He. Mr Logan Miller. He’s Miller International—has been for the past forty years—and what he wants, he gets, even if it turns out to be strange.’ John had leaned forward and pushed the letter across the desk towards her. ‘Suppose you telephone him and find out what he has in mind.’
The suggestion had surprised her. ‘Me? But that’s Harry’s job.’
‘Didn’t I tell you? I’ve asked him to head up the new office in Seattle.’ Her boss had winked. ‘You get to do the dirty deed instead.’
Talia had tried to sound nonchalant, even though her heart was pounding. ‘Are you offering me Harry’s job?’ she’d asked.
‘Caught you by surprise, didn’t I?’ Laughter had glinted in John’s eyes. ‘You can’t plan everything in life, Talia.’ But you can try. The thought had come immediately, but she had suppressed it just as quickly. When she’d said nothing, John had looked at her. ‘Don’t you want it?’
‘Of course I want it,’ she’d said, forcing aside the images of brown rice casseroles and fertilised egg omelettes that had insisted on dancing through her mind.
She’d shaken hands on her promotion, then hurried back to her tiny office with the letter from Logan Miller clutched in her hand. Reading it had calmed her. Typed on heavy vellum, signed with a firm, masculine scrawl, it had detailed a Friday night through Sunday morning retreat planned for executives of the corporation’s West Coast offices. When she’d got to the schedule and list of workshops that had been included, she had breathed a sigh of relief. The workshops were all business—Finance Strategies for Buyout Leverage had been one of the few comprehensive titles. Even the recreational activities had sounded wearing. The least strenuous was a dawn run along the beach.
Logan Miller couldn’t be a day under sixty-five, but he’d planned a tough weekend. There’d be no brown rice or fertilised eggs for this lot, Talia had thought, and a phone call to Miller’s Los Angeles office had confirmed it. Not that she’d spoken to Mr Miller; he was, his secretary had said, in Brazil on business. Mr Miller’s food preferences? Lean meats. Fresh fish. Salads. Fresh vegetables.
Of course, Talia had thought, scribbling notes furiously, a man of Miller’s age would be interested in a low-fat diet.
And yes, the secretary had said, the facility needed to be removed from the pressures of civilisation. Mr Miller wanted to ensure that his people had no distractions to keep them from the activities of the weekend. Was there anything else Miss Roberts needed?
‘Yes,’ Talia had said. ‘When may I speak with Mr Miller?’
‘He’ll contact you if there’s any need, Miss Roberts. But I’m sure you’ll be able to handle things admirably.’
Talia had taken the polite hint. Logan Miller was not to be bothered with details. She’d set to work, making arrangements and sending copies of everything to his office. But the final decision about where to hold the weekend, had hardly seemed a detail. When she’d narrowed her choices to two, she’d sent Miller a letter asking for his recommendation. Both hotels were equally suitable, it was simply a matter of taste, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
She’d sat back to await his reply.
It had come by express mail. Logan Miller’s note had been terse. It had said that he had no time to bother with such details, which was why he’d turned the job over to a catering corporation in the first place. And, if both hotels were equally suitable, why had he been asked to choose one over the other? He’d added that he doubted if either choice was appropriate anyway, and if that was the best she could manage, he could always take his business elsewhere. The note had ended with a handwritten, scrawled postscript. What of the Redwood Inn? it had asked. If memory served, it was perfect for the kind of weekend his organisation had planned.
Miller’s response had at first upset Talia and then had infuriated her. Do the job yourself, he’d said, and then he’d proceeded to take it over. Coolly, Talia had sent off an answer, telling him he could, of course, choose the Redwood Inn. But the inn was closed for the season. Arrangements were possible, but would cost twice what her other suggestions would. There would be union fees, staffing fees…
His answering note had been a barely legible scrawl. ‘Do it,’ he’d written across the bottom of her letter.
And Talia had; she had planned everything, right down to the last detail, and it had cost a fortune, more than twice what she’d proposed. Her boss had turned pale when she’d shown him the final bill, but she’d shrugged and reminded him that Miller had approved the cost without comment.
In her heart, she’d thought that the increase was no more than Logan Miller deserved. But the vengeful thought was so unlike her that she’d kept it to herself. She prided herself on level-headed behaviour; that an old man she’d never met could anger her enough to bring out such an emotional side to her personality was embarrassing.
Now, hours before the cocktail party that would signal the start of the carefully planned weekend, she thought, grudgingly, that Miller had been right. The Redwood Inn, perched on a hill overlooking the Pacific, with the beach at its feet and a forest of giant redwoods at its back, was perfect.
She finished putting away the rest of her things, then glanced at her watch. Her staff would be well into their preparations by now. It was time to check and see how they were doing. They were all seasoned veterans, but it never hurt to check things yourself.
Talia stripped off the silk shirtwaist dress she’d travelled in. Kitchens were not only places of spills and stains, they were also invariably hot, especially in the dog-days of September. Shorts, a cotton-knit top and a pair of sandals would do. No one would see her except her staff, she thought, taking a quick glance into the mirror and smoothing back a strand of dark auburn hair.
Her pulse gave a nervous leap, and she made a face at herself. There was nothing more to worry about until the weekend really got under way. Still, she took a deep breath before she left her room.
The kitchen was a whirl of activity. Her people barely acknowledged her presence. Everyone was busy, going from the huge refrigerators to the stoves…
Talia frowned. No, not everyone. The back door was open, probably to catch any breeze that drifted by. A man lounged in the doorway, watching the flurry of proceedings with an impassive expression on his face. He was leaning on the frame, arms crossed against his chest, feet crossed at the ankles, looking like a casual spectator at a sporting match.
He turned towards her, their eyes met, and a lazy smile tilted at the corners of his mouth. For some reason it made her feel uncomfortable, and she looked away from him.
‘Do we have enough shrimps?’ she asked no one in particular. ‘And what about oysters and clams?’
There were plenty of oysters and shrimps. And the clams had just been delivered. Did she want to check them herself? Minutes later, Talia had forgotten all about the man in the doorway. She was, instead, intent on tasting a Welsh rarebit that was simmering on the stove.
She hesitated, the spoon halfway to her mouth, as she felt a prickling along her skin. Slowly, almost reluctantly, she looked up. The stranger was watching her. Even at a distance, there was no missing the intensity of his gaze.
Talia felt a slow flush rise along her skin. The shorts she was wearing were old and faded, the knit top loose and virtually shapeless. But she was suddenly aware of how skimpy an outfit it was.
His
