Previously published as Cardinal Sin
Make
love, not war was the catch cry of the 1960's. Against a background of
anti-war demonstrations, hippies and free love, Caroline's life is in
turmoil. Her soldier brother is on his way to the jungles of Vietnam.
She discovers she is pregnant with her wealthy boss' baby, and her draft
dodger friend is on the run and needs her help.
Excerpt:
Chapter
One
Bryce
Harrington cursed as an anti-war protester shoved a placard through his car
window. Unwashed bloody hippies, disrupting a man going about his lawful
business. It was 1966, for God’s sake. The government ought to lock up the lot
of them.
“No conscripts
for Vietnam!”
a young woman screamed.
Bryce was
tempted to slam his foot on the accelerator and scatter them all in his wake.
He was going to be late, and he didn’t like tardiness. It showed a lack of
discipline. Arriving at work, he parked the car, climbed out and swore. Some
moronic protester had scratched the car door.
In the
executive office, another shock awaited; a note from his secretary.
I’m sorry. Joan had written in her neat
hand. Have gone home. Felt a migraine
coming on.
He slammed the
door and marched down the corridor to see Miss Bumpstead, head of the typing
pool. What a shocker of a morning it had been. A bloody nightmare.
First, the
stray puppy he had been feeding for more than a month had been run over by some
creep who didn’t even have the decency to stop and check on the little mutt’s
welfare, just left him lying on the road like a piece of garbage. The puppy was
so severely injured he had to take the poor little thing to the vet to be put
down.
Then he gets
caught up in an anti-war demonstration. And now, to top it off, his secretary
goes home and leaves him at the mercy of some giggling little girlie from the
typing pool.
“Good morning,
Miss Bumpstead.” Mustering all the will-power he possessed, he managed to keep
the anger out of his voice. No point in getting the old dear offside. “My
secretary’s gone home sick and I’ve several urgent letters to dictate, so I’ll
need to borrow one of your girls.”
“Certainly.”
She jumped to attention like a soldier on parade. “Right away, Mr.
Harrington.”
“Thank you.”
He forced a smile, hoping it didn’t look like a snarl. She had been employed by
the company for years and deserved respect. He had always followed his father’s
dictum: “Treat your elders with consideration,
they’ve earned it.”
***
Caroline
watched Bryce Harrington as he spoke to Miss Bumpstead. He always looked
impressive, tungsten tough. Not pretty-boy handsome, but he had a strong,
character-filled, no-nonsense face. His full, sensual mouth looked extremely
kissable. What would it feel like being held in those strong arms? Having his
hot lips pressed against hers?
Butterflies fluttered around in the pit of her stomach. His gray eyes
held the slightly jaded world-weariness of a man who worked and played hard.
Not an ounce of excess fat could be seen on his tall, lean frame.
“Miss
Dennison.”
Caroline
jumped when Miss Bumpstead spoke to her. “You have fast shorthand.”
“Y…Yes.”
Embarrassed heat crept into her cheeks. If this woman could read minds, Caroline
Dennison was a dead duck. Thank goodness Miss Bumpstead had focused most of her
attention on Bryce Harrington.
“I’m sure Miss
Dennison will be glad to act as your secretary. She’s only been here for a few
months, but she’s a conscientious worker.”
“Thank you.
Come along, Miss Dennison. I don’t mean to rush you, but these letters are
urgent.”
Caroline
stood, managing not to knock her chair over. The nerves in her stomach knotted,
and her throat suddenly felt dry and scratchy. She had dreamed about this
moment since joining Harrington and Son, Building Consultants three months ago
as a junior typist. Get a grip on
yourself, girl. You’ve wanted to be near him. This is your big chance. Don’t
ruin it.
Close up,
Bryce looked even more imposing. He radiated an aura of success and power that
only supreme self-confidence and enormous wealth could give.
“I haven’t
taken shorthand for a while. My speeds might have dropped.” Why did she always
feel so inadequate?
His eyes
narrowed and he swiped at a dark swathe of hair that flopped on to his
forehead. He had the type of brown, almost black hair that would have looked
unruly if it wasn’t so superbly cut. How many times had she dreamed of running
her fingers through it? He didn’t appear to use much hair oil, either. Why did
so many young men ruin their hair by slathering it with oils or creams?
“I’m sure
you’ll be fine. Caroline, isn’t it?”
He favored her
with a wide, white-toothed smile. What a gorgeous hunk of manhood.
He strode off,
giving her no option but to grab her bag and follow. She didn’t know where his
office was, the executive office suite being a definite no-go area for lowly
typists.
At the typing
pool doorway he stood to one side to allow her to pass through. Their bodies
almost touched. She inhaled his spicy after-shave lotion and musky male scent.
He stormed down the corridor with her scurrying behind him like a mouse chasing
after a piece of cheese.
They passed
two closed doors. The third he shouldered open. Caroline’s heart raced as she
entered the inner sanctum. A huge filing cabinet took up one wall and a late
model electric typewriter reposed on a desk next to a small switchboard.
“Right, this
is your office, Caroline.” He gestured
to a connecting door that stood half open. “I’m through here. Get your
notebook. We need to start immediately, there’s a lot of work to get through.”
“I haven’t got
a notebook.”
He gave an
exasperated snort. “My secretary keeps hers in the desk, I suppose. Help
yourself to anything you need.” He turned on his heel and strode into his
office, closing the door with a loud click.
Her hands
shaking so much she broke a fingernail, Caroline opened the top drawer of the
desk and rummaged until she found a shorthand notepad and several sharpened
pencils. Was she violating the secretary’s privacy by going through her desk?
Well, too bad, she needed the right tools to do the job. Grabbing a couple of
pencils, she stepped across her office to the boss’ door. Hesitating for a
moment, she took several deep breaths before gathering enough courage to give a
tentative knock.
He wrenched
the door open. “For heaven’s sake, girl, don’t dither. We’ll be here all night,
at this rate.”
She followed
him into his lair, nervously glancing around. A huge desk in the center of the
room dominated the area. He threw himself into a brown leather chair positioned
under a large window, while she hovered in front of him.
“Sit down, I
don’t bite.”
His lips
tightened as she sat opposite and opened her notepad, pencil poised, ready to
start. He held a ruler in his hand and looked liked he wanted to snap it in
half.
“All my
letters commence and finish the same way,” he said, spacing his words as if he
were talking to a five year old. “So you can take the body of the letter and
fill in the rest later.”
He started
dictating, his voice clear, well modulated. At first it proved an easy task
taking down what he said, even though her fingers trembled. Don’t let nerves turn you into a gibbering idiot. Once he got into his rhythm,
however, his tempo quickened, causing her to get flustered.
“I’m sorry Mr.
Harrington, but I missed the last few words.”
He frowned.
“Read me back the last couple of lines.”
“We are
interested in opening up…”
“Wrong, wrong.”
He took a couple of deep breaths.
Copyright (C) 2012 Margaret Tanner
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