A Winning Battle Read online

  What appalling presumptuousness! It was all Page could do to keep herself from slamming down the phone, and the worst of it was, she didn’t know why she didn’t. Madness. She said steadily, “I have a previous commitment.”

  “Well, then, come by when you can. I’ll be around.”

  “If you’re not?”

  “Try again.”

  Ominous, she thought. Either the man was disorganized to an unhealthy degree or just plain rude. Whichever, she should forget about trying to deal with him in any serious, professional way. But she heard herself asking for his address, saw herself writing it down, felt herself rising to the challenge. Then she checked her calendar and said, “I can meet you at four o’clock for about fifteen minutes. We’ll have a chance to assess each other.”

  “For what?”

  “You might change your mind about me, or your situation might present difficulties I’m not equipped to handle. Is four o’clock all right with you?”

  “As far as I know, sure.”

  Page shut her eyes, trying to imagine the chaos that must be Chris Battle’s life. How did the man function? “I’ll see you then. Goodbye, Mr. Battle.”

  * * *

  The gracious brick building on Beacon Street, directly across the Public Garden from her condominium, surprised Page, and she stood outside for a moment admiring its clean Federal lines. That a cranky, disorganized newspaperman should live there was decidedly unexpected. Had he led her astray? Suspicious, she headed up the stairs to the stoop and went into the unlocked entry. It was four o’clock on the dot. She’d timed her walk perfectly.

  A self-stick note was attached to the mailbox of one Christopher O. Battle. Telling herself she was being thorough, not nosy, Page noted the absence of any mention of a current Mrs. Battle. From what she’d experienced of the man already, she could understand why his marriages didn’t last—she’d heard there’d been a few. She flicked off the note.

  “Page,” it read in a near-illegible scrawl, “the buzzer’s out of order. Go outside and toss a pebble up to the top bay window. CB.”

  Toss a pebble. Just who did Mr. Christopher O. Battle think he was dealing with? She felt like that orphan boy who always wanted to play with Pollyanna, or that Nazi boy in The Sound of Music, tossing pebbles. She ought to leave. The smart-alecky columnist was either toying with her or was a hopeless case. In any event he was a waste of her precious time.

  But she found herself tucking the note into her pocket and thumping back outside. Another attack of spring fever? She’d had coffee in the dining room with her daffodils that morning, and she’d been so busy all day she hadn’t had time to indulge any moods.

  The top bay window was in the attic. Naturally, Page thought. It was also a considerably smaller target than any of the others and—she counted—the fifth one up. Even if she could have aimed correctly, and playing ball had never been her forte, she couldn’t find a pebble. This was Boston. She appalled herself by actually looking for one on the damp, wide, busy sidewalk.

  All she found was a small chip of the sidewalk bricks. She looked around. The sunshine of the day before had deteriorated to cloud and drizzle more typical of March in Boston, but it was still warm, and that meant spring. And spring meant lots of pedestrians and motorists on Beacon Street, especially at four o’clock in the afternoon. Beacon was a major thoroughfare. Just up the street was the Massachusetts State House. How did that man think she was going to pitch a rock up to his window with all these people as witnesses? What if someone recognized her? What if she were arrested? What if she missed?

  “What if I break someone’s window?’’ she asked herself, half-aloud.

  She heaved the brick chip. Missed by yards. Swearing at her rotten aim and her pure idiocy, she looked around quickly to see if anyone had spotted her. No one had—or simply no one cared. She craned her neck and squinted up at the attic window. What now? Just leave Battle a brisk, professional note?

  Dear Mr. Battle,

  Thank you for thinking of Get It Together Inc.,

  but unfortunately I can’t take you on as a client.

  Best wishes, Page B. Harrington

  She’d be sure to sign her entire name.

  She could also just leave and pretend she’d never come. But that wouldn’t necessarily be in the best interest of her image.

  I could find a bigger brick....

  “Mr. Battle,” she said, heaving a sigh, “you are not amusing.”

  “Don’t tell my editors that,” came his sardonic voice from behind her. “I’m paid a lot of money because people think I’m amusing.”

  Page stiffened and prepared herself for the worst as she turned to face her elusive would-be client. But the worst was worse than even she’d imagined: Chris Battle was no toad. It would have been easier if he were. She noticed his eyes first—slate gray and narrow, dark lashed, heavy browed, alert. Then his beard—several days’ worth at least, the result, she was confident, not of the dictates of fashion but of simple neglect. But the effect hit her somewhere below her stomach. Finally she noticed the straight mouth and nose and the solid body. He had on a floppy raincoat that looked ready to take on anything from a spring shower to a monsoon. He wasn’t wearing a rain hat, however, and a film of drizzle glistened on his dark hair, highlighting the streaks of gray. Chris Battle wasn’t so much handsome as compelling. Too compelling, in Page’s estimation. She’d have preferred Quasimodo.

  His straight mouth smirked only slightly as he scrutinized her, taking in the rain hat, raincoat and umbrella, all in coordinating colors.

  She decided to skip introductions. “Mr. Battle, when you went out, why didn’t you simply remove the note from your mailbox and spare me this nonsense?”

  The smirk stretched into a grin as he scanned her again, from the top of her rain hat to the toes of her boots, taking no pains to hide what he was doing. Then his slate gaze lifted back to hers. His eyes were filled with the kind of unbridled energy she’d have expected from a man of his peculiar bent in life. “If I’d taken the note,” he said, “you’d have tried the buzzer, which doesn’t work, and thought I wasn’t home.”

  “But you weren’t home.”

  “I was coming right back. Just had to step out to the post office. I didn’t have time to waste writing more notes and figured you could keep yourself occupied while I was gone. Here, come on up.”

  “How long has your buzzer been out of order?”

  “I don’t know. Couple of weeks, I guess.”

  “A couple of weeks!”

  “Sure. Actually, I haven’t really missed it. You coming?”

  The man needs me, she thought. But looking at him, she had to wonder. If not terribly organized, he did seem remarkably self-sufficient. What you are, Page Harrington, is over the edge.

  She’d give him until 4:05. That would leave her enough time to get across the Garden and back to her office to check her messages at her usual 4:15. No point in sacrificing her routines to this rock-hard individual.

  She smiled the businesslike smile she used all the time; it meant nothing. “Just lead the way, Mr. Battle.”

  As he walked past her up the steps, she saw the lines at the corners of his eyes and estimated him to be in his mid-thirties. She herself was thirty-two. She had never been married, much less divorced. In her opinion, divorces were a messy business, and she wasn’t into messes.

  Then why was she following this man up to his apartment?

  There was no elevator. Page was relieved she had on her boots instead of a pair of heels. She noted Chris Battle’s battered Rockports. So he was into walking.

  He’d unbuttoned his raincoat, and from the look of his hard body she guessed he got some kind of exercise. Walking would fit his disorganized life-style.

  The first three flights were nicely painted and well lit, and on the way he explained that the building had been broken up into apartments after World War II and had gone co-op just last year. He’d bought his place, he said, mostly because
he hated to move.

  A pack rat, no doubt, Page decided. “Have you been here long?”

  “About ten years. Does it make a difference?”

  “It helps for background purposes. The longer you’ve been someplace, the more likely you’ve got stuff accumulated you don’t really need. Nothing like moving to force you to clean out closets. I assume you lived here with your wives?”

  His foot caught as they approached the fourth-floor landing. “My what?”

  “Your wives,” Page repeated innocently. “Mr. Battle, if I’m to help you, you’re going to have to be frank. I know you’ve been married before.”

  “Yes, but not to half the country. Your wives. How many do you think I’ve had?”

  “Two.”

  “Oh. And you think that’s a lot?”

  That’s it, she thought, I’m out of here. Battle and I are oil and water, and he’s not going to waste his money hiring me—and for that, I should be grateful.

  But she heard herself say, very professionally, “I’m not presuming to make a moral judgment, Mr. Battle. And I’m sorry if I’ve upset you. I don’t need to know about your ex-wives except as they relate to your present problems in being organized.”

  “Nothing’s sacred, is that it?”

  “If you’re worried I might be indiscreet, please be assured that I respect client confidentiality.”

  “Right.”

  He sounded dubious as they mounted the final flight of stairs, not so nicely painted and not so well lit. They were, in fact, dingy.

  “Sorry it’s a bit dark up here,” Chris Battle said, not sounding especially sorry. “There’s a bulb burned out.”

  “Should I ask for how long?”

  He grinned at her, showing even white teeth and a surprising, tantalizing dimple in his right cheek. “Years.”

  Page reserved comment.

  “Tell me,” he went on, “if you don’t make moral judgments, why do I feel as if you’re here to save me?”

  “Save you from what?”

  “I don’t know. Myself, I guess.”

  “Mr. Battle, you were the one who called me. This was your idea. Unless you’ve changed your mind?”

  She was hoping he had, just so she wouldn’t have to tell him any professional relationship between them— any relationship at all—was doomed.

  But he said, “Nope,” and started fishing in a pocket. He kept fishing. Page waited, stone faced. In another minute or two he produced a set of keys from some out-of-the-way pocket of his raincoat and unlocked the door.

  The man was clearly hopeless.

  With an embarrassed grin he pushed open the door and swung one arm in a gesture for Page to go in first. She smiled back at him, not very much, and walked past him into the apartment with some trepidation.

  It could have been worse. The door opened into an entry dominated by a swamped coat tree she could tell was brass from its base, which was all that was visible. Every imaginable article of outer clothing and at least two Red Sox caps were hung there. Page liked coat trees. In the right place, with the right person, they could prove highly efficient and accessible. This was not the right place and possibly—likely—not the right person. But she kept her mouth shut as her prospective client took her coat and tossed it atop the others. Miraculously, the whole thing didn’t come crashing down.

  “Want the grand tour?” Chris Battle, asked, observing her closely.

  Well, she was here. “Why not?”

  She felt as if he were testing her, but for what and why she couldn’t be sure. Was he expecting her to throw up her hands in despair? What was he expecting? She decided it didn’t matter. She’d take the “grand tour” and then get out, politely but irrevocably. Her time was being wasted, but what was done was done, and she wasn’t going to fritter away more time worrying about what she couldn’t change.

  But as he tossed his coat over a chair, she couldn’t help observing his Henley shirt and twill pants, and how both fit his taut body smoothly. No hint of disorderliness there, she noted—and didn’t even bother trying to tell herself she was just doing her job. She knew herself better than that. Her gaze dropped to his thick leather belt, worn and comfortable, and she wondered if her sex life was simply crying out for some long overdue attention.

  All the more reason to get out of Chris Battle’s apartment fast. She’d never had sex with a client. Never even thought about having sex with a client. And she wasn’t going to let Battle be any different.

  Except obviously he already was.

  She permitted him to show her around. The entry led into a large, open room that was spotlessly clean, if disorderly. Page had learned to make such distinctions. One could be clean and disorderly or dirty and orderly. A small, inefficient kitchen was at the far end of the room, separated from the living area by a big rectangular oak table stacked with mail, magazines and newspapers. The living area was an informal mixture of futon couches, shelves and high-tech entertainment systems and more or less melted into a work area.

  The work area made Page shudder. How did the man get anything done! The work surface, from the looks of it an old library table, was certainly functional enough, but it and the bookshelves and single battered filing cabinet weren’t nearly sufficient for the journalist’s volumes of supplies and resources and…well, she thought, junk. The floor was piled with files, clippings, newspapers, magazines, typing ribbons, printer ribbons, mailbags, basketball and hockey schedules and the odd receipt. A five-foot stack of paperback books looked dangerously close to toppling over.

  “Well, what do you think?” he asked beside her.

  She didn’t know what to think. On the one hand, the place was a disaster. On the other hand, Chris Battle was a highly successful syndicated columnist. Whatever he did and however he did it, his system seemed to work for him. She suspected there was an order to the place that he understood, however much it might elude her.

  “It’s…cozy.”

  “Cozy, huh?”

  Another way of saying cluttered, but she didn’t elaborate. She couldn’t have if she’d wanted to. She’d just had another attack of the indefinable restlessness, the full feeling of free-floating emotion, only this time not prompted by pots of daffodils but by the huskiness of a man’s voice. This man’s voice. Turning to him, she saw him studying her through his narrowed slate eyes. His expression was unreadable. She felt her mouth grow dry and looked away quickly. What in the name of heaven was wrong with her?

  She shoved aside her confusion and focused on the matter at hand. Christopher O. Battle obviously had no desire to change his work or living habits. Given his apparent self-satisfaction and success, he might not have any need to change, either. And that left her with one big question: why did he want to hire a professional organizing consultant?

  More succinctly, why was she here?

  Oh, you know why...

  The answer had been right under her nose from the beginning, and she’d been too preoccupied with daffodils and odd stirrings and her own self-satisfaction to see it. She had a tendency to believe in what she did and forgot there were those who didn’t.

  The Christopher O. Battles of the world.

  Not all of them wrote biweekly columns that were syndicated in dozens of newspapers across the country. But he did.

  And in one of them the sneaky rat was going to debunk her.

  Chapter Two

  Chris had the uneasy feeling that Page B. Harrington, president of Get It Together Inc. and the woman who was going to organize his life, was on to him. After touring his apartment she’d accepted his offer of refreshments with manufactured grace. Now, as he made coffee, he sensed her beautiful turquoise eyes scrutinizing him as closely as they’d scrutinized every square inch of his apartment. She was slim and trim and as slickly put together as he’d expected with her color-coordinated rain gear and tidy haircut. But he hadn’t expected the uncontrollable spray of freckles across her nose and the passion hiding behind the deep-colored eyes and
the general air of restlessness she seemed unable to control.

  He hadn’t, in short, expected to find the woman attractive.

  Nor had he expected the energetic dynamo to see through his machinations with such annoying alacrity. Had he overdone things? His buzzer worked, of course, and he seldom lost his keys. She hadn’t liked the looks of his coat tree, but that wasn’t part of his plot and just too bad. It came in handy right where it was.

  The coat tree stayed.

  As for his office…well, no one touched his office. He liked the feeling he was a starving writer working his fingers to the bone in some garret. Helped him keep his edge. It was why he’d chosen an attic apartment, even if it was on prestigious Beacon Hill and had a coveted view of the Garden. But except for the computer, nothing in his office was expensive. He could have afforded shelves and designer-quality furniture if he’d wanted them. The fact was, he didn’t. Ms. Page B. Harrington could find fault with the staged broken buzzer and the lost keys and could even comment on the coat tree, but she’d better not start talking about his office.

  Why was he getting so bent out of shape? he asked himself. The woman hadn’t said a word, and when she did, what difference did it make? She was his target. He wanted her to bug him with demands and advice. Do this. Change that. That was the whole point of having her up here.

  He gave her coffee and wished she’d stop looking at him that way, as if she wanted to dump the entire contents of her mug on his head. He hoped such an act violated her obviously strong code of professionalism, not to mention her squeamishness about messes. The lady definitely had her suspicions. He smiled innocently—and for him that took some doing—but she didn’t smile back.

  “You take milk?” he asked, hoping to get her to say something.

  She nodded, not taking her eyes off him and not, as far as he could tell, enjoying what she saw. Didn’t he look any more innocent than he sounded? To his chagrin, he noticed she had a decidedly kissable mouth.

  He tried not to make too big a deal about not being able to find the cream pitcher, which he couldn’t, but that was only because he drank his coffee black. And he wasn’t one for coffee klatches. Dammit, he’d found a mug for her right off, hadn’t he?