Unmasking Love: A Holiday for Romance Page 6

  “I asked if you thought you’d take the job.”

  “I’m going to accept as soon as I get to the bank on Monday. It’s a great opportunity for me, and I like what I’ve seen of Ashland.”

  Fred put up his hand for a fist bump. “All right! I’m stoked. Two of the three musketeers together again.”

  “One of the musketeers has to behave himself more appropriately than he did in college, or he’ll lose his job because the good citizens of Ashland won’t trust him with their money.” And he sure as hell better behave more appropriately than he did last night. For the same reason.

  “I’ll let you in on a secret. I have to behave responsibly, too, or my board would fire my ass. And Amber wouldn’t stick around if we got up to some of our college antics either.”

  Trace picked up something in his friend’s voice that made him ask, “You want her to stick around?”

  “Yeah. I think this one’s a keeper. The keeper.”

  It was Trace’s turn to initiate the fist bump. “Let me know when to arm wrestle Kev for the honor of being best man.”

  “If you’re in town, you’ll be the first to know.”

  The waiter had almost reached the table with their lattes, when a tall woman wearing jeans and a baseball cap bumped into him, causing him to dump both cups of hot coffee into Trace’s lap.

  “Oh, shit,” Trace yelled as the hot liquid hit a particularly sensitive part of his anatomy. “Watch where you’re going, will you?”

  She had her hand over her mouth in an expression of horror. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean …”

  The waiter was busy mopping up the floor and, from furtive glances at Trace’s crotch, trying to figure out how to sop up the coffee there without embarrassing either of them. Fred jumped up to get more napkins.

  Trace looked at the woman, who seemed to be both genuinely sorry and positively humiliated. “It was an accident. It’s okay. Next time, maybe taking your sunglasses off while you’re inside …?”

  Still not removing the glasses, she wiped under one lens as if to rub her eye—or brush away a tear. “I apologize. Again. Your breakfast is on me. I’ll leave money with the cashier.”

  Before he could say anything else, the woman turned, went to the front counter, handed a wad of money to the man working there, and ran out the door.

  Fred returned with the napkins, which he handed to Trace. “Well, that’s one way to get our breakfast paid for, I guess.”

  Busy blotting the coffee from his lap, Trace didn’t realize his friend was still standing, looking toward the door. When he finally registered his friend wasn’t paying attention to what was going on at the table, Trace asked, “Now you’re off in the ozone someplace. What’s going on?”

  “I’m wondering who that was. She looks sorta familiar but not really, know what I mean? Like I should know her, but can’t put my finger on it.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ll pass on getting to know her any better if that means more hot coffee in my lap.”

  “She had a nice body,” Fred said.

  “I didn’t notice. I was too busy having mine scalded.”

  Fred finally sat down, a smirk on his face. “Put you out of action for a while, did she?”

  No, Trace almost said. What will put me out of action until I find her again was last night with a beautiful raven-haired Juliet who looks like a saint and makes love like a sinner. “Fortunately, I’m wearing jeans, which gave me a bit more protection than that costume you made me wear last night. If she’d dumped two lattes on me when I was wearing those tights, I’d have to give up on any plans to be a father some day.”

  • • •

  Julie walked away from Brothers’ as if the hounds of hell were after her. Speed-walking barely began to describe the pace at which she was putting distance between herself and the scene at the restaurant.

  The guy she’d spilled coffee on was right. She should have taken off her sunglasses. But she hadn’t wanted anyone to see her tired, swollen eyes. She had a reputation as a reliable attorney to maintain, after all. All she’d been doing when she’d run into the waiter was looking around to see if there was anyone she recognized. Anyone who might have seen her the night before on the sidewalk, following a perfect stranger off to his motel room.

  And, oh, God, was he perfect when they got there.

  She had to stop thinking about it. And she had to get some food in her stomach. She was still hungry and still not interested in cooking. Greenleaf was open for breakfast. She’d go there. Then she’d go home and take a nap. That should help, too.

  Food. Sleep. Not thinking about Romeo. That would take care of her problems. At least for the moment.

  Chapter 7

  Trace tried to forget the mysterious Juliet he’d bedded on Halloween, but he couldn’t. Over the next few weeks, even while he was caught up in the details of closing out his work and personal life in Portland, he was unable to get her out of his mind. He’d wanted the job in Ashland for several reasons before their encounter, but now, close to the top of the list of reasons for moving there was the chance to find her again.

  Of course, he had no idea where to start. He supposed he could go around Ashland asking all the dark-haired women to show him their shoulders so he could look for her tattoo. Or he could kiss them all and see which one sent his senses reeling. But neither action was guaranteed to find him his Juliet, and both would likely earn him a restraining order and lose him his new job.

  Desperate, he took the mask she’d left in his room to the Nordstrom perfume counter and asked if they could identify her scent. Why he thought knowing the name of her perfume would help, he wasn’t sure. But he did. Unfortunately, the usually helpful sales associate failed to precisely identify it. She did manage to give him more information than he ever thought possible on Oriental, amber-based perfumes, which she said was what it smelled like. She babbled on about Oriental floral, Oriental spicy, Oriental woodsy, Oriental something else before he stopped her and thanked her for trying to help.

  The mask sat on his bedside table, where he could smell the gradually dissipating perfume every night when he went to bed. In his dreams, a mysterious Juliet played a starring role wearing the mask and nothing else, whispering “Please.” And “More.” And “Harder.” He inevitably woke up frustrated with a painful erection, a dry mouth, and no one in bed with him.

  Never had he been so eager to move as he was by the time he left Portland.

  His belongings went into storage until he could find a place for them in Ashland. He would be staying with Fred until he did. Online he’d found a half-dozen interesting looking houses, and he spent his first weekend in his new hometown inspecting them. One stood out. He made an offer. His real estate agent told him she’d have something back for him before he closed out his initial week of work.

  When he walked into the bank for his first day on the job, he felt organized and in control of what was going on.

  It was not to be.

  First of all, his predecessor’s accumulation of personal belongings after thirty years in the same building was still in the office that should have been Trace’s. Apparently, former manager Clyde Lindstrom, who’d officially left the prior week, had come in every day, sometimes taking home a box or two but making no real progress in getting the office empty. It being a small town, and Clyde Lindstrom being a well-liked local boy, no one wanted to hurt his feelings by making him move any faster at getting the stack of boxes full of framed pictures, good citizen awards, his running clothes and who knew what else out of the bank. Besides, he had to do it all himself. He had no one to help him now that his wife was gone.

  Trace’s new—and his predecessor’s former—administrative assistant, had an embarrassed expression on her face when she showed him to a small temporary space that looked more like the place where they stored junk than a real office. It featured beat-up furniture with books holding up one leg of the desk, a computer that looked to be a Paul Allen/Bill Gates garage prototype,
and a long walk to find his staff. It seemed like everyone he was introduced to apologized, swore it would be taken care of, and brought him coffee from the coffee house next door to bribe him to be happy about it

  Then, he had barely settled into his cramped quarters before a steady stream of bank customers assailed him, each telling him much the same story: beginning earlier in the fall, they’d gotten phishing emails on fake bank letterhead notifying them about winning the lottery in some obscure country. Those emails had been followed by an announcement about a valuable but unnamed prize to be awarded after the winner submitted funds to cover finder’s fees and shipping expenses, and provided bank account information so the money could be directly deposited.

  One or two people had unfortunately responded to the offer; most had not. Nevertheless, money had disappeared from a number of accounts, ranging from $100 to $1,000, with a notice saying that now that their finder’s fees and shipping costs had been paid, they’d receive their prize. Of course, nothing ever appeared. Their accounts had been hacked, their identities potentially stolen, and their money gone.

  Each victim had reported it to the bank. The response from the former manager? They should open new accounts, and he’d get the situation under control. And while it was true the stream of unsanctioned withdrawals stopped as soon as the accounts were closed, they were still waiting for the bank to do something about what had already happened. And were still receiving annoying sweepstakes announcements by email on bank letterhead, no matter how they tried to unsubscribe or block them.

  Between visitors, Trace searched for what his predecessor had done to take care of the problem. He couldn’t find much. And his new staff wasn’t any help. They knew what had happened, but they didn’t know what their old boss had done to correct it.

  Curiously, no one in the home office had heard about it. Trace did discover a written report from a local, outside investigator who had been hired to look at the bank’s computer system. He’d reported there was nothing wrong. Trace needed time to look into it further, which didn’t help him with the dozen or so conversations he had with frustrated customers over the course of the morning.

  It also left him with little to say to his last visitor of the day. Customers who talked politely had come to see him first. Now the lawyer with the big stick, cold eyes, and a firm handshake made an appearance.

  After the formalities were over, his visitor began, “Mister Watkins, I represent a number of people who bank with you. Their financial and personal lives have been compromised by the bank’s refusal to do anything about a flawed computer security system, and we’re contemplating a class action suit against the bank. I know you’re new in town, but I wanted to introduce myself and let you know we’re not willing to let this go on much longer. If you won’t take this seriously, can’t get this under control, I’ll have no choice but to file suit.”

  He looked at the woman across the desk from him—she’d introduced herself as Julie Payne—and wished he were in the real manager’s office where he could look a lot more imposing than he thought he did in this makeshift dump. With this woman, he needed all the props he could get.

  She was beautiful, without question. A tall, cool blonde, she was dressed in a dark blue suit that looked like it had been tailored for her and the kind of shoes that made him wonder how women walked in them. To go by just her appearance, he’d certainly say most men would give her a second—or third—look. However the tone of her voice would drive away any man with the sense God gave rocks. It had “shark” written all over it—if you could write on voices. Which you probably could with hers, as long as you used an ice pick to do it. If ever a woman deserved to be labeled ice queen, this one did. He came close to shivering from the look she gave him as she made her case.

  “Ms. Payne, you’ll have to forgive me for not being able to immediately respond to your demand. I’ve been on the job for,” he consulted his watch, “exactly seven hours and forty minutes, and until four hours ago, I’d never heard about this problem. I’m sorry you haven’t gotten the response you wanted from us, but I’m going to have to ask you to be patient for a little while longer.”

  She pulled a business card from her messenger bag and handed it to him. “My clients can’t be expected to have much patience when they’re worried about having their bank accounts looted, Mister Watkins. Call me when you have some information for us.” She stood and looked like she was about to leave.

  Before she could, he said, “I can do better than that. I’ll be in touch with you every week to let you know the progress we’re making. Say, on Fridays. Or another day, if it would be better for you.” He flicked the business card back and forth across his thumb, watching her as she walked to the door. She moved like someone he knew. But he couldn’t put a name to the person.

  She turned to answer him, but he interrupted.

  “Forgive me for changing the subject, but you look familiar somehow. Have we met? It would probably have been in Portland. I just moved here, and I only know one or two people in Ashland.”

  “Portland? You came here from Portland?” Her icy voice now had a high-pitched tone to it. If she hadn’t come into his office and taken command of the room, he would have thought she was nervous.

  “I was an officer at our main branch there. I transferred here when the old manager retired and I was promoted.”

  “No, I’m sure we’ve never met.” She opened the door. “Thank you for seeing me on what must be a busy day for you.”

  She was almost into the hall when he said, “You didn’t answer my question—is Friday a good day to contact you, then?”

  “Oh, right. Friday would be fine.” And she was gone without making further eye contact with him.

  • • •

  Damn it. She’d been afraid her past would come back and bite her in the ass. And now it seemed to have happened. He recognized her. She was sure of it. When she’d lived in Portland, she’d banked at the main branch of Northwest Savings and Loan, and he’d worked there. It wasn’t being vain to say men always noticed her—noticed Greer. If not her long blonde hair and big green eyes, then the body she worked hard to keep in shape. In Portland with a personal trainer, here by running every day.

  She thought he looked familiar, too. She must have seen him in the Portland branch. Although for some reason, in her mental picture of him, he was in jeans, not a suit like the one he was wearing today.

  What was she going to do if he confronted her? Threatened her with exposure? Was he so desperate to protect the bank that he’d use the scandal from Portland as leverage? Of course he would. He was new in his job. He’d make a big impression with his bosses if he saved them from a lawsuit. On the other hand, what kind of impression would he make on the community if he strong-armed her into backing away? God, she wished she knew if he’d recognized her. Then she’d know what to do.

  She could walk away from her clients, she supposed, so they wouldn’t get caught up in the mess she’d made in Portland. But it didn’t seem like the right move. They’d been damaged by the bank’s sloppiness and needed someone to make sure the right thing was done to correct it. And all the other lawyers around had turned them down. She didn’t want to desert them. Most of the affected group consisted of students and older people who didn’t have the money to fight a big, powerful bank with its high-paid attorneys.

  No, she couldn’t walk away, not unless she was forced to—or asked to. She’d have to keep her contacts with Mister Trace Watkins to a minimum until they got this settled. Maybe she would be able to confine her dealings with him to email and the phone. Maybe he’d forget he recognized her.

  It was too bad, really. He was certainly worth meeting with if only to admire his good looks. He had a conservative businessman style about him that was not usually her taste. But this guy was different. In another life, another time, she might even have been attracted to him. Maybe it was because the suit he was wearing didn’t do much to hide a seriously buff body. His shoulders
were broad and his chest hinted at being muscular. She wondered if it would feel as good to touch as Romeo’s had?

  No, stop. She wasn’t going there. She’d managed to push Halloween out of her daytime consciousness if not out of her dreams at night. Why the hell had this guy made her think of it again?

  Chapter 8

  After a week in a temporary space he couldn’t seriously consider an office, Trace finally lost patience and directed his staff to box up what remained of Clyde Lindstrom’s belongings and put them in the temporary space so he could move into the manager’s office. One problem solved.

  But the more serious computer hacking issue was not as simple to take care of. Emails and phone calls to Lindstrom went unanswered, and Trace’s plans to corner his predecessor when he came into the bank failed. The one or two times they’d been in the building at the same time, Lindstrom had left as soon as Trace had asked his assistant to bring his predecessor to his old office. Lindstrom always seemed to have appointments with doctors, investment advisors or, who knows, the governor.

  Now as frustrated as the customers he’d talked to, Trace turned the whole problem of the hacking over to the head of IT in Portland. As promised, he reported what he’d done to the ice queen lawyer. She was not impressed. Nevertheless, now he was free to get on with what he was in Ashland to do—stop the decline of businesses banking with them and increase the number of people who used their mortgage department. The challenge was one of the reasons the job had appealed to him. It was what he did well: figuring out what worked and improving what didn’t.

  He met with business owners and real estate brokers. He reviewed how this branch implemented the bank’s policies and procedures. He brainstormed with his staff. With the force of his personality and some positive suggestions, he began to get things at work mostly under control, where he liked things to be. It was the best beginning to a new job he’d ever had.

  So, with the hacking problem in someone else’s court, his strategy for improving the bank’s business developing, and his house deal done, all he had left to do was to answer one question: where the hell was his Juliet?