Crazy about Cameron: The Winslow Brothers #3(4)

She shrugged defensively, catching her reflection in the glass of her windows, which looked out onto the darkness of Rittenhouse Square. Tugging the pins from her chignon, she loosened her thick, long, wavy hair, and it unwound, falling effortlessly around her shoulders. Unbuttoning the top two buttons of her simple white silk blouse, she tossed her hair a little, the crisp white and dark brown a sharp contrast. She took off her glasses and placed them on the coffee table, then stared at herself carefully. And yes, she looked younger and sexier and more approachable like this. But she also looked less polished and professional, and that simply didn’t cut it in her father’s world.

As if on cue, her phone started buzzing.

“Hello?”

“The Gallo-Fishtail Import numbers,” he barked without preamble.

“On your desk, Father.”

“I’m quite sure I asked for them to be e-mailed to me.”

And Margaret was quite sure he hadn’t because when Douglas Johnston Story gave a command, Margaret listened.

That said, arguing was futile.

“Father, I can send them over to you—”

“It’s too late,” he snapped. Then, under his breath, “Why one of you couldn’t have been born a boy . . .”

She winced but didn’t acknowledge the familiar refrain that had become more overt since her mother’s passing several years ago. “Really, I can forward them now, or—”

“I’m leaving the office now. You’ve wasted hours of my time tonight already, Margaret. Just have them e-mailed to me by eight tomorrow.”

“Yes, Father.”

“You don’t get ahead by making mistakes, Margaret.”

“No, Father.”

“Take young Shane, for example. Flawless record here at Story Imports. Flawless. Why, he’s just about the son I never—ahem, I just mean, how are things going between you kids?”

His voice had changed slightly from angry and businesslike to politely conversational, and Margaret, who craved any warmth from her father, her only living parent, leaned into it.

“He’s very nice, Father.”

“He’s quite the go-getter. I like him, Margaret Anne. I like him just fine.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You should, uh, you and Shane should come to dinner on Saturday night. In Haverford. Let’s show him the place again, eh? Show him Forrester. Show him his future.”

“Father, I—”

“Now, Margaret, your older sister was a terrible disappointment to me, and her behavior would have shamed your dear mother to no end. A downright embarrassment, if you want to know the truth. After what we spent on her education, she had every possible opportunity at Story, but she couldn’t cut the mustard. Now, you’re next in line and it’s your duty, girl—your responsibility—to marry an appropriate man and continue the Story line. We need a strong young buck to take over some day while you’re home with the little ones. And young Shane seems like just the ticket. Yes, he does.”

Margaret cringed as she reached for her glass, unable to answer her father. The words in her head boiled with the power of her fury, but if she let them loose, she feared, she’d alienate the person whose affection and approval she’d coveted for most of her life. Taking a long sip of wine, she swallowed past the lump in her throat and forced herself to be silent.

“Margaret?”

“Yes, sir,” she somehow managed. “I understand.”

“Dinner on Saturday, then?”

“I’ll speak to Shane tomorrow and ask if he’s free.”

“Of course he’s free for dinner with the boss!”

And there it was: the implication that she was totally irrelevant. It stung so badly, she had to work to keep her voice from breaking as she responded.

“Then I guess I’ll see you then,” she said, her heart heavy and feelings bruised.

Without another word, the line went dead, an indication that her father had gotten what he wanted and further conversation wasn’t required.

Tossing her phone to the far side of the couch, she blinked her eyes, embarrassed by the tears that burned there. It was no secret that Douglas Story had hoped for a son. That’s why he’d had so many children, only stopping when unlucky number five—Margaret’s youngest sister, Jane—had turned out to be another unwanted girl. Truthfully, though, he might have kept going if Margaret’s mother, Ellen, hadn’t hemorrhaged during the delivery, almost losing her life. Subsequent children simply weren’t an option, and since Douglas Story didn’t believe in divorce, he’d had to live with his great disappointment.

Alice, Margaret’s older sister, had refused to knuckle under and take an indefinite administrative position at Story Imports. After five years of paying her dues while the men around her received promotions, Alice, the daughter of the owner and founder, had expected a vice presidency. When their father passed over Alice and promoted the son of one of his golf buddies last summer, she quit with flaming colors, à la Jerry Maguire, standing on a desk and asking who at Story Imports valued their dignity and would like to work at a company where they would be appreciated. Only one person—Carlos Vega, the mail room coordinator—had answered her call, leaving his mesh cart abandoned and crossing the room to stand beside her.