The Second Promise. Joan Kilby
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a jazz concert at the Briar’s winery this weekend,” he said over her objection. “We could take a picnic supper, sit under those big old gums and watch the cockatoos flap home to roost while the sun sets over the hills…”
Maeve smiled and held up a hand to stop his flow of words. “That sounds wonderful, but I can’t.”
“Can’t, or won’t?” he asked bluntly.
She hesitated, glanced away, then faced him squarely. “Won’t.”
“May I ask why?”
“I…don’t get involved with clients.” She couldn’t meet his eyes.
He shook his head. “I don’t buy it.”
“Okay. How about, I don’t think seeing you is a good idea given that you’re my father’s employer.”
“Bullshit,” he said politely.
“Okay…” Time to get serious, even though—no, especially because—part of her badly wanted to see him again. Her chin rose. “I don’t find you attractive.”
Will didn’t even flinch. He studied her face as though trying to decide why she was lying to him. Finally, he said quietly, “Tell me the real reason.”
She drew in a deep breath, shaken that his calm rational eyes saw through her so easily. When she spoke, the truth made her voice tremble. “I’m just not ready for a relationship right now. Sometimes I don’t know if I ever will be again.”
His frown softened into concern. “You must have been hurt badly.”
She glanced away. “You could say that.”
“Your ex-husband?”
“He…was part of it. Look, I really don’t want to talk about it. It’s personal and deeply painful, and not something I share with many people. Trust me, it wouldn’t work between us.”
“Maybe if I ask you again in a week or two—”
“No! I mean, I’m sorry, but there’s absolutely no hope that I’ll change my mind. You’d just be wasting your time.”
She gazed at him, troubled to see that his expression was one of quiet determination.
“I won’t pressure you,” he said. “But when you change your mind, I’ll be waiting.”
“Don’t,” she said, putting her hat on. “Don’t wait for me.”
WILL ROSE AT FIVE the next morning, groggy with the heat. He’d spent a sleepless night, his mind in turmoil over the upcoming meeting with Paul, his company accountant and friend since university. Electronic engineering, not economics, was Will’s field, but he didn’t have to be John Kenneth Galbraith to realize that his company was in trouble.
Today he had to make a decision on the financial consultant’s recommendation to close the Mornington factory and relocate offshore. Production costs were high; wages were higher. Cheap imports threatened his place in the market, and shareholders were pushing for an increased profit margin. After an initial, almost phenomenal, success, his tamperproof, infrared security alarm was being priced out of the world market. The only way to keep his business afloat, the money boys said, was to transfer production to Indonesia.
Such a move would throw his employees out of work. He hated that idea; it went against everything he stood for, everything he’d worked for. On the other hand, if Aussie Electronics went down, they would all lose their jobs anyway.
He ate a fried-egg sandwich while he stood at the edge of the patio in nothing but his shorts. When the hell would this weather break? Not a cloud marred the pure-blue sky, although the towers of Melbourne in the distance were hazy with smog. Usually a cool change blew through after a four- or five-day cycle of rising heat, but this was the seventh day in a row of temperatures over one hundred degrees.
The image of Maeve’s trusting smile appeared before him. You’ve been so good to my father.
Maeve herself, with her graceful movements and her perceptive dark eyes, had been on his mind in spite of his efforts to forget her. He couldn’t shake the feeling that she could see into his heart, and was at least intrigued with what she saw. So why this refusal to go out with him?
Then, there was Ida. Her astonishing request completed this triumvirate of mind-boggling, gut-wrenching problems. He wanted to help her out. He couldn’t see any logical reason he shouldn’t help her out. But something in him balked at being nothing more than a sperm donor.
He arrived at his factory an hour later. Aussie Electronics occupied a long, low-slung building in an industrial park on the outskirts of Mornington, twenty miles north on the peninsula. Will parked the Merc in front of the building, noting that Paul’s car was already in one of the visitors’ slots.
“’Morning, Renée,” Will said as he walked through reception. Renée was a petite blonde in her forties who’d trained as a secretary, then stayed home with her children while they were young. Will had rescued her from a dead-end job and he’d been more than repaid by her organizational skills and efficiency.
Renée’s hands stilled on the keyboard of her computer. “Paul’s waiting for you in the meeting room.”
Will felt her troubled gaze follow him as he walked through the door that led to the inner offices, and he clenched his fists. Surely, with good references and a record of five years’ steady employment she wouldn’t have to go back to flipping burgers.
Paul was seated at the long oval table, papers spread around him. His short dark hair glistened with gel and he wore city garb—a black suit and a conservative gray tie. He was more than an accountant to Will’s company; Will relied on him for many of the business management tasks he himself had little time for.
“Paul, you old bastard,” Will said, grasping his hand in a firm shake before pulling out a chair across from the accountant. “Don’t you know it’s summer?”
Paul gave him a mildly reproving once-over. “I hope you’re not going to wear that bloody Hawaiian shirt when we meet with the Indonesian delegation in Jakarta next month.”
Will glanced down at his colorful attire, and grinned. “Don’t you know the casual look has reached this country’s boardrooms?”
Paul gave a bark of laughter. “And you’re such a slave to fashion.”
Will’s smile flickered. “Time to get serious, Paul. Kmart and Target both canceled their orders for my security alarm. They’ve decided to stock the Japanese model. It’s manufactured in Singapore and sells for ten percent less.”
“Bloody hell.”
“Exactly.” Will dropped his briefcase on the table and sat heavily. The Japanese alarm, new on the market, was almost identical to his own invention, with just enough superficial differences to get around the patent laws. “I’ve not only lost my number-one position in sales, but I’m being pushed right out of the market.”
“You’ve got other products,” Paul said. “Timers, switches, medical instrumentation…”
“Sure, and they’re doing okay, but they’re not big earners. Not big enough to make up for losing the tamperproof alarm, at any rate. And since I floated those shares on the open market I’ve got third parties demanding increasing profit.” He indicated a sheaf of papers in front of Paul. “So you’ve looked at these documents sent over by the Indonesian Department of Trade?”
Paul nodded. “They’re offering all sorts of tax incentives. Economically, it’s very viable.”
“True,” Will said. “Although Indonesia’s had a lot of internal political trouble lately. The people aren’t too keen on foreign investors.”
Paul spread his hands. “No sweat. The government officials I’ve communicated with assure me the situation