Free Programmed for Peril by C. K. Cambray Page B

Operating the store required sales personnel accustomed to customers whose bankrolls allowed paying four or five figures to cover a woman’s back. Though such employees were essential, they needn’t be paid a great deal. Large discounts on their own clothing purchases and no grander career ambitions kept them loyal. What better place to work for a stylish woman with social-climbing expectations? What better occupation for Lois Smith-Patton, not long ago—and now very possibly still—Trish’s bitter rival?
    A hawk-faced woman of forty-five greeted Trish. Her amber eyes moved over the younger woman’s white jumpsuit like a laser scanner, trying to weigh her tastes and bank account. “I’d like to see Lois,” Trish said.
    “Of course, darling. She’s with a customer. You can wait in the lounge or go right down to casual wear.”
    She found Lois attending to a hefty dowager. At five-one she looked like a pilot fish servicing a shark. She was more sharklike in style than the moon-faced woman to whom she said, “The lines are so good for you, Philomena.”
    While Lois concluded the sale Trish looked around at the mouth-watering outfits. If ever her dream of marrying Foster came true, she would start buying here. But not from Lois, of course.
    When the small woman returned she saw Trish. Her round face rolled, and her violet eyes flashed. “I can’t believe you’d expect me to give you fashion advice!” she said. Lois had a high, thin voice that in moments of excitement rose to cut the ear like a metal saw. Trish had been responsible for a great many of those moments over the last year.
    “I’d like to talk to you, Lois,” she said. “Could you give me ten minutes?”
    Lois’s eyes hooded with distaste. “I wouldn’t give you ten seconds, Patricia Morley.”
    “It’s about you, me, Foster, and the wedding.”
    She frowned. “I don’t understand.”
    “I think I know what you’ve been doing. I’ve come here to warn you. If you don’t talk to me, you can talk to the police.”
    Lois’s head bobbed as though in agreement. “This figures. I told Foster all along that you were a disturbed person—”
    “Lois—”
    “So now, after you’ve wrecked my life, ruined everything, you finally crack. It figures!”
    Trish held her annoyance on a tight rein. Despite Lois’s distortions she wasn’t too far removed from the truth. She hadn’t yet completely gotten over California and Carson. There had been some rocky moments for her and Foster. Through them all Lois had played a host of mental tricks on her former lover, trying to get him to change his mind. She would never accept having lost him.
    Lois Smith-Patton had been raised in comfort among the moneyed, went south to college where she majored in social life and reached what at that time was her goal—marriage to a wealthy student. After six years the marriage fell apart for want of commitment and children. Instinctively she knew that for her there could be no other path through life than to marry money. Foster Palmer had been an old friend from her earlier world of cotillions, benefits, and opening nights. She put herself before him. To her great satisfaction and delight he took the initiative. She sailed under favorable winds toward the altar’s safe harbor. Then the ship of her secure future ran aground on Morley Shoals. When Trish and Foster’s engagement was announced at the end of January Lois had fled the city in shock for three weeks in the Caribbean. There, Trish imagined, she had resolved not to surrender Foster until his wedding day. Thus she conducted her guerrilla campaign of personal intrusions into his life. Because that approach wasn’t working, Trish was certain she had adopted stronger, more dangerous tactics.
    Her interest obviously piqued, Lois seemed ready to listen. As they walked to the exit of the store Trish confronted her. “I know what you’re trying to do, Lois. You’re trying to frighten me out of marrying