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“Yes,” Melanie answered, and then heard a yes from directly behind her. Turning her head, she found those deep blue eyes glaring at her.
“I’m sorry, miss, but I think he asked for me.” Low and rumbling, his voice rolled past her left ear as the man carefully but still rudely elbowed his way past.
“But my name is M. Stewart,” Melanie insisted, wondering if the whole thing was a hoax. The announcer was obviously at a loss as he turned his perfectly groomed head from one to the other.
“I’m Melanie Stewart.” Melanie was so nervous her voice slipped out in a soft squeak that no one seemed to hear.
Finally the director hissed from his seat in the sound room. The words were audible over the whole stage. “Do something!”
“I’m sorry, folks,” the announcer said slowly, “but there seems to be a bit of a mix-up here. Our winner of the Papa John’s Peanut Butter contest is M. Stewart. Sir, may I have your full name, please?”
The handsome interloper gracefully inclined his head as he stated clearly, “Mitchel Edward Stewart.” His glittering blue eyes dared Melanie to top that.
“And you, miss. Your name is?” The microphone was stuck in her face, and Melanie forced a tight rein on her temper as she answered.
“Melanie Clarice Stewart.”
“Well, isn’t this great. Are you two married?”
The stranger’s dark head shook adamantly, his blue eyes hurling daggers at Melanie.
“I am not married and I have certainly never met Miss Stewart,” he said, arrogantly dismissing Melanie’s presence with a brush of his hand. “I was advised by telephone that I had won a contest and that I was obligated to be here today.”
Melanie’s simmering temper flashed to the surface. Not so fast, she thought, and tugged the rumpled letterhead from the pocket of her skirt, intent on wiping the smugly satisfied look from Mr. Mitchel Stewart’s handsome countenance.
“I received this letter by special delivery,” she said, waving the letter for all to see. Heat flooded her face as she stared into mocking blue eyes.
“I was to receive a phone call with further instructions, but—” She paused for effect. Her tone was acidic in the extreme. “Apparently, that went astray.”
Mitchel Stewart looked stunned at her words. Obviously he thought she was faking. Anger rushed through her as Melanie remembered all the things 50,000 could provide for her friends. There was no way this man was going to do her out of what was rightfully hers. She couldn’t afford to let Mr. Pushy M. Stewart push her out of the running. If his name really was Stewart!
Just then, Papa John stepped into the spotlight. Taking the mike from the dumbfounded announcer’s hand, he spoke into it in the soft, musical drawl known throughout North America.
“Now, folks. It looks like there’s been some sort of mix-up here today. According to my information, our winner, M. Stewart, lives at 300 Oak Street in Mossbank, North Dakota.”
His weathered face studied the two. Melanie spoke up.
“Yes, well, I work at that address. It’s a nursing home. Sunset Retirement Home.”
Clearly, Mitchel Stewart was not to be outdone. He stepped forward.
“I am also employed at 300 Oak Street.”
Her anger grew as she glared at him, her eyes narrowed and searching. How could he do this to her? He was lying. She knew it. She knew all the tenants in the home, and she knew the employees, as well. He wasn’t one of them.
“I started two weeks ago.” He said it triumphantly, as if this was a game of one-upmanship. Melanie fumed.
“This sure is a puzzler, folks.” Papa John scratched his head, obviously considering the next step.
One of the most popular television stations in North Dakota was broadcasting a lot of dead air, which was certainly not good for business, but it seemed no one could think of anything to say. Finally, the announcer stepped forward and spoke directly to the camera.
“Ladies and gentlemen, you have watched a newsmaking event on WMIX tonight. We apparently have two winners in the Papa John’s Peanut Butter contest, both named M. Stewart and both living in Mossbank and working at 300 Oak Street.” He smiled fatuously at both of them before glancing at the camera. “Keep tuned, and WMIX will keep you up to the minute with events as they happen.”
As he gave the familiar station call letters, Melanie drooped with fatigue. Papa John moved to brush a gentle hand over hers.
“I’m real sorry about this, miss,” he apologized. “I don’t know what happened. There must have been some error. The selections were made by computer.” Papa John grinned at her. “Couldn’t have picked a better station, though, could I? WMIX. Mixed up, they should call it.”
Melanie smiled weakly.
They both turned at the throat-clearing sound from Mitchel Stewart. The dark-haired man had absolutely no manners, Melanie decided grimly. He stood peering down at both of them, eavesdropping on their conversation without any compunction. She turned her back to him deliberately as Papa John spoke again.
“I’m sorry about you, too, Mr. Stewart. I promise you that I will get this straightened out and let you know as soon as I can. Thank you both for making time to come down.” The old man reached into his shirt pocket for a scrap of paper and a pen.
“Where can I reach you during the day, Miss Stewart?”
Melanie shuffled through her purse for a business card. She tried to ignore the tall man directly behind her.
“I am the director of care at Sunset,” she told him, keeping her voice quiet.
“That’s the one attached to the hospital,” Papa John said, scribbling in odd, unreadable ink strokes. “I know about it from friends.”
“Here’s my address,” Mitchel Stewart announced gruffly, unasked. “I’m often at the hospital, but I’ll give you my card with office numbers.” Trust him to butt in, Melanie thought.
A lean, muscular hand proffered a crisp white business card. His fingers were long and well cared for. The hands of a surgeon, Melanie guessed. Surgeons were usually arrogant. She turned to leave the two men.
“I have to get back to work,” she murmured. “Nice to meet you, Papa John.” Melanie glanced at the interloper, nodding dismissively.
As she strode out of the building, she wondered what would happen next when strong fingers closed about her arm.
“I’ll walk with you,” that firm, bossy voice declared. “If you don’t mind, that is. It seems we have something in common besides our names.” He smiled that thousand-watt grin that made her pulse flutter. “I didn’t realize you worked at Sunset. Guess I didn’t notice you.”
Egotistical male, Melanie decided and tossed her gleaming curls. Her normally clear skin flushed with irritation in the bright sunlight. That was just what every woman wanted to hear—that she had been overlooked.
“Oh, no, I don’t mind at all,” she said with a touch of sarcasm. “Please feel free to tag along.”
She was not a small woman, but Mitchel Stewart seemed to tower over her. Even with three-inch heels, her five-foot-five-inch stature seemed small and ineffective beside his height. She felt as if she was losing the upper hand in every confrontation with him.
She glared at him, tugging her arm out of his grasp as she stepped back, her body language telling him clearly not to invade her personal space.
“I don’t appreciate being accosted in broad daylight, Mr. Stewart,” she said through clenched teeth.
“Oh. Sorry. Do you appreciate it more after dark?” he quipped, grinning. “It was a little joke,” he said, his smile noticeably drooping.
“Very little.” Melanie was not amused. “I expect surgeons are so used to getting what they want, they never think of anyone else’s wishes.” Her normally calm, even tones were scathing.
“I expect they are.”
He was trying to mollify her. She could hear it in his voice.
“You admit it?” Her dark eyes opened wide in disbelief. His impudence galled her.
Mitchel wasn’t sure exactly what was going on. He had been aware of her dislike. It emanated from every pore of her well-shaped body. But right now it was as if there was another conversation going on. One that he knew absolutely nothing about.
He studied her small, tilted nose. It fit perfectly with her high-and-mighty attitude. The original attraction he had felt onstage had not abated. For some reason her dislike drew him like a magnet. He wondered if she would consider…Well, why not forge ahead?
Turning quickly, Mitchel folded her arm in his and began striding toward the parking lot. Perforce the lady had to follow, although not happily.
“Will you stop dragging me about?” she demanded. As she tried to push his muscle-hardened body away, her heel caught in a metal grating. Mitchel caught her as she swayed.
“Now look what you’ve done,” he said, smiling sympathetically. “All I wanted was to help you to your car and ask you out for dinner. I wasn’t expecting you to fall into my arms.”
Melanie pursed her lips and refused to rise to the bait. He was too infuriating. Instead she walked away.
“Where are you going?”
She pointed her finger at the tan beater parked haphazardly in a stall just six feet away. His black eyebrow arched quizzically.
“Vice-president, Communications?” Mitchel’s gleaming dark eyes frowned at her. “I thought you said you worked at the retirement home.” Clearly puzzled, he stared at her for several moments before his face darkened ominously.
“I get it,” he announced, teeth bared. “It was all just a ruse, wasn’t it? Just for the money. Well, I’m not going to be part of your little con game.” His glittering sapphire eyes stared at the placard in front of her car. “Goodbye, N. Landt.”
He turned on his heel and strode furiously away, shoulders stiff with anger.
Melanie sighed, resigned to her fate. “It has been a difficult week, Lord,” she mused. “Today isn’t going so well, either. And it doesn’t look like things will be improving anytime soon. I know I can’t understand everything You do, so could You just help me get through today?”
Sighing, she fished her key ring out of the leather shoulder bag and unlocked the car door. Gently she eased herself into the car, glumly grateful that she’d made it through this far. She would probably drive to the home, enjoy a cup of fresh coffee and get down to what she knew best.
A light tapping on her window roused Melanie from her thoughts. Turning, she saw a tall blond Adonis dressed in an elegant black three-piece pinstripe standing outside her car. She rolled down the window.
“Yes?”
“I’m terribly sorry,” he apologized, flashing a movie-perfect smile, “but you are parked in my spot. I’m Neal Landt.”
It was too much. Melanie burst into laughter, paroxysms of hilarity shaking her narrow shoulders.
“I’m very sorry,” she apologized as concern etched itself on his worried face. Quickly she explained the reason for her visit. “I was so afraid I’d be late, I pulled into the first empty spot and rushed into the studio. I’ll move right away,” she promised.
Melanie flicked on the car’s engine and waved at the bemused young man staring after her. When she glanced back, Neal Landt was scribbling furiously as he leaned against his silver-gray Jaguar.
“I’ll probably get a ticket for parking in his spot, the way today is going,” she muttered, and tried to ignore the pain pulsing through her puffy ankle.
“Once I get to work,” she promised herself. “I’ll be okay then. In fact,” she muttered in frustration, “the whole day would have progressed very well if I had just ignored the stupid letter and gone straight to work in the first place.”
There are no free lunches, she remembered Charity lecturing. Whatever you get in this life is exactly what you’ve worked for, dear. There’s no such thing as something for nothing.
“As usual, you are always right, Mother,” Melanie lamented sadly. “Especially today. But oh, what we could have done with that prize!”
It really was too bad the ill-humored Mitchel Stewart had not been able to see the funny side of this whole situation, Melanie thought, her lips tilting up as her mind replayed the scene. Humming loudly, she pulled into traffic and headed for Mossbank, confident that a return to routine would put her on track.
The mass of paperwork beckoned, and Melanie knew she would have to tackle it soon, but there was one duty she couldn’t neglect in her daily ritual. Anyway, she didn’t want to. She enjoyed it too much.
Quickly she slid out of the navy suit she had worn for her television debut and into the spare pink uniform she kept for just such occasions. She surveyed herself in the narrow mirror she had hung on the back of her door.
“Oh, lovely.” She grimaced, noting the caked lines of eye-shadow and heavy red lipstick. “Wait till the candy stripers see you in this getup.”
She grabbed a brush and tugged it through her dark russet curls, allowing them to fall to her shoulders. A few tissues and some cream took off the goop they had plastered on her at the studio, and she cleansed her skin well before applying a light touch of blush and a hint of mascara. She hated a lot of makeup, and anyway, she never remembered to renew it.
Satisfied, Melanie walked out the door and into the group of residents gathered outside.
“Mrs. Christie.” She smiled, gathering the woman’s blue-veined hands in her own. “I do believe it’s a special day for you today.”
The toothless old woman squeezed Melanie’s hand tightly and nodded. Tears of happiness pooled at the corners of the weary, wrinkled eyes.
“My grandson is coming,” she whispered as if afraid to say the words aloud. “He’s bringing his fiancée. Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Yes, it is.” Melanie smiled at her. “And you look lovely,” she told the elderly woman sincerely.
Each resident had something special to say to her, and Melanie allowed them to speak freely. It was so important to them, this time of sharing. Many felt neglected and alone, and they needed someone to listen. It mattered not that she had heard these same stories a hundred times before. What was important was the telling, recalling the happiness of the past. For many it was their only pleasant time in an otherwise bleak existence.
Except for Mrs. Rivers.
“Good morning, Nettie. You look lovely today. As usual.”
The old lady sat silently staring out the window, her hands full of contest entries, which she shuffled from one hand to the other. She refused to answer any of the questions Melanie asked. Contrary to the administrator’s evaluation, Melanie believed the older woman could understand everything that was said to her. It was merely a problem of finding the right subject or the right person to get her to talk. And heaven knew, Melanie had tried quite a few. Today nothing seemed to budge the woman out of her self-imposed silence.
“Well, Mrs. Rivers, I hope you have a good day today.”
Because the stack of work still had to be dealt with, Melanie finally gave in. It was now or never. She returned to her desk, sat down and immersed herself in work, tuning out everything but the unfinished schedules and part-time applications that needed immediate attention.
A disturbance in the outside office alerted her to the possibility of trouble sometime later. Raised in anger, the voice barely carried through the strong metal door. Melanie dropped her pen to listen.
It was a man’s voice, she decided. Rather low, but obviously furious. She grinned when Bridget attempted to intercept the flow of angry words with little success.
When her focus would not return, Melanie finally gave in to curiosity, grimacing as she stood. She would settle this and then it was back to the grindstone, she promised herself. No sidetracking.
As she opened the door, a familiar voice ranted at Bridget.
“It’s a hospital, for heaven’s sake. We can’t have people wandering around in areas they shouldn’t be, looking for lunch. Someone will get hurt. Don’t you feed these people regularly?”
His tones were scathingly critical of her overworked staff, and Melanie surged forward, prepared to do battle.
“Dr. Stewart, we know exactly what we are doing in this facility. Perhaps if the medical staff in your hospital had enough sense to close the doors behind them, our residents would not wander into the hospital.”
Mitchel Stewart whirled to face her, his jaw slack with astonishment. He was as good-looking as Melanie remembered. Still formally dressed in the dark suit jacket and matching slacks, he exuded the posh doctor persona.
Only the tie at the neck of his pristine white shirt was loosened and slightly askew. Curling dark hairs peeked out from his throat. He looked every inch a playboy with his rumpled black hair and twinkling azure eyes.
“You!” he gasped, clearly shocked. “What are you doing here?”
