Astonishment altered her features, making her eyes larger and brighter and her mouth softer. “Mr. Burke?”
He shrugged self-consciously.
Quickly she stood up and rounded her desk. She was wearing a white blouse, a straight black skirt, and the same black high heels she had been wearing in L.A. two weeks earlier. Her legs were as good as he remembered.
“I didn’t recognize you without your beard,” she said. “And you hair’s shorter, isn’t it?”
“That’s a polite way of saying that I finally got a haircut. I even dressed up.” Self-derisively he spread his arms at his sides. He had worn his best pair of jeans and a new shirt. As an afterthought, he had even bought a necktie at the K-Mart where he had purchased the shirt. It had been so long since he had tied a necktie, it had taken him three tries and countless cuss words to get it right.
Studying his new image in the YMCA mirror, he decided that he had done the best he could, and that if he wasn’t good enough for her, that was just too damn bad. Who needed this anyway?
He did.
Dillon had come to that conclusion after days of soul-searching anguish. Damn her! Jade Sperry had succeeded in getting him excited over something for the first time in seven years. The lady was nuts to entrust a project of this magnitude to a burned-out, bummed-out drifter like him, but—God!—the challenge was irresistible.
“I’m sorry for staring,” she said, recovering her composure. “You look so different. Sit down, please.”
He took the chair she indicated. “I probably should have called first.” Actually he hadn’t dared. He was afraid she would tell him that the position had already been filled. It was going to be a crushing disappointment if it had been. The prospect made his voice husky. “I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”
“Not at all.” She resumed her place behind her desk.
He surveyed her office with interest. Everything in it was sleek and contemporary, yet it was warm, with pots of African violets blooming on the windowsill and framed art renderings, drawn by an amateur hand, decorating the walls. Each crayon picture was signed, “Graham Sperry.”
“My son,” she remarked, following his gaze. “He’s fourteen now. It embarrasses him that I keep his grade-school drawings.”
“Fourteen,” Dillon murmured. Charlie would have been eight his next birthday. He smoothed his hand over his heavy mustache, which he had decided to keep when he shaved off his beard.
“Can I get you a coffee or something cold?”
“No, thanks.”
“When did you leave L.A.?”
“A week ago. I drove.”
“Oh, I see. That must have been quite an experience.”
“It was okay,” he replied laconically. Was she stalling, unwilling to tell him she’d found somebody with a better attitude?
“Is this your first time in New York?”
“Yes.”
“What do you think?”
“It’s all right.”
After a short silence, she said, “I hope you have good news for me.”
“Is the job still open?”
“Yes.”
“Not anymore.”
Her eyes lit up, but she kept her voice calm. “I’m very pleased to hear that, Mr. Burke.”
“Why? You found me in jail. You don’t know how I work. I don’t have my own business.”