changes in floor level were all that separated formal living room from dining area and kitchen. A dark space at the back indicated a hallway, leading to the bedrooms, no doubt. At least, Roseanne assumed there was more than one bedroom.