Once Upon A Mattress. Kathleen O'Reilly

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      “Oh, no. I’m fine. Got a lunch date with your mom on Wednesday. We need to put the house on the market.”

      What?

      Ben struggled for calm. No, for today, he would be productive, happy, at peace. According to his sister-inlaw, Dr. Tracy MacAllister—the Love Doctor—he should put his anger behind him. Not that he put much stock in her advice. You’d think she could have stopped her in-laws’ divorce if she wasn’t such a quack.

      Ben’s voice sounded completely normal when he asked why.

      “It’s too big for just your mother and I’m going to get a Winnebago.”

      Ben closed his eyes. The company had been in Dallas for eighty-three years. Three generations of MacAllisters and no telling how many mattresses had been passed through these walls. And now his father wanted to buy a motor home. “What about the company?”

      “I’ve got some ideas.”

      Ideas. Ben knew lots about ideas. Ideas were dangerous. Ben opened his eyes, but the pain still throbbed in his head. “What sort of ideas, Dad?”

      “Nothing for you to worry about. Imagine this instead. In a couple of years, we’ll be out shooting wild game in Africa together. Bang…bang.” Martin’s watch alarm sounded. “Whoops. Got a meeting with Hilary to go over a couple more details on the new line. Great lady. Lots of potential. See ya, son.” He stopped in the doorway. “And remember, if you need anything, just ask. We’re all here for you.” Then his father disappeared.

      Ben stared, wondering who the man was that had just left. Wild game in Africa? Hell, his father fainted at the sight of blood.

      He paced around his small office, hands locked behind his back. So what was he supposed to do? If his father thought he wasn’t capable of helping out, his father was wrong.

      No, he’d do this Director of Security thing, even if it killed him.

      It was only a first step, and not a big one at that. Time to return to the family. Not that anyone seemed to notice that he’d been missing, of course.

      Ben went back to the safety of his desk and popped two aspirin. Where to start?

      He took the folder from the top of his desk and read the computer printout of the staff’s Internet access reports. There seemed to be widespread page views of Playboy on the fourth floor, and there was some dating instruction viewage on the third floor. Ben laughed. He should check into that. It wasn’t like security at Fort Knox, but there just wasn’t a lot going on.

      The aspirin started kicking in, and he felt strong enough to tackle the more mundane part of the job. He tugged open his desk drawer and pulled out a book. Hacking Exposed: Network Security Secrets & Solutions.

      He opened the book to the first page. Chapter 1. Casing the Establishment.

      By page fifteen, he was ready for an afternoon nap. He locked his hands behind his head and eased back in his chair, studying the walls. Maybe he could patch up the spidery cracks that ran near the ceiling, then at least he’d have something to do.

      He’d worked for a roofer in St. Thomas one year. Item number four—one summer in the Caribbean. Check. Ah, that had been the perfect place. While hammering away at the flat roofs of the villas, he’d had a hard time looking away from the crystal blue waters that sparkled as far as the eye could see.

      Not like Dallas, where the five-day forecast this week was rain, rain, and more rain.

      He shouldn’t be daydreaming. He should check out that Internet site. He clicked on his mouse and pulled up the page.

      Top ten pickup lines. Ben started to laugh as he read.

      “Hey, baby, do you believe in love at first sight, or do you want me to walk in again?”

      Gag. Too clichéd. He could do better than that. He thought for a minute.

      “Do I have a chance in hell with you? Don’t tell me if I don’t because I just gotta try,” he said to himself.

      He never heard the person entering his office; he just had the feeling someone was behind him.

      Ben clicked on the word-processing icon, but it was too late. He looked behind him.

      Busted.

      By Hilary Sinclair.

      She smiled tightly, her lips curving in a smug manner.

      Ben was quick—threw himself into things right from the start—but when she looked at him as if he didn’t belong here, it really ticked him off. One thing about Miss Sinclair, she knew mattresses. One thing about Ben, he didn’t.

      To make matters worse, she wore this dark shade of lipstick that should have looked goth, but instead it looked inviting.

      “May I help you,” he asked, not thinking about her mouth.

      “Busy, Mr. MacAllister? Didn’t want to interrupt.”

      Ben started typing away in the word processor. “Clearing my train of thought. Humor is an excellent stimulus when your cerebral cortex is overutilized.”

      She pursed her midnight-dark mouth and her eyes narrowed. “Is that true?”

      “No.”

      Her green eyes narrowed even further. They were cat eyes, tilted at the corner, and now they were mere slits. “Your father asked that you help out with the travel arrangements for the team. I’ve put together everyone’s itineraries, and their airline requests.”

      Ben’s headache returned. Travel agent was not on his list of things to do.

      She tossed her long dark hair back from her face. She had the kind of hair that kinked in the wet weather, and now that he thought about it, it’d pretty much perpetually kinked since the first day she started at MacAllister Beds. That’s what ten days of solid rain did to hair.

      Why did he let her get under his skin? Ben’s emotional Richter scale was usually on low to very low, but she spiked the needle, both in a figurative and literal sense.

      Perhaps charm and a little bit of ignorance were in order. He could do both well. “Do we know what hotel to book?”

      “The show is at the Paris Las Vegas. We’ll do the press conference there, as well.”

      Ben jotted it down on his notepad. “Airline?”

      “Iberia.”

      He looked up. She didn’t crack a mandible muscle. Ben stood his ground. For a long time she stared him down. What she didn’t know was that he’d spent six months as a bouncer during his Stanford years. And that gave him the upper hand. Finally she broke. “That was a joke,” she mumbled.

      “Yes, I’m sure it was. Airline?”

      “Whatever’s cheapest. We’ll be flying out on Sunday evening, although Allen has asked for a Saturday flight СКАЧАТЬ