Suddenly You(66)

“I would like that very much,” Amanda said, and to her relief, she soon made the discovery that while she was in Charles Hartley’s solicitous company, she was able to put all thoughts of Jack Devlin from her mind.

Chapter 13

Making his last rounds of the day, Oscar Fretwell visited each floor of the building to check equipment and lock doors. He paused before Devlin’s office. A light was burning inside, and a peculiar scent emanated from behind the closed door…the pungent tang of smoke. Mildly alarmed, Fretwell knocked on the portal and shouldered his way inside. “Mr. Devlin—”

Fretwell stopped and regarded the man who was both employer and friend with barely concealed amazement. Devlin was seated at his desk, surrounded by the ever-present piles of documents and books, puffing methodically on a long cigar. A crystal plate loaded with burned-out stubs, and a handsome cedar box that was half filled with more cigars, attested to the fact that Devlin’s smoking had been going on for some time.

In an effort to compose his thoughts before speaking, Fretwell took the opportunity to remove his glasses and polish them with scrupulous care. When he replaced them, he gave Devlin a measuring stare. Although he rarely used Devlin’s first name, feeling it necessary to demonstrate his absolute respect for the man before his employees, he used it deliberately now. For one thing, everyone had gone home for the day. For another, Fretwell felt the need to reestablish the connection that had existed between them since boyhood.

“Jack,” he said quietly, “I didn’t know you had a taste for tobacco.”

“Today I do.” Devlin drew again on the cigar, his narrowed blue gaze fastening onto Fretwell’s face. “Go home, Fretwell. I don’t want to talk.”

Ignoring the muttered command, Fretwell wandered over to a window, unlocked the frame, and opened the panel to admit a cleansing breeze into the stuffy room. The dense blue haze that hung in the air began to disperse slowly. While Devlin’s sardonic gaze remained on him, Fretwell approached the desk, inspected the box of cigars, and drew one out. “May I?”

Devlin grunted his assent, picking up a glass of whiskey and downing it in two gulps. Extracting a tiny scissor-case from his own pocket, Fretwell tried to snip the capped end off the cigar, but the tough wrapping of leaves resisted his efforts. Diligently he continued to saw away at the cigar until Devlin snorted and reached for it. “Give me the damned thing.”

Producing a wickedly sharp knife from his desk drawer, Devlin made a deep circular cut around the cap, removing the ragged edge left by the scissors. He handed Fretwell the cigar and a matchbox, and watched as he lit and drew on it until the tobacco produced an acrid, aromatic smoke that flowed smoothly.

Sitting in a nearby chair, Fretwell puffed in companionable silence while he contemplated what he could say to his friend. The truth was, Devlin looked like the very devil. The past few weeks of ruthless work and drinking and lack of sleep had finally taken their toll. Fretwell had never seen him in such a state before.

Devlin had never struck him as a particularly happy sort of man, seeming to view life as a battle to be won rather than something he should find a measure of enjoyment in, and given his past, no one could blame him. But Devlin had always seemed invincible. As long as his business concerns were succeeding, he was charmingly arrogant, nonchalant, reacting to good news and bad with sardonic humor and a steady head.

Now, however, it was clear that something was bothering Devlin, something that mattered to him very much. The mantle of invincibility had been stripped away, leaving behind a man who was so bedeviled that he could not seem to find refuge.

Fretwell had no difficulty in discerning when the trouble had begun—at the first meeting between Jack Devlin and Miss Amanda Briars. “Jack,” he said cautiously, “it is obvious that you have been somewhat preoccupied of late. I don’t suppose there is anything—or anyone—that you would care to discuss—”

“No.” Devlin dragged a hand through his black hair, disheveling the thick locks, tugging absently at the front forelock

“Well, there is something I would like to bring to your attention.” Fretwell puffed thoughtfully on his cigar before continuing. “It seems that two of our writers have begun…I’m not certain what to call it…an involvement of some kind.”

“Really.” Devlin arched a black brow.

“And since you always like to be informed of any significant personal developments concerning your authors, I think you should be made aware of the rumors. It seems that Miss Briars and Mr. Charles Hartley have been seen together quite often of late. Once at the theater, a few times driving in the park, and at various social events—”

“I know,” Devlin interrupted sourly.

“Forgive me, but I thought that at one time you and Miss Briars—”

“You’re turning into an interfering old biddy, Oscar. You need to find a woman for yourself and stop worrying about other people’s private affairs.”

“I have a woman,” Fretwell replied with extreme dignity. “And I don’t choose to interfere in your private life, or even comment about it, unless it begins to affect your work. Since I own a share of this business, albeit a small one, I have a right to be concerned. If you drive yourself into a decline, every employee at Devlin’s will suffer. Including myself.”

Jack scowled and sighed, crushing out the stub of his cigar on the crystal plate. “Dammit, Oscar,” he said wearily. Only his manager and longtime friend would dare to press him this way. “Since it’s clear that you won’t leave me the hell alone until I answer…yes, I’ll admit that at one time I had an interest in Miss Briars.”