Stormy Vows

  “Just a minute,” she called frantically, trying to fasten the bulging suitcase. She succeeded, only to have it spring open again. “Damn!” she muttered impatiently, giving up temporarily.

  On her way to the door, she stopped to pick up a teddy bear that Randy had tossed out of the playpen, and gave it back to that howling individual resignedly. “I know, love,” she said with a quick kiss on his silky head. Her sympathy was met by another bellow. She restrained herself forcibly from picking up the mournful little figure and comforting him. She'd never get out of here if she gave in to Randy's pleadings.

  The doorbell rang again, and she tore herself from Randy's clinging arms with some difficulty. Randy renewed his heartbroken wailing, and she ran her fingers through her hair in exasperation.

  She marched to the door and threw it open, her brow creased in a frown. “What is it?” she asked crossly of the man in jeans and sweatshirt, who stood appraising her coolly.

  “You shouldn't open your door without first checking to see who's on the other side, you know,” the man said disapprovingly. “I'm Monty Walters. Michael Donovan sent me.”

  She should have known, Brenna thought with irritation, glaring balefully at the man standing before her. Did Donovan infect all the people around him with his own arrogant bossiness?

  “May I come in?” Walters asked politely, stepping forward so that she was forced to give way or be trampled underfoot. A little over middle height, he was in his late twenties, with crisp dark curly hair that framed a face that was surprisingly boyish. The dark eyes, however, were completely adult and just a little cynical.

  After the night and morning she had gone through, Brenna was not about to be intimidated by one of Donovan's underlings.

  “I'm sorry, Mr. Walters, but I haven't the time to talk to you right now,” she said shortly. “Any last minute instructions Mr. Donovan has for me will have to wait until I arrive at Twin Pines.”

  There was a flicker of surprise in the dark eyes, and Walters looked at her with new interest. “That's why I'm here,” he said coolly. “Mr. Donovan didn't care for the idea of your driving yourself. I'm to personally escort you and the child to the complex.”

  “That won't be necessary. I can drive myself perfectly well,” Brenna said between her teeth.

  Walters closed the door behind him firmly. “It may not be necessary for you, Miss Sloan,” he said dryly. “But it's of the utmost necessity to me, if I want to keep my job.” He looked around appraisingly. “Now I suggest that we get moving. If you'll supply me with the names and telephone numbers of people you want to advise of your departure, I'll attend to that, while you look after your child.” He flinched as Randy emitted another piercing howl.

  “He's hungry,” Brenna said defensively, as she moved toward the playpen.

  “Then I suggest you feed him,” Monty Walters said bluntly. “But first give me those phone numbers.”

  Without knowing quite why she was giving in to this aggressive young man, Brenna found herself meekly supplying him with the necessary information. Then she picked up Randy and headed for the tiny kitchenette, where she prepared his usual oatmeal, bacon, and orange juice. Once fed, he regained his sunny disposition, and permitted her to put him back in his playpen with a toy. She swiftly washed and dried the dishes and tidied up the kitchen, then went back to the bedroom to resume her packing.

  When she came out of the bedroom, Walters had already disassembled the portable playpen and high chair and set them neatly by the door, and Randy was sitting on the couch playing with a chain of fascinating colored keys. Monty Walters was standing before the window, his eyes narrowed appraisingly.

  “Stained glass,” he said, admiring the rich violet and blue of the floral design. “Quite lovely and unexpected. Your work?”

  Brenna nodded, thawing a bit at his admiration. She was very proud of that window. “It seemed appropriate,” she said, making a face. “You've probably noticed this neighborhood is not high on aesthetic views.”

  “So you made your own,” he observed, looking around the room with new interest. Cream walls provided a classic frame for the window. The furniture was in neutral shades and far from new, and the glowing beauty of the hardwood floor was accented by several brightly colored throw rugs.

  “You've done a lot with it,” he said thoughtfully, his eyes returning to the window, which was the focal point of the room. “An unusual hobby,” he commented.

  “It's becoming increasingly popular,” she said quietly. “I learned it at school.” The children's home had been convinced that idle hands bred mischief and the children had been offered arts and crafts classes of all descriptions.

  “I've always thought a person's home reflected a great deal of their personality,” Walters said quietly, turning his gaze to regard Brenna soberly. “I like your home, Miss Sloan. I have a hunch you're not just another pretty face.”

  “If that's a compliment, I thank you, kind sir,” she said lightly. “I'm sure you're not just a pretty face, either.”

  He smiled ruefully. “Did I sound chauvinistic?” he said, shaking his head. “I haven't made a very good impression on you, have I? I guess my pride was a bit hurt at being used as a glorified chauffeur, and I took it out on you.” His smile widened appealingly. “Shall we start over?”

  Brenna answered his smile with a warm one of her own. “I think we'd better. It's a long way to the Oregon border.” She made a face. “No one would have voted me Miss Congeniality this morning either.”

  “You're right there,” he said impudently, dark eyes twinkling. “Now shall we hit the road, before I manage to alienate you completely?”

  Together they packed the Lincoln Continental to its spacious limits. When Brenna had objected to leaving her own car in Los Angeles, Monty had countered that the trip would be much more comfortable in the Lincoln, and Donovan had already arranged for her car to be picked up in a few days. There could be no argument about the drive being more comfortable, she admitted to herself, when they were on their way. The car was the height of luxury. She stroked the wine velvet upholstery of the seat with almost sensual pleasure.

  “It's a lovely car,” she commented. “Does it belong to Mr. Donovan?”

  Monty Walters shook his head with a grin, as he maneuvered the big silver car onto the freeway. “It's mine,” he admitted. “I have a vulgar passion for ostentatious cars, but I haven't dared to indulge it until recently.”

  “Money?” Brenna asked. This car must have cost a small fortune. Though Michael Donovan was reputed to pay his employees very well, she found it unlikely that even the most generous salary would provide a luxury of this magnitude.

  “In a manner of speaking.” He gave her a sheepish grin. “You see I'm stinking rich.”

  Her mouth quirked at the boyish awkwardness of this revelation. “I'm afraid I don't see your problem,” she said solemnly. “Why couldn't you have a car like this, if you could afford it?”

  “I didn't want to remind Donovan that I was wealthy, so I've been driving a '75 Volkswagon for the past two years,” he said simply. “It's only lately that I've felt confident enough to risk the Lincoln.”

  Brenna stared at him in amazement. “Do you mean Michael Donovan would have objected to you buying the car of your choice with your own money?” she asked indignantly. That an aggressive, confident man like Monty could be so intimidated was truly incredible.

  “Hell, no!” he said explosively. “But after working like the devil to get this job, I thought I'd better play it low key. He knew my background when he hired me and he was dubious, to say the least, about my willingness to stick to the kind of work schedule he demanded of his employees.” His mouth twisted wryly. “I soon understood why. Simon Legree has nothing on Michael Donovan.”

  “Yet, you're still with him,” Brenna observed.

  “I guess I'm just a masochist,” Walters said lightly. Reaching out he touched a button, and taped music flooded the car with the mellow strains of a Ba
rry Manilow hit. Brenna leaned back and relaxed on the plush velvet seats, letting the strain of the last few hours flow out of her.

  In the next several hours Brenna found Monty Walters to be amazingly companionable. He was quick-witted and energetic, with a wry sense of humor that was almost puckish. By the time they had shared lunch, dinner, and almost eight hours of desultory conversation, she felt as if they were old friends.

  It was nearing twilight when they crossed the Oregon border, and a brief twenty minutes later they reached Twin Pines.

  She didn't know what she had expected of Donovan's Twin Pines complex. Perhaps in the back of her mind had been the idea that it would be the usual movie studio lot like Paramount or Universal. She should have known better.

  Twin Pines was as unique as the man who had created it. Located at the edge of a small Oregon lumber town, it looked more like a country club than a movie studio, with low modernistic buildings in redwood and glass, wide streets, and several tree-shaded park areas furnished with picnic tables and benches.

  “Impressed?” Walters asked, arching his eyebrows quizzically, as she turned back to him from her eager perusal of the passing scene.

  “Who wouldn't be?” she asked dryly. “It's perfectly charming, but not exactly what you'd expect of Michael Donovan.”

  “On the contrary, it's exactly what you'd expect of him,” Walters said briskly. “He's gathered the most gifted and skilled people in the industry here at Twin Pines. People that usually work freelance have been formed into a sort of repertory group. When they're working, he drives them unmercifully. It's just good sense to provide them with the most pleasant surroundings possible to enjoy in their free time.”

  “You admire him very much, don't you?” Brenna asked curiously.

  “You're damn right I do,” he replied unequivocally. “There are a few men in every generation who combine creative genius with irresistible drive. When you find one, if you're smart, you grab hold of his coattails and let him carry you to the top.”

  “I wouldn't have thought you'd be interested in a free ride,” Brenna said thoughtfully.

  Walters snorted derisively. “There's nothing free about it. Donovan extracts the last ounce of effort from the people around him. You give until you have nothing else to give. Then, somehow, you find he has expanded your limits, so that there is a whole new reservoir for him to tap.” His dark eyes were reflective. “He's a complete workaholic, a nit-picking perfectionist, and a totally ruthless exploiter of the talents of his employees,” he continued, almost beneath his breath. “But, by God, it's worth it!”

  “You don't paint a very comforting picture of my new boss,” Brenna said wryly.

  “I didn't mean to,” Walters said bluntly. “If you need a security blanket, you have no business around Donovan. He'll tear you to pieces.”

  “I can believe that,” she said with a shrug, remembering Donovan's steamroller tactics in her own case. “Well, I can always leave if I find him too impossible,” she said lightly.

  He shot her an appraising glance. “I wouldn't count on that,” he said coolly. “I have an idea that Donovan has plans for you. And Donovan always gets what he wants.”

  “Plans?” Brenna asked blankly. She shook her head. “I have a small supporting role in one of his pictures. I'm not important in his scheme of things. What plans could he possibly have for me?”

  “Who knows?” Monty said, with a shrug. “Maybe he sees you as the next Sarah Bernhardt.” He grinned boyishly. “Whatever it is, you're being given very special treatment, Brenna Sloan. I'll have you know, I'm a very important cog in Donovan's organization,” he said with mock conceit. “It's not an ordinary occurrence for me to be ordered to act as chauffeur to an unknown actress. I must admit that my ego was very badly dented when he gave me my instructions.”

  She smiled in amusement. “I hate to disillusion you, but I'm afraid your original supposition was correct.”

  He slanted her an oblique smile. “We'll see,” he said composedly.

  He pulled into a circular driveway that led to a long two-story building, which, like the other buildings in the complex, was constructed of redwood, stone, and glass.

  “Employee's quarters,” Monty said briskly, in answer to her inquiring look. “You'll find your accommodations are part of your fringe benefits. You're provided with a small apartment at Donovan's expense. The units also supply maid service at your own expense. There's a cafeteria in each residence hall that is open twenty-four hours a day.” He grimaced. “They have to be. There are times when we work around the clock to meet the demands of our lord and master.”

  He pulled to a smooth stop before the front entrance, jumped out, and came around the car with the characteristic energy she was beginning to associate with him.

  A husky, sandy-haired teenager in a plaid shirt and jeans came hurrying out the front entrance, and opened the passenger door quickly.

  “Good to see you back, Mr. Walters,” he said respectfully.

  “Thanks, Johnny,” Walters said easily, as he helped Brenna from the car.

  “This is Johnny Smith, Brenna. He's a sort of jack-of-all-trades. If you need something, ask Johnny.”

  Brenna smiled warmly at the boy and he smiled back. “You bet,” he said cheerfully. “I'll take good care of you, miss.”

  “Thank you, Johnny,” she said quietly.

  Monty Walters opened the rear door, and lifted a sleeping Randy out with the utmost care to avoid waking him. He tossed the trunk keys to the boy. “Bring in Miss Sloan's luggage, will you, Johnny?”

  Walters escorted her into the bright, cheerful lobby, and paused before the reception desk. A pert, dark-haired girl looked up with a smile that took on a flattering obsequiousness as soon as she recognized Walters.

  “Paula Drummond, Brenna,” Walters said briskly. “This is Brenna Sloan, Paula. I understand Mr. Donovan's secretary was to contact you with regard to the arrangements.”

  The dark-haired girl shook her head. “Mr. Donovan called himself,” she said solemnly. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Sloan. We have everything arranged just as Mr. Donovan instructed.” She picked up the phone and punched several buttons rapidly. “Doris, Miss Sloan is here. Would you come down right away?” She turned to Brenna and Walters, a bright smile on her face. “We've given you one of the guest cottages. I hope you'll be very comfortable there. If there's anything else you need, just call me.”

  “Thank you. I'm sure everything will be fine,” Brenna said awkwardly, a little uneasy over the effusiveness of the receptionist.

  “A guest cottage?” Monty asked thoughtfully, with a low whistle. “That's really royal treatment, Brenna. Cottages are reserved for stars and visiting VIPs.”

  “Then there must be a mistake,” Brenna said firmly. “We both know that I'm neither.”

  “There's no mistake, Miss Sloan,” Paula Drummond spoke up quickly. “Mr. Donovan's instructions were very explicit.” She looked beyond Brenna to smile at the young woman who had just gotten off the elevator and was crossing the lobby toward them. “This is Doris Charles, Miss Sloan.”

  Doris Charles was a woman in her middle twenties with short curly red hair and rather plain features that were illuminated by a warm smile. She held out a strong square hand and shook Brenna's hand vigorously. “I'm very happy to meet you, Miss Sloan.” She turned immediately toward Walters, who was still holding Randy, and said briskly. “I'll take him.” She held out her arms, and Walters obediently put the child into them. Brenna stared in bewilderment as the red-haired woman cuddled the child expertly, her face softening as she looked down at him. “What a little darling he is,” she said softly. “His name's Randy, I believe?”

  “That's right,” Brenna said, confused. “But who are you?”

  Doris Charles looked up at her, a small frown creasing her forehead. “I'm your son's nurse. Mr. Donovan flew me up from Los Angeles to care for Randy.” she said calmly. “I believe you'll find I have the highest qualifica
tions.”

  “I'm sure you have,” Brenna said tiredly, her head whirling. “But I don't need a nurse, Miss Charles. I take care of Randy myself.”

  Johnny Smith came into the lobby laden with suitcases that he put down in front of the desk.

  “Don't be too hasty, Brenna,” Walters said easily. “You'll need someone to care for Randy while you're working. Miss Charles is well qualified to do just that.”

  Brenna nodded slowly at the logic of Monty's reasoning. “You're right, Monty,” she admitted, and smiled at Doris Charles. The red-haired woman seemed to be loving as well as efficient. “I'll be glad to have your help with Randy, Miss Charles,” she said warmly.

  “Doris,” the nurse said briefly, grinning back at her. “I'll take the greatest care of your son, Miss Sloan,” she promised.

  Paula Drummond cleared her throat gently, and said tentatively. “Now, if you'll tell me which of these bags are your personal possessions, Miss Sloan, I'll have Johnny take them to the cottage. He can come back and take the baby's things to Miss Charles' apartment later.”

  “What are you talking about?” Brenna asked blankly. “Everything goes to the cottage. Randy is staying with me.”

  Paula Drummond shook her head. “No, ma'm,” she said, “Mr. Donovan was quite definite on that point. Only you are to occupy the cottage. The baby is to remain at the residence hall with Miss Charles.”

  “I don't care how definite Mr. Donovan was on the subject,” Brenna said between her teeth. “I am not being separated from my baby.” The nerve of the man, she fumed. Casually disposing of her child like an unwanted parcel. “I don't care where you put me,” she went on grimly. “I don't need any fancy cottage, anywhere will do. But wherever it is, I want my child with me.”