more quietly—over at the bar, and around the tables.
She smiled at him, her widest, warmest smile. “Nope. Not kidnapped. Right here, safe and sound.”
“It’s a relief. I can’t afford to lose another assistant. I might not be so lucky next time finding a replacement.”
They looked at each other, the eye contact drawing out longer than she should have allowed it to.
Then Jessica Valdez, one of Tom’s managers, brought up the interior-design issues they were having at The Taka San Francisco. The rest of them started talking at once—offering complaints, suggestions and even a few solutions. The guys from accounting really got into it. Riki, the internationally acclaimed designer, was on everyone’s bad side.
“Never trust a guy without a last name,” grumbled one of the accountants.
“Maybe Riki is his last name,” joked a junior finance exec.
“Two names,” said one of the finance managers. “A guy should have two names. First and last. It’s fiscally irresponsible to try getting along with one. Not to mention damned pretentious.”
Tom called a halt to the subject after a while. “I know it’s an issue. And you all know I’ll be dealing with Riki face-to-face on Monday. And Thursday, I’ll get with Robby.” Robby Axelrod was in charge of construction on the Kyoto site. “See what we can do about the cost problems there.”
A few minutes later, Verna and Hank came over to say goodbye. Shelly got up and gave Verna a hug. “Send me a postcard.”
Verna grinned. “I promise. I’ll keep in touch. And thanks for the party. It was terrific.”
Tom got up, too, and walked the couple to the door of the bar. When he came back to the table, everyone else started making going-home noises.
Since Shelly had taken charge of the party when she moved up the date, she went ahead and played hostess. She stuck around till the last stragglers called it a night. Finally, she flipped out her shiny new TAKA-Hanson credit card and paid the tab.
Tom took the padded bench in the vestibule and waited for Shelly to head for the door.
She seemed surprised to see him there. “Hey. You didn’t have to wait.”
He rose. “Can’t have my favorite assistant wandering out onto Clark Street alone.”
She gave him a laugh. He really liked her laugh. “I think it’s totally safe, Tom.”
“You never know.”
She lifted her slim wrist and glanced at her watch. “It’s not even nine.”
“Almost dark. Could be dangerous.”
“The biggest danger isn’t the kind you can protect me from.” Her brandy-colored eyes teased him.
He took her arm and turned her for the door. “Tell me all about it.”
“Michigan Avenue. It’s in walking distance and I’ve got plastic. Blocks and blocks of great stores. I could end up spending a whole lot of money I don’t even have.”
“So I swear I won’t take you shopping. Whew. Another bankruptcy averted. Aren’t you glad I’m here?”
She smiled again. He loved her smile. “Okay. I’m glad. Happy now?” She looked worried, suddenly. “Where’s your jacket?”
“You’re a hell of an assistant. Nothing gets by you.”
“If someone’s walked off with your suit coat…”
“I left it—along with my tie—at the office.” He guided her through the door into the warmth of the evening. “Nice out.” He kept her hand wrapped around his arm and headed north on Clark, for no other reason than that staying on the move seemed a good way to keep her with him.
They were going to be working closely together from now on and it never hurt to get a little social time with his assistant. No, he’d never walked arm-in-arm up Clark Street with Verna. But then, Verna was fifty-four and happily married. Different assistant, different approach.
Tom wanted to know more about Shelly. That seemed perfectly reasonable to him. He liked her and she was a colleague, a colleague who interested him. A lot.
In no time, they’d reached Washington Square. They walked around the park, admiring the elaborate masonry buildings erected by Chicago’s elite after the famous fire at the end of the nineteenth century. Then he led her on the path that ran diagonally through the center of the square.
He said, “I thought we ought to get to know each other better.”
She paused on the concrete walk. “How well is ‘better’?”
“Well, I don’t know. Better than we know each other now.” He guided her forward a few steps.
But she only stopped again and pulled her arm from his. They stood exactly in the middle of the square of park, facing each other. “I want this job, Tom. I love it already.”
“Good.”
“And I need it. I don’t want to do anything that could potentially screw it up.”
“I don’t see how you could screw it up. You’re very good, Shelly. Smart. Efficient. With strong office skills.”
“I’m not talking about how good I am at my job.”
Tom gave up finessing her. He looked at her steadily. “Of course you’re not.”
She caught her lower lip between her pretty white teeth. “I… This is so awkward. And I’m scared that you’re going to get offended—or worse.”
“I’m not. I promise you.”
She laughed, a nervous sound. “Men do, you know?”
He wanted to touch her. But he kept his hands to himself. “Not me.”
She pressed those soft lips together and nodded. “Well. Good. Sometimes…office romances work out fine.” She spoke slowly. Thoughtfully. “But sometimes —probably more often than not—they end with someone hurt. Or someone angry. Then working together becomes too difficult. I can’t have that happen. I really can’t.”
He got the message. Loud and clear. It was a reasonable argument, and he could understand her fears. He wanted to tell her not to worry, that no matter what, she wouldn’t lose her job as his assistant. But he had no right to promise such a thing. In the end, there really were no guarantees.
“Come on.” He touched her arm, but didn’t take it. She went with him the rest of the way through the park to a row of iron benches on the edge of the square, facing the imposing facade of the Newberry Library.
For a while they just sat there. Tom let the silence spin out. It was full dark by then, the streetlights blooming bright, the fountain in front of the library bubbling away, making those happy splashing sounds as the water shot upward and tumbled back
