* * * *
“I’m sorry, Mr. Monroe, the office informs me that Ms. Wharton has left for the weekend.”
Left for the weekend by ten o’clock on a Friday morning? Bette Wharton? Paul wanted to snarl at the voice on the intercom. But he restrained himself.
When Janine went on, he noted for the first time all week a hint of humanity beneath her efficient exterior. “I believe she flew out early this morning for a weekend trip.” Janine hesitated, then added in her usual tone, “Can I put through another call for you, Mr. Monroe?”
Since she hadn’t managed to “put through” the one call he’d wanted, he thought that bordered on sarcasm.
“No. Thanks. I have a call to make, but this one’s private so I’ll put it through myself.”
Let her inform her cronies at Top-Line that he didn’t consider his calls to Bette Wharton as anything more than business. And let her also tell them that he had private calls to make.
“Grady, it’s Paul,” he said when he got through. “What do you think about taking the afternoon off for a last sail of the season?”
“I think it’s too damn cold, for starters.”
Actually, Paul thought so, too. The three-day rain that had washed away Indian summer had eased yesterday, making the lingering cold all the more noticeable. But he needed something to vent this restlessness, and the lake had always been good for that.
“And it’s supposed to rain again,” Grady added.
“Afraid your good looks will melt?” The taunt about his friend’s blond, blue-eyed handsomeness was too old to hold much sting.
“I don’t know, but I’m not going to risk it. Not now. I’ve got a big weekend planned with Cindi.”
“Who’s Cindi? No, never mind. I’ll just get her confused with the two hundred other women you’ve dated this year whose names end in ‘i.’ ” Paul leaned back in his wooden swivel chair and propped his feet on the edge of his desk. Maybe he wouldn’t go sailing, but talking to Grady reminded Paul that some things in life don’t change. “I’ll bet you a pair of tickets to the Cubs’ opener that Cindi spells her name with an ‘i’ on the end.”
A slightly sheepish silence followed. “Yeah, she does. But it’s no bet,” Grady protested. “I didn’t bet.”
Paul grinned at a photograph of Grady, Michael, Tris and himself from their college days. “That’s okay, Roberts. It was a sucker bet, anyway.”
He hung up, feeling more like himself than he had all week.