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“Well, no.” Brandon shoved out of his chair. “I don’t need to ask her. I already know.”
Noah eased back and folded his arms over his chest. “You’re even more brilliant than I suspected, Brandon, if you can know what’s in a woman’s mind.”
“It wasn’t hard to figure out,” Brandon insisted, striding toward the window.
“Did you talk to her about it?”
He glanced back. “Talk to her?”
“Yes, talk. Women like to talk.”
“Oh, hell…” Brandon stopped and huffed. “Since when did your six-month marriage make you an expert on women?”
“My wife is still in town,” Noah pointed out gently. “And still warming my bed.”
Heat slashed through Brandon at the thought—the very thought—of having Jana in bed again. Her warm, supple body. Her arms cradling him. Her legs entwined with his.
During their three months together, Jana had been receptive to their lovemaking, anxious, he’d thought, to share her bed with him. He couldn’t remember one single time—not once—that she’d not happily welcomed him.
And now, after fourteen very long months of separation, she insisted that they wait another month? Brandon didn’t understand it. Nor did he know how he’d endure it.
“You should talk to her,” Noah said.
A new flash of irritation came over Brandon as he realized he was once more standing at the window, staring out. He turned away quickly, shoving away the realization and the old feelings that came with it.
“It couldn’t hurt,” Noah offered, rising from his chair.
He didn’t disagree. Noah’s wife was, indeed, still home.
Brandon sighed heavily. “You’re probably right. I’ll talk to her.”
“Things will work out,” Noah said. “The important thing is that she’s home.”
Brandon’s belly clenched. No, the important thing was that she stayed.
Muffled voices greeted Jana as she descended the curving staircase, piquing her curiosity. She’d just returned home from another day with her aunt, the clock was about to strike six and someone had come to visit? Calling hours ended at five. A tremor of unease swept through her. Had something happened at Aunt Maureen’s after she left?
Or had Brandon actually come home on time?
At the foot of the stairs Jana saw Charles in the foyer talking with a tall, slender man, not much older than herself, respectably dressed in a decent, though not expensive, suit. The men quieted as Jana approached.
“Good evening, Mrs. Sayer,” Charles intoned. “This gentleman has come to call on Mr. Sayer.”
The man pulled off his bowler and pressed it against his chest, holding the brim with both hands. Small, round eyeglasses reflected the glow of the wall sconces.
“Please forgive my intrusion, Mrs. Sayer,” he said, changing the grip on his bowler. “My name is Fisk. Oliver Fisk.”
“I explained to Mr. Fisk,” Charles said, “that Mr. Sayer isn’t home.”
“How is it you know my husband?” Jana asked, walking closer.
“I’m a business associate. Well, actually, I’m an employee,” he said. “I’m the editor of the Los Angeles Messenger. The newspaper.”
With his slender frame and bookish appearance Jana thought he looked more like an accountant or librarian.
Fisk fidgeted with his hat. “Mr. Sayer owns the paper, as you know…or perhaps don’t know, since I’m sure you’re much too busy to concern yourself with matters of business. That’s not to imply that you’re flighty or ignorant, but rather—”
“Mr. Fisk,” Jana said, taking pity on him. “Would you care to come in and wait for my husband?”
Rather than looking relieved, Oliver’s anxiety ratcheted up another notch. He drew in a breath, seemingly searching for, and finding, a dose of courage.
“Yes,” he proclaimed. “Yes, I’d like to do just that. I’d like to wait for him.”
“Charles, would you be kind enough to have some refreshment sent to the sitting room?” Jana asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied and relieved Oliver of his bowler.
“Please come this way, Mr. Fisk.”
She led him down the hallway to the sitting room she liked and seated herself on the settee. Oliver folded his long, ungainly arms and legs into the chair across from her with little grace.
“I can’t promise when…my husband…will arrive,” Jana said, the term odd on her tongue. It wasn’t pleasant admitting, even to this stranger, that she had no idea what Brandon’s schedule was.
“I don’t mean to cause trouble,” Oliver fretted, though he’d done nothing that required an apology. “I’ve tried numerous times to see Mr. Sayer at his office, but I’ve been unsuccessful. And I must speak with him right away. That’s why I took this chance of coming here, to his home, even without an invitation, this late in the day.”
Something about Oliver Fisk touched Jana’s heart. “Is there a problem at the newspaper?”
“Yes, there’s a problem. Very much so.” He nodded his head vigorously. “Mr. Sayer is closing it.”
Jana’s eyes widened. “The newspaper? Brandon is closing the newspaper?”
“It hasn’t been as prosperous as any of us would have liked,” Oliver admitted. “But I can turn things around. I know I can. If Mr. Sayer would just give me a little more time I could make the Messenger the premier newspaper in the city.”
Jana suddenly understood why she’d seen Brandon reading two newspapers at breakfast. Comparing the Messenger to the very popular Times, no doubt.
“I’ll be the first to say that I lack a great deal of experience in the newspaper game,” Oliver said, lacing and unlacing his long fingers. “But when the editor position fell to me, I was confident I could make a go of it. I still am. All I need is more time.”
“That sounds reasonable to me,” Jana agreed. “In fact, it seems to me that—”
Brandon strode into the room as if he were a force of nature, bringing both Jana and Oliver Fisk to their feet, commanding their attention with his very presence. He wasn’t happy. Jana wasn’t sure who Brandon was more annoyed to find in his sitting room: the newspaper editor—or her.
A tense silence froze the room as Brandon glared at them both, then settled his gaze on Jana.
“Would you excuse us?” he asked, though it was a command not a request.
“But Charles is bringing us refreshment—”
“No, he’s not.” Brandon’s gaze drilled into her. “Would you please excuse us?”
The unreasonable fear that had tickled her stomach hardened into a knot of anger. Jana felt her shoulders square and her chin go up a notch. Yet she didn’t want to make a scene in front of Oliver Fisk.
“Good evening, Mr. Fisk,” she said, managing to sound pleasant as her temper simmered, and left the sitting room feeling as if she’d abandoned the gentle editor.
In the foyer she saw Charles lingering. He didn’t make eye contact with her—he never did—but at least he had the good grace to look uncomfortable that he’d ignored her request for refreshments on Brandon’s orders.
Jana pounded up the staircase, resisting the urge to work off her anger by taking the steps two at a time, and fetched the small book she’d brought with her from Aunt Maureen’s hotel suite today. She took the back stairs down to the kitchen, her footsteps echoing on the bare, wooden risers.
The cook, Mrs. Boone, was busy at the stove while her two assistants chopped vegetables at one of the worktables. The kitchen, equipped to prepare everything from intimate family meals to elegant affairs for hundreds of guests, dwarfed the three women. The aroma of the soon-to-be-served supper mingled with the steam rising from the pots.
Mrs. Boone’s eyes narrowed as Jana approached. Of all the servants still in the household, Jana was sorry to see that Mrs. Boone was among them. A gray-haired, sturdy woman, Mrs. Boone ruled her kitchen with an iron hand. She had no use for suggestions from anyone, including Jana.
But that was fourteen months ago, Jana reminded herself.
“Good evening, Mrs. Boone,” she said.
The woman gave her a curt nod. “Evening, Mrs. Sayer.”
“I wanted to speak with you about the menus,” Jana began and held up the book. “I have some new recipes here that I’d like you to incorporate into the meal.”
“As it should be obvious to almost anyone,” Mrs. Boone said, and jerked her thumb toward the stove, “supper is fully underway, requiring my whole attention. I don’t have time to be discussing things at the moment.”
From the corner of her eye, Jana saw the two assistants glance at her, then turn away quickly.
“There’s nothing to discuss,” Jana told her, placing the book on the sideboard beside the stove. “These are the recipes. Include them in this week’s meals.”
Mrs. Boone shook her head. “Mr. Sayer likes his meals just so…in case you don’t know. He doesn’t cater to fancy food or newfangled dishes. Did he tell you to make these changes?”
Jana pressed her lips together. “No,” she admitted.
Mrs. Boone picked up the recipe book, gave it a cursory glance and handed it back to Jana. “When Mr. Sayer says it’s all right to change something, then I’ll change it.”
The cook turned back to the stove, ending their conversation.
Jana’s cheeks warmed, and not from the heat of the cookstove. She turned sharply and left the kitchen.
Fourteen months had passed…and nothing had changed.
As Jana passed Brandon’s study, she spotted him at his desk, flipping through papers. He had, apparently, already dispatched Oliver Fisk. And that didn’t suit Jana.
She walked into the study, Brandon’s earlier dismissal and the cook’s blatant disregard for her instructions still stinging.
“Why are you shutting down the Messenger?” she asked.
Brandon looked up. “You needn’t concern yourself with business matters.”
She stood in front of his desk. “I want to know.”
“It’s complicated.”
“I’m certain I can follow.”
He studied her for a moment, then sat back in his chair. “I purchased the newspaper two years ago. It was a strong rival for the Times. A few months later, the editor died. The paper floundered. A succession of editors couldn’t revive it. Oliver Fisk is the latest to try.”
“But you won’t give him the time he needs?” Jana asked, hearing the edge on her voice.
Brandon heard it too, obviously, because he sat forward again and began rummaging through the desk. “I gave him six months to show an improvement. That hasn’t happened.”
“Then give him more time.”
“I did.” Brandon opened a lower drawer. “I gave him two additional months—three times.”
“But if even more time is needed—”
“No more time.” Brandon closed the drawer with a thud and looked up at Jana. “The Messenger is losing money every minute of every day. I won’t tolerate that sort of loss any longer. Fisk has another six weeks to turn the paper around, or it will be closed. Permanently.”
“But what about all the employees?” Jana asked. “You can’t put those people out of work.”
“Most of them will find jobs at the Times. The others might find work at one of my other businesses,” Brandon said.
“And you won’t even consider giving Mr. Fisk another extension?”
“It won’t matter,” Brandon said. “If that newspaper could have been saved, it would have happened already. It’s a lost cause. Besides, I already have another project in the works for the Jennings Building. It’s coming along nicely. Once the newspaper is closed and moves out, I can go forward with it.”
“But that’s hardly a reason—”
“It’s the only reason I need.” Brandon came to his feet, the tone of his words and the look on his face ending their conversation. “And in the future, when someone such as Oliver Fisk shows up here, you are not to offer them any hospitality whatsoever.”
Jana’s simmering anger flared. “Are you telling me I cannot be civil to whomever comes to the house?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m telling you.” Brandon softened his voice. “It’s all right…this time. You didn’t know.”
Jana just looked at him, too stunned to speak.
Brandon came around the desk. “There’s something else I want to talk to you about. Last night you said I had no idea about why you left. I thought about that today.”
“You did?” Now she was truly stunned.
“Yes. I thought about it and I want you to know that I’m fully aware of why you left.”
A different sort of unease came over Jana. “You are?”
Brandon straightened his shoulders. “It was my fault, really. I didn’t give you enough guidance. You were young and somewhat pampered, and I should have provided more direction, made you more aware of your duties and responsibilities.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”
“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “As I said, it was really my fault. It was my duty as your husband to provide those things. I was remiss in not doing so.”
Her expression soured. “How generous of you to admit it.”
