Free A Lyon's Share by Janet Dailey

mass of tears. "Don't you, Mr. Lyon?" she challenged. The furnace had kicked on, sending warm draughts of air shooting through the room. "You hired me because I was efficient, practical and not subject to panic at the unforeseen. Are you about to fire me for the same reasons?"
    She almost wished he would. In fact she prayed that he would, so she wouldn't have to face him day after day, remembering always those moments when he had made love to her.
    "No, Miss Somers." There was sarcastic inflection on the impersonal term of address as Brandt remained turned away from her. "I am not going to fire you."
    The moment of immobility had passed and his long strides ate up the distance between himself and the connecting door. Joan intuitively knew he was ending the conversation to assume his former sleeping place in the chair in her office. The bitter forces of revenge made her lash out at him one more time.
    "Would you turn off the light when you leave? I want to get some sleep." It was a request that bordered on a command.
    Brandt halted stiffly by the door before reaching out to viciously flick off the light switch. Then the door was jerked open and he was in her office, violently slamming the door behind him.
    Darkness enveloped the room. Joan wanted to curl up in the black shroud and die. Instead she huddled deeper into her coat, letting the tears of misery, shame and heartbreak drench her face. The silent release could not assuage the terrible ache. Nothing could.
    Neither of them was truly to blame. Both had played an equal role for different reasons. Yet Brandt's cardinal rule had been broken. The line between his business and personal life had been crossed. The involvement of the two had occurred and it wouldn't be forgotten.
    Joan couldn't forget. She loved him. Foolishly, impractically, futilely, she loved him.
     

 
    Chapter Five
     
    THE clouds outside were grey, not the slate-grey that held snow, but the oyster-grey of high overcast. The wind had subsided to a baby's breath that sent the top snowflakes dancing and swirling over the drifts piled by the harsh north wind.
    The shimmering gold of Joan's long hair was subdued to a dull shade by its return to the severe bun at the nape of her neck. Her glasses were set primly on the bridge of her nose, more to conceal the telltale redness of tears and the blue shadows of sleeplessness than to improve her vision.
    A soapy wash in warm water had restored much of her courage, but not a sufficient amount to allow her to meet Brandt's face squarely when she walked into her office from the outer corridor. Fortunately she didn't have to as his gaze flicked briefly over her with blue remoteness.
    "The snowploughs are out clearing the streets," Brandt told her, shrugging into his heavy sheepskin jacket. "I'm going to shovel the car free."
    An acknowledgement of some type seemed necessary, so Joan issued a crisp "All right." As she walked towards her desk, he walked into the hallway.
    Only yesterday morning, Brandt had thoughtfully provided breakfast and persuaded her to leave her hair down and curling about her shoulders. His teasing cajolery and attentiveness were gone and Joan wanted to cry at the loss. But tears wouldn't ease the desolation, as had been proved last night. The fault was hers. She should not have let his virile masculinity swamp her common sense. She had known of her feelings towards him and should have guarded more completely against him, but his warm, friendly attitude had melted her defenses.
    Brandt had said he wasn't going to fire her. But wouldn't it be best for her to hand in her resignation? Or would it be construed as an admission on her part that what had happened had gone deeper than what she had led him to believe? The answer seemed to lie in whether she had the strength to meet him in the daily routine of the office without letting him discover the depth of her emotion. After a few months, she could resign in favor of a better job offer somewhere. It