Beneath The Surface. Linda Turner

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      Striding over to his desk, she handed the slip to him. “J.N., whoever that is.”

      Sitting back in his chair, he studied the note and abruptly laughed. “It’s from John Nickels! We went to college together—he’s just moved back to town. He got a job with Barnes, Tucker, and Smith. He called me this morning to tell me he was going to stop by. Since he never showed up, I thought he’d changed his mind, but I guess he came by during lunch and slipped it under the door. Damn!”

      “You could call him,” she suggested. “The afternoon’s pretty booked, but you could fit him into your schedule around three. You have a meeting with Mr. Hawks at two-thirty, but he won’t stay long—he never does. And you don’t have another appointment until four. That’ll give you plenty of time to visit.”

      “It would if I could reach him,” her boss agreed. “But he hasn’t started work yet, and doesn’t have a cell phone.” When she lifted a brow in surprise, he said dryly, “You heard me. He doesn’t have one and doesn’t want one. You’ll have to meet John one of these days. He was born in the wrong century. He wouldn’t have a cell phone if you gave it to him.”

      His tone was almost envious, and with good reason. His own cell phone rang all the time and was more of a curse than a convenience. “Maybe you can catch him at home.”

      Martin smiled slightly. “He forgot to give me the number, but that’s okay. He’ll call back. He wants to buy my car.”

      “The Corvette? You’re selling your ’58 ’Vette? You can’t be serious! You love that car!”

      Grinning at her horrified tone, he shrugged. “Sonya says it’s time I grew up. She wants to get married, and she’s not going to be happy with anything less than a blowout.” Wadding up the note, he tossed it in the trash. “Big weddings don’t come cheap.”

      “But your ’Vette, Martin. Surely there’s must be another way.”

      “It’s just a car, Abby. I can get another one.”

      He could, but Abby knew it wouldn’t mean nearly the same thing. The Corvette had literally been in pieces when he’d bought it right after he graduated from college and got his first job. He’d spent the last ten years restoring it, and just about everyone in town knew it was his pride and joy. He drove it in parades and car shows and had pictures of it all over his Web site. How could he sell something he loved so much for a wedding?

      She almost asked him that, but she already knew the answer. He was a city councilman and always made an effort to keep up appearances. And his fiancée, Sonya, was just as bad as he was. She seemed to really enjoy being in the spotlight with him. Martin was right—she would want a fairy-tale wedding that would be splashed across the front pages of the paper and talked about for years.

      Abby wrinkled her nose at the thought. A very public, impersonal wedding was the last thing she would want herself, but then again, she wasn’t the one who was getting married. Changing the subject, she said, “You wanted me to remind you about the next city council meeting. The preliminary discussions about awarding the tax collection contract are scheduled to begin.”

      Straightening in his chair, he swore softly. “Damn. I forgot about that. Have we got anything in yet on the firms submitting bids?”

      “I’ve been collecting it for the last three weeks,” she said, and retrieved a thick file from one of the cabinets near the door. “Ben Coffman called again this morning while you were in a conference to see if you needed anything else. That’s the third time this week.”

      “I never did like Ben,” he said curtly. “He doesn’t know when to back off and give a man some space. If he calls again, tell him he’s going to lose any chance of getting my vote if he doesn’t quit harassing the hell out of me and my secretary.”

      Abby would never be so rude to anyone, and Martin knew it. She would politely take a message, then pass it on to him. What he did about it was his business. “He’s not the only one calling,” she pointed out. “It’s going to be a feeding frenzy until the August twenty-first deadline.”

      “I don’t care. No one should get rude.” His gray eyes hard with irritation, he growled, “The next time Ben calls, I’ll take care of him.”

      Abby could handle Ben, but Martin was the boss. “No problem,” she said easily, and turned back to her own office.

      “Oh, and if John Nickels phones, put him through immediately,” he called after her.

      The words were hardly out of his mouth before the phone rang again. Abby stepped to her desk and had to smile when she recognized Ben Coffman’s gruff voice. “Please hold, Mr. Coffman. I’ll put you right through.”

      With the door between her office and Martin’s open, she heard him mutter a curse at her words. Grinning, she stepped over and quietly shut it. She’d hardly returned to her filing when the phone rang again. Not surprisingly, the caller was from another firm that intended to make a bid to collect city taxes. She took a message, promised to relay it to Martin, then returned to her filing.

      The pattern of her afternoon was set, and later, she couldn’t have said how many times the phone rang. She finished filing, then printed out the address labels for the fund-raising-campaign letter, and began stuffing the envelopes. Considering how busy she was, she shouldn’t have had time to do anything but concentrate on her job. Instead, she found herself once again thinking of Logan.

      Troubled, she swore softly. “You have to stop doing this,” she muttered out loud as she added stamps to the letters. What did she know about Logan? He had a nice voice and appeared to be understanding. That was no reason to daydream about the man, for heaven’s sake! He was a reporter. For all she knew, he could be hard-nosed and pushy, and the type who didn’t take no for an answer. Was that the kind of man she wanted to date?

      “No!” she said grimly. She’d made mistakes in the past because she was lonely and wanted a man in her life. But she’d learned the hard way that there were worse things than being alone—such as getting mixed up with the wrong type of man. She was going to take it slow and easy this time and give herself a chance. She was a good person and she deserved the best. This time, she was going to get it.

      So why are you only talking to Logan St. John? an irritating voice in her head demanded. Why are you limiting yourself to just one man? The dating service gave you a list of five prospective dates. Call them. Then get another list and start the process all over again. That’s why you joined a dating service—to meet men! What are you waiting for?

      Her heart pounded at the thought. She had never dated or been involved with more than one man at a time. Not that she’d had the chance, she thought wryly. Few men had shown an interest in her. There had been months, even years, when she hadn’t had a single date. While she’d sat at home, dreaming of Prince Charming and hating her solitude, every other woman she knew was having a full, active social life, getting to know any number of men before settling down with one. Wasn’t it time she did the same thing?

      Captivated by the idea, Abby felt sudden, foolish tears sting her eyes and had to laugh at herself. “Silly, there’s no reason to cry. You can do this!” It wasn’t rocket science. All she had to do was gather her courage and make some phone calls after she got home from work. Maybe then she’d be too busy to think about Logan.

      Chapter 3

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