The Sweetheart Deal

gratitude.

Chapter One

In 1953 when all the world was married, Ellen Hamilton was not. She didn’t mind being unmarried, not really. Solitude was a wonderful thing.

After turning the sign of the library to closed, she hurried down the stairs. A couple of her wavy locks escaped the confines of the tight bun at the nape of her neck. With a gloved hand she stuffed them back, only to have them escape again.

Giving up on the battle with her coiffure, she headed down Main Street toward Hamilton Manufacturing. She had been summoned by her father.

How many times had she told him she no longer worked for Hamilton Manufacturing? He had no right to order her about.

On the other hand, as a stockholder, it was only proper she’d take an interest in the family business. Doing a little work here and there for the company didn’t make her an employee, right?

Ellen tripped, either because of the train track underfoot or the tortured logic in her head. She lifted her eyes to the bright blue sky and laughed at herself. Really, some days that was all she could do.

She stood, dusted off her gray cardigan and navy skirt, and carefully stepped over the steel track. With its turn-of-the-century wood platform, the small train station marked a dividing line of sorts. The factory was on the industrial side. The other side was Main Street, with its small retail shops, town square, and almond grove at one end. Recently a new development of houses had sprawled in a long arc to the north and east of the town. But it was these original blocks that remained the core of Pitney, California. This was home, the place where Ellen had grown up, where she belonged.

When she’d walked into her father’s office, he was at his desk and, as usual, snapping orders at her younger brother, Tim, who appeared to be only half listening.

Her dad was a man made of angles, both internal and external. He had a pointy beard and mustache, a rectangular face, and protruding shoulder blades that looked like saber hilts. But Ellen knew the angles he plotted in his head had rightfully earned him his power and, even if she didn’t like to admit it, her respect.

Then the great Sam Hamilton, also as usual, turned to her and launched into his familiar tirade. Ellie, when are you going to stop this nonsense of pretending to be a librarian and come work for me full time?

"I’m not pretending. I am a librarian."

Sam swatted her words away just like an annoying fly. But you enjoyed working here more. Don’t deny it.

Ellen avoided his stare by examining the paintings of yachts that hung behind his large gold-inlaid mahogany desk. The problem was she couldn’t deny it. Despite her mother and, heck, most of the world looking down on a woman being a manufacturing executive, as a girl Ellen had dreamed of nothing else. She’d loved walking down the office hallway, where even the thick cement walls couldn’t stifle the steady beat of the factory machinery rumbling, cranking, and whooshing all around her. It was thrilling to know she was a part of something that affected so many things, from the creation of new and innovative products to all the people whose jobs depended on the factory’s survival.

Even so, she was better off at the library. There she had nothing more to worry about than the occasional late fee and not being hurt again by people who cared only about winning—or worse, becoming one of them.

Come on, girl. I need you here, he said.

Ellen could almost feel herself soften toward him until he spoke again.

Someone’s got to help your brother if he’s ever going to run this company.

Dad, you underestimate Tim, she said. He’s creative. He just—

I’m right here, you know, Tim said under his breath as he retreated to the large window. The light from outside made his ash-brown hair appear almost blond. With his turned up pug nose and wide-set eyes, he looked like a young boy instead of almost twenty-eight years old.

Just my luck, said Sam Hamilton. "Two children, neither man enough to run a company."

Ellen flinched at the remark. At the same time, Tim, standing behind their father, pantomimed a sad clown face.

She smiled. Tim’s expression was so funny yet suffused with humanity that it would put the comedian Red Skelton to shame.

Now listen up, Sam said. A representative from Riesel Lang will be arriving tomorrow, and I want you to be nice.

I’m always nice, she said. But why would a giant military contractor like Riesel Lang send someone to look at our factory? We make tractors.

Not for long. Sam rifled through a pile of papers and pulled out a portfolio. He handed it to Ellen.

Here. Look at this and tell me you’re still not interested.

She took the file and sat opposite her father.

It’s a tank, Tim said excitedly. The Feds are back to pouring money into the military. We’ll be rolling in the dough.

A tank? She frowned. We stopped making those as soon as World War II ended. What’s the point of retooling our tractor plant now?

Not retooling. Expanding, Sam said.

Expanding? Despite herself, he had piqued her interest. She opened the portfolio and carefully pulled out a wrinkled sheet of paper from a sketchpad. Examining the sketches, she could almost smell the dizzying combination of glue and ink that was always present in the company’s research and development department where George worked. She had to admit the prospect was exciting. An innovative invention coupled with government connections and the financial resources of Riesel Lang could launch Hamilton Manufacturing into the big leagues. And Tim was right, it would mean a ton of money.

Aren’t you worried about bringing Riesel Lang in on this? Ellen asked her father. That company’s a behemoth. It could eat us alive.

I don’t think so, Sam said.

Guess who Riesel’s sending? Tim said.

Something in her brother’s smirk made her hesitate. I don’t care who. I told you, I’m not interested in the company.

Yeah, right, Tim said.

Sam leaned forward and looked at her with a smug little smile. Oh, I think you’ll be interested. Riesel’s representative is John Adair.

Ellen’s head jerked up as if she’d bitten into a chili pepper. Who?

I’ve told your mother to invite John to be our guest at her annual gala this weekend.

You did?

Jeez, Sis. You look pale. Everything all right?

This was stupid. Stupid. She hadn’t thought about John in years—and she liked it that way. Yet, for some annoying reason, her skin tingled with the memory of his warm, callused hands on the small of her back.

She shook herself and glared at her father. How could he, of all people, allow John to come back?

As if Sam could read her mind, he shrugged. Riesel thinks he’s being smart sending John—a man who he thinks knows the territory. Huh!

Ellen clasped her hands so tightly they turned white.

What Riesel doesn’t realize is we know John a lot better than he ever will. Sam’s stare was so intense it felt almost physical.

What do you mean? Tim asked.

He’s a thief, Ellen whispered.

He’ll be here as our guest. So be pleasant. Sam settled back into his chair as if it were a throne. Let us overwhelm Mr. Adair with charm and hospitality. But be sure to keep all the valuables under lock and key, right, Ellie?

Ellen lifted her chin and met her father’s gaze. Don’t worry. I will.

Chapter Two

John Adair’s gaze followed the second hand’s jerky path around the dial: 4:53 P.M. Seven more minutes until quitting time. He had been useless all day at Riesel Lang. All he could think about was his trip to Pitney and whether Riesel’s plan would work. Fooling Sam would be tricky, but the plan was good. Fooling Ellen…Damn near impossible.

Still, if he could pull it off, he’d leap out of middle management and into the corporate elite. Not bad. Besides, there would be the added bonus of watching Sam’s expression when John took the tank design away from him, fair and square.

What would Ellen’s expression be?

He drummed his pencil against his thigh. He hadn’t thought of her in years, or at least he’d tried not to. But now, with only hours before he’d see her again, he could think of nothing else. His stomach tightened as he remembered holding her for the first time. Her expression had been an invitation, certainly. But there was also something hard in the way the right corner of her lip had lifted, more of a dare than a surrender.

Tightening his grip on the pencil, he fought back the old feelings of anger about what that town and all the lousy Hamiltons had taken from him.

Damn it. It didn’t matter. Not now. What mattered was his return to Pitney tomorrow.

This time things would be different. He’d no longer be one of Sam Hamilton’s many workers in a checkered shirt. Instead, he’d sport a black business suit with the silver cufflinks he’d purchased a couple of weeks ago. The cost of those cufflinks, worn so casually in boardrooms, was more than he had made in a month when he had worked for Hamilton Manufacturing so many years ago.

He told himself his transformation was complete. His red hair, slicked back, was almost a conservative brown. His hands were no longer callused—not that the Hamiltons would ever see him as anything but a laborer. Maybe it was his rugged face from early exposure to too much wind. Or perhaps it was the way his broad shoulders stretched the fabric of his white button-down shirt so he retained the hulk-like appearance of a man who had spent his childhood working with his hands and not his brains.

To hell with them. Why should he care about how they saw him?

He’d made it, and he’d done it himself. Not even Sam could take that away from him.

John clicked open his briefcase and pulled out his notes on the new Hamilton tank design. When Tim Hamilton had approached him with his business plan to take control of the tank and shut his father out of a new company, John had wanted nothing to do with it. Tim had always been the family screw-up, and this had seemed like another one of his crazy schemes.

But when John saw the sketches, he felt a fizzing in his gut like the tang of an icy gin and tonic. They were amazing. He recognized the initials at the bottom of the design as those of George Morales, his mentor and the greatest engineer John had ever worked with. If anyone could pull off this groundbreaking tank, it would be George.

He smiled to himself as he reread the notes. That’s when he had begun to think maybe Tim’s plan to take the design away from Hamilton Manufacturing could work. And with all the money being poured into the arms race against the Russians, John had no doubt this design could be the cornerstone of a new company.

Still, he wasn’t fool enough to trust a Hamilton again. He’d gone straight to his boss, David Riesel, and told him about Tim’s planned subterfuge. Riesel told John to keep up the pretense of working with Tim, but in the end Riesel wanted the control of the tank to be his alone. Facing off against a tyrant like Sam Hamilton was risky, but David Riesel was a titan: crossing him would be corporate suicide.

John’s office door swung open. Cindy Porter, long-legged and bleached blonde, leaned against the doorway. The company’s rumor mill churned out stories about her and the types of special projects she worked on for Riesel.

I’m going with you tomorrow. I’m supposed to be your secretary. She gave him a wink.

Swell, he said. Riesel’s spy was more like it.

She rolled her shoulders back to accentuate her generous bosom and sauntered into the room. Swell is right. Is Pitney as bad as it sounds? I mean, what kind of name is that for a town? She made a funny face that made John smile. Is it the pits?

John laughed.

A whole week, huh? she said. Well, I guess you and I are going to have to liven up this itty-bitty town. They won’t know what hit them. She lifted one of her perfectly drawn eyebrows. At least they better not, right?

That’s the plan. It’s a long drive, and we got to show at the Hamilton’s shindig, so we need to leave early. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven.

Eight. And I’ll love you for life if you bring me coffee.

Will do. Cream and sugar?

Yes, sir. Then her smile faded. Oh, by the way, Riesel said if this thing blows up, don’t bother coming back. She glanced down. I’m sorry.

So much for playing it safe.

Chapter Three

Ellen felt crimson. She knew no one could feel crimson; it was a color, after all. Yet crimson she was as she stood next to her mother, Daisy, and welcomed guests to the Hamiltons’ Annual Summer Ball. Any moment now John would appear. The last time she’d seen him was nine years ago, when he was being escorted out of town by the sheriff.

Not that she had any interest in seeing him again after what he’d done.

Obviously, she’d meant nothing to him. Which, of course, is how it should be since he meant nothing to her.

Ellen looked past the guest she was supposed to be greeting. He was here.

She didn’t know what first alerted her to that fact. Had she glimpsed the lightly freckled skin on broad cheekbones or copper hair in a sea of the bland brunettes and blondes that inhabited her father’s small town soirée? She hated to think John’s mere proximity made her pulse skip like some mindless weather balloon.

She saw him. In the line of guests, he was inching closer to where she stood.

If her body hadn’t learned the lesson that John Adair was no good, her mind had. She wouldn’t be fooled again.

When John reached them, he took her mother’s hands with surprising polish as he thanked her for the invitation and introduced the Hollywood blonde draped on his arm as Miss Cindy Porter. Then he turned his full attention to Ellen.

Gulp.

Still, she managed to greet him with her best poker face.

When he took her hand, his lips curved into a subtle but devastating smile. As his left hand brushed her arm, she cursed herself for not being able to control the tremble inside. He was trying to play her.

Focusing the gale of anger sweeping through her, she shot him a look she was sure would have made Gary Cooper think twice before meeting her on a dusty street. When their eyes met, she felt the slight jerk of John’s hand. He was after something. He was so much like her father. How had she not seen that before?

The greetings done, John and his companion disappeared into the crowd and were replaced by the next guests to be welcomed.

Good. It was done. She had said hello. There’d be no reason to talk to him again. Right?

Once all the guests arrived, she entered the living room. Her ears buzzed with the clatter of so many voices competing to be heard over the music from the adjoining room. Together, these sounds became an indistinguishable roar, not dissimilar to the noise of the Hamilton factory running at full capacity. Except that sound was comforting.

Peering around the crowd, she sighed. Her father’s vast living room was a study in burgundy. The furniture was mahogany, set off by thick, velvet curtains and plush couches and chairs. To her father, this spelled elegance, a return to the Gilded Age. It could have looked nice if there weren’t so much stuff, albeit expensive stuff, filling the room.

She spied her father herding other members of the local Masonic lodge into his study. As usual, he was monopolizing the conversation.

The party scene was a miasma of calculated flirtations, eager boasts, and vacant words. Maybe she could hide in some corner and remain unobserved.

But it was difficult not to be seen in this ludicrous taffeta gown. What had possessed her to ask Mother’s advice on what dress to wear tonight? Her mother, Daisy Hamilton, hostess extraordinaire, who believed Scarlett O’Hara exemplified the height of social graces, had entered a state of sublime agitation as she’d flown to her closet and chatted to her about hemlines and accessories.

Daisy had chirped with pleasure as she dressed Ellen as if she were a doll in a shimmery confection of yellow and blue. The dress was the one her mother had worn last year at the Fourth of July party. Ellen remembered how it had sparkled in the sunlight but had forgotten how puffy it was until she put it on. The dress was designed to give the wearer an exaggerated hourglass figure, but Ellen’s curves hardly needed emphasis. She felt as if she were wearing two Easter eggs connected at her waist.

Walking among the guests, she kept patting down the skirt. She grimaced when she caught sight of her reflection and groaned inwardly, thinking she had now officially turned into her mother. Perhaps she could still run upstairs, pull her chestnut hair up into her usual bun, and go back to the safety of her own sensible dresses.

Harold Van Aken blocked her path. Ellen accepted the glass of wine he offered. The older brother of Ellen’s best friend in college, Harold still seemed like the out-of-reach Princeton man. With the body of a string bean, long and tall, he looked as if he might topple over at any moment, which made it even more remarkable he moved with such grace. His stance open, his expression calm, he looked like someone who expected the world to conform to his needs, which Ellen suspected it mostly did, except for the fiancée who had broken up with him last year.

I’m afraid this is about as exciting as Pitney gets, Ellen said to Harold. Still happy you came here?

I’ll admit I did feel some trepidation about living in this rustic place.

It’s definitely not Boston.

Harold removed his black-rimmed glasses and leaned toward her. True. But I’m beginning to like it.

A warm tingle radiated through her chest. Without his glasses, Harold was handsome, with his high cheekbones, strong jawline, and ivory skin.

I was ready for a change. For a moment, the spark of confidence in his soft brown eyes disappeared but returned when he gazed back at her. Thank you for putting a word in with your father.

She waved her hand. Don’t worry about it. Happy to help. Besides, you’ve proved yourself. After George retired, neither of the men who tried to run the R&D department lasted for more than a few weeks before my father fired them. You’ve lasted six months. That has everything to do with you, not me.

I like the work. I’ve presented plans to your father to modernize the organization. But with George still milling about, my authority is undermined.

"George is the company, Ellen said, her tone a bit harsher than she had meant. I’m sorry. Of course you’re going to have your own ideas. But I know you’ve seen how amazing George is."

Don’t get me wrong. He’s a genius. It’s just there are so many ways to streamline.

Ellen’s attention was drawn to the shrill voice of Mrs. Russell, the center of Pitney society, at least according to Mrs. Russell, and she appeared to be heading in her direction.

Oblivious, Harold continued, I’d like to talk with you about it sometime. Also how my move here has allowed me to get to know you better.

Ellen shifted to the right, attempting to hide herself from Mrs. Russell.

Are you listening? he asked, brow furrowed.

Sorry. It’s Mrs. Margaret Russell. Ellen continued to bob and weave behind Harold’s lithe figure. Would you mind playing a bit of defense for me? I’m really not up to her self-righteous exhortations.

Harold patted Ellen’s hand. You’re shy? How fetching. Strange, I don’t remember that you were in college.

Shoot!

What?

She’s seen me.

Oh, then go. Don’t worry, I’ll create a diversion. He smiled. But you’ll owe me.

My hero. She laughed and then gave him a peck on the cheek. See you later. Ellen darted through the circles of jabbering people as if she were on an obstacle course.

She thought about Harold calling her shy. It wasn’t shyness. She just wanted no part of the charade of these occasions. Her father loved a party. For him, it was an opportunity to manipulate others to his advantage. He was good at it, too. But even though Ellen’s mind was as sharp as her father’s and her appearance a bit plumper but no worse than her mother’s, she had determined parties were for players, something she promised herself she’d never become.

Heading toward the ballroom and the refuge of music, she saw John standing in front of the doorway, bookended by two blondes—Miss Cindy Porter, the drugstore blonde he had come with, and Pitney’s own Nancy Russell, whose lifeless hair fell undifferentiated from her ghostly skin. Nancy had come armed for battle. Her colorless complexion was punctuated by Manhattan-red lipstick and blue eye shadow. She flirted unabashedly, undeterred by the fact Cindy clung to John’s arm.

Ellen refused to alter her course, no matter how unfortunate it might be. She took a deep breath, tilted her head down, and marched by them as if she were Napoleon striding through his palace, contemplating war. That is, if Napoleon had ever worn yellow and blue taffeta.

Ellen skirted the edge of the room until she found a spot, poorly lit, behind the musicians, where she could be embraced by the music. Her escape was disrupted when she saw John stride onto the dance floor with Cindy. She tried not to watch them, but she seemed to be glued to his every movement. After the dance, John led Cindy off the floor. They were intercepted by a very eager fellow, who escorted Cindy back to the dance floor. John headed toward the refreshment table but changed trajectory when her brother Tim signaled to him with a surreptitious look. A hint of a scowl crossed John’s face. But he joined Tim just the same.

Since when were those two so friendly?

Ellen didn’t remember John having anything to do with Tim in the past. There was something sly about the way her brother glanced around before leaning in to speak to John. Something wasn’t right there.

Trying to fade into the wallpaper, my dear?

Ellen jumped. George! She smiled at him.

He was the one person at the party whom she truly wished to see. She kissed his cheek, which had grown even more gaunt since she’d last seen him. But that didn’t alter the soft gaze he always bestowed on her.

With a silver-handled cane in