Diamond Girl. Diana Palmer
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felt her muscles contract, every one of them, and her eyes glittered behind the big frames of her glasses. “It’s hard to work that long around a man without being fond of him,” she countered.
He stuck his big hands in his pockets, obviously enjoying himself. “Are you fond of me?” he returned.
“Oh, just burning up with fondness for you, sir,” she replied, and grinned wickedly.
“Is that why you were salaaming at my office door when I came in this morning?” he asked politely.
She felt the flush coming again and averted her face before it showed, pretending to gather up the photocopied documents on her desk. “I dropped a pencil. I was picking it up,” she informed him.
“The hell you were.”
She glanced up at him. “Was there something else, Mr. Cole?” she asked.
“Eager to get rid of me?” he questioned, arching his thick eyebrows. “I wouldn’t think a woman of your attributes would turn away male attention.”
She was doing a slow burn, but perhaps she was getting angry without reason. “My attributes?”
His dark eyes narrowed as they appraised all of her that was visible over the desk. “Small though they are,” he added with pursed lips. “Was that outfit supposed to catch Denny’s eye?”
She clenched her jaw. “I beg your pardon?”
“That outfit,” he repeated, pulling a hand from his pocket to gesture toward her blouse. “You’d look better in a pair of overalls.”
She stood up, seething. “Mr. Cole, you may be one of my employers,” she began coldly, “but that gives you no right to criticize the way I dress.”
“I have to look at you,” he replied. “Surely I have a say in the decor of my own office?”
“This—” she indicated her clothing “—is the latest style. Pioneers wore clothes like this,” she added with pointed sarcasm.
“No wonder the Indians attacked them,” he remarked.
Her fingers clenched. Her lips compressed. She wanted nothing more than to attack him.
“If you want to take my brother’s eyes away from his Latin acquisition, you’ll have to do better than that,” he persisted. “You look about twelve in that getup. And what do you do to your hair to make it stand on end like that—watch horror movies before you come to work?”
Her fingers curled around the file folder viciously.
“Are you such a prize, Mr. Cole?” she asked coldly.
“Your nose is too big and so are your feet and you’re nobody’s idea of Mr. Beautiful!”
His eyebrows arched. “This, from a woman who could qualify for the Frump of the Year nomination?”
“Oh!” she burst out, and before she had time to think, she had flung the file folder at him, scattering paper all over the desk and the floor.
He cocked his head at her, a peculiar smile momentarily softening his hard features. “How fortunate for you that it didn’t connect,” he murmured. “I hit back, honey.”
“You started it!” she accused, her eyes flaming green and brilliant, changing her face so that despite the inadequacy of her makeup, she was almost pretty.
“A matter of opinion.” He pulled out a cigarette and lit it calmly, watching her hesitate before she reluctantly bent to pick up the scattered papers.
Her fingers were trembling; her body was trembling. She wanted nothing more than to hurt him, to wound him. She couldn’t remember ever feeling such rage at any man.
And especially her boss. She colored, remembering that. He’d be within his rights to fire her, and that would take her right out of Denny’s life, because Denny wouldn’t go against Regan. She’d seen proof of that often enough.
She glanced up at him apprehensively as she clutched the disordered sheets of paper to her bosom and stood up.
“Feeling apologetic?” he asked, and the cold smile told her he understood exactly why she was regretting her temper.
She swallowed her pride. Any sacrifice, to be near Denny. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Cole,” she choked. “It won’t happen again.”
“Poor little Cinderella,” he murmured mockingly, and took a draw from his cigarette while she blushed again. “Sitting among the ashes while the wicked stepsister makes away with the handsome prince.”
“Yes, indeed,” she returned curtly, “almost as bad as having to kiss the frog.” She smiled meaningfully at him.
He turned away. “I wouldn’t hold my breath, if I were you,” he murmured. “I’m damned particular about who kisses me.”
“I’m amazed,” she muttered. “You probably have to pay women to do that.”
“What was that?” he asked, turning.
In enough trouble already, she controlled her temper. “Not a thing, sir,” she replied with a theatrical smile. “Just commenting on the weather.”
“It would break your heart if I fired you, wouldn’t it?” he asked suddenly, looking disgustingly smug. “Because Denny wouldn’t lift a finger to bring you back, and you know it.”
“That would be hitting below the belt, counselor,” she said quietly.
“Yes, it would. I might remind you,” he added with a flash of a mocking smile, “that I’m a criminal lawyer. I don’t mind hitting where it hurts the most. Do we understand each other, Miss Dean?”
She swallowed. “Yes, sir, we understand each other.”
“One more thing,” he said, as he took a step into his office and turned with cold brown eyes to look back at her. “The next time you throw anything at me, you’d better be wearing your track shoes.”
And he closed the door behind him.
She spent the rest of the day avoiding him, finding excuse after excuse not to go near his office. She didn’t like Regan Cole, but it was even more apparent that he disliked her. He always had, since the day he walked into the office for the first time and saw her. She didn’t think she’d ever forget the coldness in his eyes, the instant hostility that had met her tentative greeting. He couldn’t have made his dislike more obvious if he’d shouted at her. Not that he minded allowing her to take his dictation and his phone calls and type his briefs, she thought angrily. Oh, no, he didn’t mind letting her work herself into a frenzy trying to cope with his impatience and his black temper.
When Denny walked back into the office at three-thirty, she was still simmering.
“Hi, girl.” Denny grinned, whistling a gay tune as he sauntered in and perched himself on her desk. “How’s it going?”
“You had four calls. I put the messages on your desk. And I’ve got the letter on the Myers file in there for your signature, complete with copies,” she said, warming to his charm. He was like a breath of spring compared to his wintery stepbrother.
“Is Regan in?”
She felt her face go rigid. “He left about a half hour ago.”
He cocked his head at her. “You say that with such relish,” he murmured, grinning.
“For my part, I wish he was in darkest Africa, being slowly cooked in somebody’s stew pot, pith helmet and all,” she said, visualizing the scene with glee. “Of course, he’d poison whoever ate him....”
“How savage,” he remarked. “Might I ask why you have this sudden compulsion to feed my stepbrother to strangers?”
“He called me a frump,” she returned with glittering