No Nice Girl Read online

  She put away the papers on which they had been working, and flung a cloth over the disordered table. When she saw that the office was in its normal condition, she switched out the lights and walked through the outer office, where the scrubwomen paused in their work to watch her go.

  CHAPTER NINE

  PHYLLIS HOPED WITH all her heart that Anice would be in bed and asleep when she got home. But the moment she fitted her key into the lock, her tired heart sank. For Anice called swiftly, “Is that you, Cousin Phyllis? Goodness. I was worried about you. That Mr. Rutledge is just a brute to make you work this late—and gracious me, how tired you look.”

  “I’m very tired,” agreed Phyllis.

  “But I’ve got a bit of dinner for you—I knew you wouldn’t have time for a decent meal,” said Anice, following Phyllis to the bedroom door.

  “No food, thanks, Anice—just sleep,” said Phyllis. Then, goaded by the girl’s wide-eyed protest, she said curtly, “I had dinner. Mr. Rutledge had food sent up from the restaurant on the corner. It was very good.”

  “Oh,” said Anice, and smiled her relief. “I’m so glad.”

  Phyllis turned on her with sudden suspicion, and before she could control the words, she demanded sharply, “Anice, did you telephone Mrs. Lawrence and suggest that if she dropped in at Mr. Rutledge’s office about eight, she’d discover something…”

  Anice was wide-eyed with shock.

  “Mrs. Lawrence? Who is she? Good gracious. Phyllis, why would I do that? What would I want to do that for? You and Mr. Rutledge were working—” she protested, hurt and puzzled.

  Phyllis studied her for a long moment.

  “Well, someone, a woman with a very pleasant voice, telephoned Mrs. Lawrence—” began Phyllis.

  “And Mrs. Lawrence acted on an anonymous call like that?” protested Anice, bewildered. “Goodness, either she isn’t very much in love with him or else she must be a very suspicious person. Why, Cousin Phyllis, you’ve been working late with Mr. Rutledge one or two nights a week for just ages. Why should Mrs. Lawrence all of a sudden come all over suspicious and barge in?”

  “I suppose she became suspicious because of a telephone call.”

  Anice laughed. “Well, she must have felt like a perfect fool when she walked in and found you working your heads off. I’d have enjoyed seeing her face—it must have been a scream!” she caroled lightly, and missed nothing of the slight change in Phyllis’ expression. “Of course, you were working—” she finished gently.

  “Naturally,” Phyllis flashed at her, her tone shaking. “What did you suppose we would be doing?”

  Anice grinned impishly. “You and Mr. Rutledge—nothing else. But there are a couple of gals in that office who are so crazy about Mr. Rutledge he wouldn’t be safe alone with them for five minutes,” she said frankly.

  Phyllis looked at her sharply.

  “Oh?” she said, and then slowly. “Could one of them have telephoned Mrs. Lawrence?”

  “Gosh, I wouldn’t know, Cousin Phyllis. It was a rotten thing to do. I’d hate to accuse anyone unless I had some real evidence, and I haven’t a speck. I just know the way the girls talk sometimes in what they call ‘the little girls’ powder room. Most of them think Mr. Rutledge is a sort of god. I think he’s a pain in the neck, myself—he’s always so stiff and so self-important, as though he went around saying, ‘I’m Kenyon Rutledge, the untouchable, and I’m so important you must always stand up and bow three times when I come in the room.’”

  “Oh, he’s not really like that at all.” Phyllis could not bite back the protest.

  “Well, maybe not, but keep in mind, Cousin Phyllis, that I’ve never seen him except at a distance, and he scares the living daylights out of me,” said Anice cheerfully. “Sure you won’t have a bite to eat?”

  “Quite sure, thanks,” said Phyllis briefly.

  Anice untied the belt of her tailored robe and slid out of it, yawning as she dropped it over the foot of the bed and crawled into bed. “Gosh, I’m sleepy,” she said cheerfully, and composed herself for slumber.

  Phyllis got into bed as quickly as she could, but she lay wide-eyed, staring into the darkness, unable to forget the bitter experience through which she had just gone. She relived it all, every bitter moment from the time Kenyon’s arms had gathered her close and his masterful mouth had closed hotly over her own, until the moment when she had heard the brisk tap-tapping of Letty’s high heels as she and Kenyon had crossed the outer office and the door had closed behind them.

  Sleep had never been so far away or so hard to find. Should she give up her job tomorrow and find something else? It would be easy to find another job. Maybe she would not earn quite so much money as she received now, but she could easily work her way up again to the same salary. She didn’t quite see how she was going to be able to face Kenyon, with the ugly little memory between them of that night’s episode.

  Again and again came the unbidden, unruly thought: if only Letty had not come in! If only no one had telephoned her! If only she, Phyllis, might have had that golden hour with Kenyon, she could have faced even the bitterness of her present humiliation and her wrecked pride with a degree of composure. But to have had to go through all that, and still to have her aching need for Kenyon…She turned her pillow, pummeled it furiously but soundlessly and tried once more to compose herself for sleep. But the first thin gray light of dawn was peeping beneath the drawn shades before she managed to lose consciousness.

  She had never dreaded anything in her life as she dreaded coming face-to-face with Kenyon that morning. But she had to do it; even if she resigned and sought a job elsewhere, she could not go away and leave a lot of loose ends dangling. Even if she gave up her job she must see that everything was in order for her successor before she left—that was a requirement of her job and it did not occur to her for a moment to shirk that responsibility.

  She was at her desk, cool and crisp-looking in a pale gray frock, when Kenyon came through the outer office, nodded at her through her open door and said his usual impersonal good morning. She tensed a little, waiting for the signal of his buzzer that would say he was ready for her help in facing the morning’s work.

  He had been in his office almost an hour before the buzzer signaled. Phyllis braced herself, gathered up her notebook and pencil and walked into Kenyon’s office.

  She was braced for anything that he might say; she was not prepared to have him behave as though the previous night had never been. Perhaps his tone was a trifle more curt and impersonal than usual, but she couldn’t be quite sure even of that.

  She was glad to seat herself beside his desk, her notebook open, her pencil poised, as he picked up the first of the batch of mail she had arranged in readiness before his arrival.

  He dictated as usual. Crisp, business-like, pausing now and then to question her on some point on which he was not quite clear, thanking her politely, and going on. On the surface, it was a morning like any other morning. But when he dropped the last letter and said, “I think that’s enough for the present,” she did not rise.

  Illogically enough, she was angry that he seemed inclined to ignore the previous night’s humiliation and frustration. When she had come into the office, she had hoped for nothing more than that he would say nothing, that he would behave as usual. But now that he was—crazy as it seemed—she could not let him get away with it.

  “I suppose, Mr. Rutledge,” she said grimly, “you’d like to have my resignation. I can train one of the other girls to take my place.”

  Kenyon was deeply annoyed that she was unwilling to follow his lead and just forget the previous night. A slow, dark, brick-red flush mounted his sunburned face, and his eyes were cold.

  “I see no reason you should, Miss Gordon,” he said icily. “Unless, of course, you have a better offer somewhere else.”

  “Of course I haven’t,” she told him with as much frost. “It’s just that—well, after last night, I felt sure you would rather I left.”

>   “I prefer to forget last night,” he told her sharply. “I—well, I lost my head.”

  “You?” For the life of her she could not have kept back the little cynical retort.

  He was definitely hostile now, definitely resentful.

  “If you are alarmed that there may be a recurrence of last night—” he said, and there was hauteur in his tone.

  “Not in the least,” she told him swiftly. “I shall see to it that it doesn’t happen again.”

  “You will see to it?” He definitely did not like her implication.

  “We both know that I was the aggressor,” she told him flatly.

  He resented that as a slur on his essential maleness, and protested sharply, “I know nothing of the kind. I only know that due to—er—overexhaustion, and—er—a couple of extremely potent cocktails, I so far forgot myself as to make—er—overtures to an employee in my office, and I assure you I am thoroughly ashamed. I have always held that as an all but unforgivable thing. I have never before stooped to it.”

  “Kissing me was stooping?” she demanded.

  His color deepened and his eyes flashed.

  “Certainly not,” he snapped. “Please do not twist my words into a meaning I did not give them. I merely meant that attempting to make love to an employee is, in my eyes, a contemptible thing.”

  Phyllis, suddenly sick of the whole mess, made a little weary gesture.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “You may as well know I deliberately planned the whole affair.”

  “I refuse to believe that,” replied Kenyon, feeling deeply wounded in his male pride. “I forgot myself. You are a beautiful and—er—alluring person and, well, I made a fool and a cad of myself, and I apologize. I’m deeply sorry, and now I’d prefer to forget it.”

  “And you don’t wish me to resign?”

  “Certainly not.”

  Still she hesitated.

  “But Mrs. Lawrence—” she began hesitantly.

  Instantly his face went rigid and his eyes were hostile. Obviously he bitterly resented the mention of his fiancée.

  “I would prefer to leave Mrs. Lawrence out of this,” he said frostily.

  “But how can we? Surely she will not be willing for you to keep me on,” stumbled Phyllis, biting down on the last bit of painful humiliation as one cannot help biting down on a sore tooth.

  “Mrs. Lawrence is a wonderful woman,” said Kenyon, and his voice softened and there was wonder in his eyes. “I cannot conceive of a woman so—so sane and broad-minded and so very fair in her judgment. She quite agreed that the fault was mine and was perfectly willing to accept my assurance that it would never happen again. She especially asked that I make no effort to be rid of you. She realizes how I depend on your competence and efficiency, and she does not wish a fellow creature to suffer on her account. Therefore, we shall just forget the most regrettable incident and go on as though it had never happened.”

  Phyllis stood up and for a moment she was quite still. And then without a word she turned and went out of the office.

  In her own office, she dropped down in the chair at her desk, put her elbows on the desk and hid her face behind her hands. So they were to forget that it had ever happened! So they were to go on as though nothing had changed! As though she had not plotted and schemed and contrived—and almost won—a deeply laid plan for Kenyon’s subjugation! Like hell they would!

  She tried hard to tell herself that Terry was right about Kenyon—that Kenyon was a stuffed shirt and a pompous ass—but she was still tortured with desire. She would have given everything she ever hoped to possess for a golden hour in Kenyon’s arms—and could have wrung her own neck for acting the fool she thus admitted herself to be.

  She had to admit that Letty had been very understanding—far more so than Phyllis herself could have been under similar circumstances. Letty had been more than generous; not one woman in a hundred, in Letty’s place, wouldn’t have insisted on the removal of her fiancé’s stenographer. Letty had been sweet and gay and had dismissed the whole thing as merely an unfortunate slip on Kenyon’s part. Phyllis knew that she should have been warmly grateful to Letty—and yet no woman under stress such as Phyllis had endured could be expected to be logical. And Phyllis was illogical enough to feel that she had never hated a woman so completely as she hated Letty.

  There was a stinging insult in Letty’s willingness that Phyllis go on working with Kenyon. Letty was insolently sure of herself and of her hold on Kenyon, of her power over him. Or—and here was a thought that started Phyllis—was it, in reality, that Letty was not in love with Kenyon, but merely wished to share his large fortune, and found his illicit interlude with his secretary ammunition to be used against him should she herself wish at any time to step out of line?

  Phyllis thought that over for a little and finally nodded to herself, convinced that it was so. A thoughtful look touched her face, and some of the burning humiliation passed away. If that was true—if Letty was not really in love with Kenyon—well, in that case, Phyllis reasoned, then there was still a chance for her to know the delights of Kenyon’s secret love. She had the grace to be ashamed of the ignoble thought, but not the strength of will to banish it.

  CHAPTER TEN

  TERRY HAD BEEN OUT OF TOWN for a few days, but he was waiting for Phyllis when she came down from the office a day or two after her fiasco with Kenyon. Anice was with her. Her pretty face brightened as she saw Terry, and she greeted him eagerly.

  “Hiya, small fry,” said Terry indulgently as though she had been an eager-eyed five year old. “Hello, pretty thing—long time no see,” he greeted Phyllis, his tone warm and caressing, so different from the tone he had used to Anice that for a moment Anice’s blue eyes flashed.

  “We’ve missed you, haven’t we, Anice?” said Phyllis, and knew it was true.

  “Speak for yourself, Cousin Phyllis. As for me, I didn’t even know the big lug was away,” said Anice saucily.

  “Such langwidge to your elders, infant!” Terry said sternly. “Just for that I probably won’t buy your dinner, after all.”

  Anice laughed. “I wouldn’t let you, anyway, because I have a very important date!” she told him cockily. “You and Cousin Phyllis drop in some place for a cocktail and give me time to dash home and dress for my date, and then you can have the apartment until the wee sma’ hours—all to yourselves, just the way you like it.”

  And before either of them could answer what was obviously a not too carefully concealed barb, she was gone.

  Terry stared after her and said quietly, “There are times when nothing would give me more pleasure than to knock her off that high horse!”

  “Be glad to help you, Terry, just any time at all,” said Phyllis, and then tried to laugh and pretend she had just been joking.

  They found a sidewalk cafe, and, seated behind tubs of dusty, dejected-looking evergreens and shrubs, ignoring the dust and the smells of a big city late in the afternoon, they ordered cocktails. They were both tired, both glad to be together again, and they spoke little as they relaxed in each other’s company.

  When they had dawdled for an hour over a couple of cocktails Terry said casually, “Why don’t we just have dinner here? What’s the point of going somewhere else that will be just as hot and just as dusty and smelly? The food won’t be any better anywhere else, either.”

  Phyllis smiled at him.

  “I’m sold—you don’t have to argue!” she told him.

  They ordered, and when the waiter had gone, Terry looked straight at her and said heavily, “You’ve been on my mind a lot these last few days. I’ve an idea that I gave you some pretty foul advice, but of course, I know you are smart enough not to pay any attention to it.”

  There was the barest hint of a question in the words, and Phyllis looked down, knowing that the burning color was rushing to her face.

  “Sorry,” she said tautly. “Afraid you overestimate my intelligence.”

  Terry tensed a little and set his
jaw hard. She missed the look of pain in his eyes, but the sound of it was in his voice when he exclaimed, “Oh-ho!”

  She looked up at him briefly and there was a sort of bitter humor in her eyes.

  “Don’t take it like that, Terry. I’m still—technically, at least—your girl,” she told him dryly.

  Terry stared at her, startled, incredulous.

  “You mean Rutledge was adamant? Oh, Phyllis, not even he could be such a fool,” he protested sharply.

  Phyllis hesitated. But somehow it eased the soreness of her hurt to put her shame and humiliation into words.

  “Oh, I think I could have had him—except for an interruption,” she admitted wryly. “Mrs. Lawrence arrived, like the Marines to the rescue. I was saved by the bell, as it were.”

  Terry studied her curiously for a moment and then he nodded as though he were beginning to understand.

  “Suspicious, eh? Not letting umpteen-million dollars slip through her pretty little fingers,” he commented at last.

  Phyllis shook her head and for a moment sank her teeth hard into her lower lip as though to steady her voice.

  “It seems that someone had telephoned her that it might be a good idea for her to drop into her fiancé’s office at a strategic moment, so to speak,” she told him.

  Terry’s eyebrows went up.

  “Wait a minute—no coaching from the audience, please. I suppose it could have been Small Fry?” he suggested, as though there could be no possible doubt.

  Phyllis’ lovely brows were drawn together in a little puzzled frown, but she shook her head.

  “Somehow, much as I hate to give her the benefit of the doubt, I don’t think so,” she confessed. “I admit I accused her, but she denied it so sharply—seemed so surprised. Oh, I don’t know, Terry—I’m all mixed up.”

  Terry put his hand on hers with a comforting gesture, and said soothingly, “Of course you are, you poor kid. Well, forget it for the moment. Let’s talk about me.”