To Dream Again Read online

  He picked up another of the sandwiches, took a bite, and glanced at her. "Mmm. Delicious. Rare roast beef, fresh bread, plenty of mustard. Are you certain you won't have one?"

  Mara stared at the sandwich in his hands and wavered, good manners and pride wrestling with hunger. Then, before she could stop herself, she reached for the sandwich and took a bite. It tasted so good, she almost groaned. She felt him watching her and looked up.

  "Good, aren't they?" Without waiting for a reply, he turned his attention to the open ledger on the desk. "What are you working on?"

  "August budget," she answered, grateful for the change of subject. "Halfway through the month, I do a budget for the following month. Once that's done, I can order materials and do a production schedule for the employees."

  Nathaniel nodded and waved a hand in the air as he swallowed the bite of roast beef. "Eating and talking about employees reminds me of something. I have an idea."

  Mara wasn't certain she liked the sound of that. "What?"

  He grinned down at her, amused by the wariness in her voice. "Don't worry, Mara," he said. "This isn't anything revolutionary. I just wondered about the first floor—you know, the one we use for storage. We don't really need it for that." He licked a dab of mustard from his finger and went on, "What about letting people use that floor for their lunch break?"

  She didn't bother to correct him on the proper use of her name. Instead, she considered his suggestion. "That's a good idea," she admitted.

  "You don't have to sound so surprised," he said, laughing. "I do occasionally have them."

  His laughter was infectious, and Mara found herself enjoying the sound of it. "The tables and chairs we can leave up there," she said, "but what about the other stuff? We could move it to the second floor, I suppose."

  "No, we'll leave it. There's enough room. I want to use the second floor as my office." He looked at her. "That is, if you have no objection?"

  She thought it over. "Why should I object? We don't use it for anything else. But it's awfully large for an office, isn't it?"

  "I want my laboratory up there as well. I have a lot of equipment. I was thinking that perhaps you might want to move your office up there, too."

  Mara froze, the sandwich poised halfway to her lips. The second floor was too far from an exit and too far above the ground to jump. If there were a fire, she'd be trapped up there. "No."

  "Wait. Hear me out."

  "I will not have my office up there," she said firmly. "I like my office just where it is."

  "But if your office is down here and mine is up there, it will make it very hard for us to work together." His eyes held a teasing gleam as he looked down at her. "You'd have no idea what I'm doing. I could find myself in all sorts of trouble if you're not up there to keep an eye on me."

  "Why can't your office be down here? There's another empty room across the corridor."

  "That tiny cubbyhole? No, thank you.”

  "I'm not moving my office," she repeated. As he studied her rigid expression, she hastily invented an excuse. "That room upstairs is so far away from things down here. What if I'm needed on the production floor?"

  He considered her words for a moment, then he asked a totally unexpected question. "Do you enjoy supervising the employees?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Just what I said. Do you enjoy doing it?"

  She stared at him in bewilderment. "What difference does it make whether or not I enjoy it? I have to do it."

  "Why?"

  "If I don't, who will?"

  "Michael," he answered and picked up another sandwich. "He's perfectly capable, and he's been a foreman before. I think we ought to let him do it."

  Mara's sandwich suddenly tasted like cardboard, and she pushed it aside. He'd already taken everything else away from her. Control of the company, respect of the employees. Why not take away her responsibilities as well? All her defenses came up. "Why? Because I wouldn't be a good supervisor after that stunt you pulled this morning? Did you enjoy making a fool of me?"

  "No." Nathaniel set down his sandwich and turned to face her, resting his forearm on his knee. "I didn't intend to humiliate you. But it was my first day in charge, and you were dressing me down in front of everyone." He lifted a hand to halt her protest. "Yes, you were. This morning has nothing to do with my suggestion anyway. I just think it would be a good idea."

  "And what would I do all day?" she asked. "Sip tea and eat crumpets?"

  He ignored the sarcasm. "I feel this idea has some advantages."

  "What about Saturdays? Mr. Lowenstein is Jewish, and this factory is open Saturdays until noon. Who'll act as supervisor when he isn't here?"

  "I will. Or you will. What difference does it make?" He sighed, seeing the stubborn set of her jaw. "Mara, I said I was sorry about this morning. I won't say it again. Do we have to fight about everything?"

  She didn't want to fight. One day of battling with him had worn her out. Besides, she couldn't possibly win. "What are the advantages?"

  "Right now, you spend most of your day handling problems on the floor. As it is, you don't even begin work on the books until after six o'clock. If we made Michael the supervisor, you'd be able to spend more time on the financial end of things. You might even be able to go home at a decent hour."

  Home? To her tiny flat with its cracked plaster and rickety furniture? She didn't want to go home at a decent hour. There was nothing to do there but watch the clock tick.

  She said nothing, and he went on, "You aren't able to do any future planning. You aren't able to go out and see what's happening, see what competitors are doing, or call on customers. The owners of a business shouldn't have to spend all their time worrying about routine operations."

  She swallowed hard, not wanting to consider that he might be right.

  "Why are we even discussing this?" she asked as she rose to her feet. She closed the ledger and shoved it aside, then walked around the desk and headed for the door, wanting only to escape. She grabbed her bonnet from its hook by the door. "If I say no, you'll put Mr. Lowenstein in charge anyway." Then she walked out of the office.

  Nathaniel slid off the desk and followed her.

  At the front door, she whirled around to face him. "Why are you following me home?"

  "I live there, too. Remember?"

  With an exasperated sigh, she turned and walked out of the building, with him still right behind her. She locked the door and walked quickly toward the lodging house, trying to ignore him, but he took the curb side and matched her hurried steps with his long, easy stride. When he spoke again, she began to realize Nathaniel Chase was not a man easily ignored.

  "I have another request."

  She halted on the sidewalk and looked up at him. The light of the street lamp caught his unruly hair, emphasizing the rakish, windblown look of him.

  "What do you want?"

  "It's what I don't want." He shoved his hands in the pockets of his trousers and looked down at her, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth. "I don't want you walking home alone after dark."

  "Why not? I do it every day."

  He glanced around. "As I reminded you when we first met, this is not a very nice neighborhood. It's not safe at night."

  She could hardly believe he was concerned for her well-being after his callous treatment earlier in the day, but something in his voice told her that he was. Mara couldn't recall the last time a man, any man, had been concerned about her. A tiny flicker of warmth spread through her, making her feel flustered and a little breathless. "It's only just next door."

  "I don't care. From now on, if you intend to work late, let me know and I'll walk you home."

  "I work late every night."

  "Then I'll walk you home every night."

  The man was invading her entire life. What she did and how she did it. Where she went and how she got there. Was it really concern, or was it just another way to dictate to her? Doubts crept in and defenses came up again.
"You needn't bother. I can take care of myself."

  "Really?" He studied her for a long moment, with those vivid eyes, so intense, so perceptive. "I wonder."

  "Why do you always look at me like that?" she asked, uncomfortable with the scrutiny, wanting to change the subject.

  He continued to study her, his eyes midnight blue in the dim light. "Like what?"

  "Like that. You don't just look. You stare."

  He stepped closer to her. "Does it make you nervous?"

  She took a step back, then another. He followed until her back hit the brick wall of the factory. A wild shot of panic raced through her as his arms came up, trapping her against the wall.

  "Does it make you nervous?" he repeated, leaning even closer, his breath warmer against her cheek than the sultry summer air.

  She ran her tongue over her suddenly dry lips, staring into his eyes, watching the direction of his gaze change, drop lower, to her mouth. Her heart began to pound like a trip-hammer. "Stop it," she muttered, cognizant of sudden danger. The realization made her weak and dizzy. "You've made your point."

  He immediately straightened and lowered his arms to his sides, freeing her. "Good."

  She stepped around him, trying to regain control of her rapid breathing as she walked hurriedly to the lodging house. She could hear his footsteps behind her as he followed her inside and up the stairs.

  At the door of her flat, he paused beside her, waiting as she unlocked the door and stepped inside. In the doorway, she whirled around to face him. "Why does it matter to you what I do and when I go home?" she demanded.

  "It matters," he said quietly. "There are many wonderful, extraordinary things in this world, Mara. But there are some ugly and dangerous things, too, things we can't always handle alone."

  She stepped into her flat, watching as he turned away and went up the stairs. Just before she closed the door, she heard his voice float down to her. "It helps to have friends."

  ***

  Charles didn't wait for the cab to come to a complete stop. In his agitation, he jumped down while it was still rolling and thrust a pound note into the hand of the driver. Not bothering to retrieve his change, he raced for the front steps of the new and quite luxurious Mayfair mansion, circling around the other carriages that crowded the forecourt. He ascended the steps and yanked the bell pull.

  Cursing slow-moving servants, Charles straightened his tie and brushed at his damp clothing, trying to regain some semblance of order as he waited.

  When the door opened, the butler took in his disheveled appearance and wet clothes with one raised eyebrow. "May I help you, Mr. Barrett?"

  Charles didn't waste time on explanations. "Where is Lord Leyland?"

  Lovett frowned in disapproval at the abrupt question. "My lord is entertaining guests this evening. They are presently at dinner."

  Charles hesitated, uncertain how to proceed. But the viscount had told him that he wanted to be informed of important news immediately. Taking a deep breath, he pulled off his hat and made a decision. "Interrupt him."

  "I cannot, sir!" The butler stared at him in horror. "This is Viscount Leyland's engagement dinner. Perhaps, afterward—"

  "This is important." Charles stepped around the other man.

  Lovett hesitated a moment, then gestured to the open doors at Charles's right. "Very well. You may wait in here."

  Charles nodded and turned to enter a small ante-chamber. He paced across the carpet as he waited for his employer, wishing he could banish the horrifying scene he'd witnessed from his mind.

  It seemed like an eternity before Charles heard the sound of footsteps on the polished parquet floor of the foyer. He jumped to his feet as Lord Leyland entered the room.

  "Mr. Barrett, I trust that the news you bring warrants this intrusion?"

  Charles swallowed hard and met the pale eyes of his employer. "I think so, sir. There's been an accident."

  "Indeed?" His lordship brushed a speck of lint from his black evening suit. "I'm listening."

  "A boiler explosion at the factory an hour ago. Sir, a man was killed."

  "Was there any damage?"

  "Sir?"

  "Was there any damage to the factory?" the viscount repeated with a hint of impatience.

  "The boiler was half-full and the water immediately extinguished the fire," Charles answered slowly, unable to believe a man could face the news of another man's death with such indifference. "There's some water damage, I imagine, but all in all, we were very lucky."

  "That's all?" Leyland's handsome face twisted with scorn. "You interrupted my engagement dinner to tell me this? Mr. Barrett, exactly what do you expect me to do about it at this moment?"

  Charles stared at him in astonishment. "I was under the impression that important news should be brought to you immediately, my lord. I thought you would want to see the damage. Talk to the man's family. I don't know."

  "You said the fire was put out before it caused any significant damage. So, what is there for me to see or do that cannot wait until tomorrow?"

  Charles wished his employer would offer him a drink. He needed one. "A man was killed."

  Leyland sighed. "That's unfortunate, but occasionally these things do happen, I'm afraid. Who was he, by the way?"

  "Robson. Samuel Robson."

  "A pity, but I'm sure we can find another foreman as skilled as Robson."

  Charles closed his eyes briefly and again saw Samuel lying lifeless on the floor, his body burned beyond recognition.

  "We'll need to replace the boiler, I assume?"

  Charles opened his eyes. "Yes," he answered in a choked whisper. "The boiler will have to be replaced."

  "Contact Lloyd's tomorrow. Our insurance should cover a new one."

  "My lord, the boilers are very old. All of them ought to be replaced. Another one could go at any time."

  "I doubt it." The viscount downed the last swallow of port in his glass and set the crystal goblet aside.

  "It's unsafe!"

  "You worry too much, Mr. Barrett. I plan to replace them next year. In the meantime, we will make do with the ones we have. That will be all."

  Charles pressed his lips together and departed. Insurance would cover the damage to the factory, but Charles doubted Mrs. Robson would find any comfort in that.

  Chapter Seven

  During the next two weeks, Mara tried to avoid Nathaniel Chase and continue with business as usual as if he wasn't even there. To her surprise, he didn't make Michael the supervisor, but let her remain in charge. Nonetheless, when she tried to circumvent his decisions, she found herself blocked at every turn. The workers made it clear that they knew Mr. Chase was the boss and that when his decisions conflicted with hers, it was his orders that had to be followed.

  After four years of being in control, that control was now gone, and it made her feel lost, afraid, and defensive. The more she tightened her grip, the more she saw control of the company slipping away.

  She never ran into Nathaniel on her way to work, for he was always late, seldom coming in before nine. But he followed her home every night and when he tried to discuss changes with her during the short walk, she ignored him with the cool words, "Do what you like. You will anyway."

  Nathaniel watched her enter her flat and shut the door in his face after repeating that statement for the third time in three minutes, and he sighed with frustration. He didn't want this. He wanted to make this partnership work. He knew she felt defensive and afraid of the changes, but there had to be a way to get past her defenses.

  He went up to his flat and played the violin, trying to find a solution, a way to make peace as he let a Bach concerto relax him. When he finally set the violin aside, he had an idea. He just hoped it was the right one.

  The next evening, after everyone had gone home and the factory was quiet, he went to her office. He knocked on her door, then opened it. "May I come in? I wish to talk with you."

  Mara set her pencil aside. "About what?"

 
; He stepped into her office and shut the door behind him. She noticed he had a flat, paper-wrapped package in his hand.

  "What's that?"

  He leaned his back against the door, and studied her for a long moment without replying. "It's a present for you," he finally said and walked to her desk. He placed it before her.

  She studied the package, wrapped in tissue paper and tied with blue ribbons. "For me?"

  He sat down in the opposite chair. "For you."

  She frowned suspiciously, wondering what he was up to. Memories flitted through her mind of James giving her gifts, as if frivolous silk dresses she never wore and bottles of cologne she didn't like could make up for abandonment and months alone, as if they could magically wash away pain and neglect, as if they could turn her warm and soft in bed when she'd long ago ceased to find pleasure there. Be nice to me, he'd coax in the darkness. She closed her eyes to blot it out.

  When she opened them, Nathaniel Chase was watching her.

  "Why?" she asked in a choked voice. "Why are you giving me a present?"

  He shrugged. "It's a Christmas present."

  "It's July," she pointed out.

  He smiled at her, that irresistible smile. "Well, at least I'm not late, for once."

  She tried, she tried hard, to resist that smile. Biting her lip to stop her answering one, she pushed the package toward him. "I don't think it would be appropriate."

  His smile widened, and he leaned forward to push the package back. "Perhaps not, but it's practical."

  Curious, she reached out and fingered the satin ribbon, letting it slide across the leather of her glove.

  "Open it," he urged.

  She hesitated, but curiosity got the better of her. She untied the bow, rolled the ribbon, and set it aside. Then she began to unwrap the package, careful not to tear the paper.

  "Don't be so slow," he urged, watching her. "Just rip it open."

  "But if I'm careful, the paper can be used again."