LITMIR.BIZ

      CHAPTER ONE

      SLADE REDDEN ran his eye down the day’s list of appointments. “Cory Haines? Who’s he? Another politician looking for a handout? If so, he’s clean out of luck.”

      Mrs. Minglewood coughed discreetly. “Cory Haines is a woman, Mr. Redden. She owns a landscape design company here in the city.”

      “And what does she want?”

      “She did not disclose the nature of her business, sir. But she was quite insistent that she have an appointment as soon as possible.”

      She’d want something. Everyone did these days; it was one of the penalties of success—or so Slade was learning. Ever since he’d won that international award for his inner city design in Chicago, realtors and bureaucrats and architects had been after him in droves. He rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t slept well last night, and the mixture of rain and snow that was choking the air was no incentive to get to work. Halifax, capital city of Nova Scotia, one of Canada’s eastern seaboard provinces, had obviously not heard of the concept that March was supposed to usher in the season called spring.

      Mrs. Minglewood regarded him sympathetically. She liked working for Mr. Redden on his rare visits to the company offices in Halifax; he was, in general, even-tempered, and treated her as though she was a real person and not a piece of modular furniture. Hidden somewhere in her capacious bosom was the added factor that he was easily the most attractive—not even in her secret thoughts would Mrs. Minglewood use the word sexy—man she had ever laid eyes on. None of the heroes of the old movies she doted on could compare with him. They didn’t even come close.

      “...at lunch?”

      Flustered, she said, “I beg your pardon, sir?” Patiently Slade repeated his question, and within half an hour Mrs. Minglewood had enough work to keep her busy the whole day. But she was not so busy around two o’clock that she didn’t watch for the arrival of Cory Haines.

      At three minutes to two the elevator doors opened and a young woman stepped out. She approached Mrs. Minglewood’s desk and said in a pleasantly low-pitched voice, “I have an appointment with Mr. Redden at two—my name is Haines.”

      Mrs. Minglewood’s bosom indulged in a pleasurable flutter of romanticism. Without a speck of envy—for she loved her stout, garrulous husband Wilfred and considered herself a truly happy woman—she decided that Cory Haines was exactly what Mr. Redden needed on such a miserable day. A real pick-me-up. “Come this way, please,” she said, and tapped on Mr. Redden’s door.

      Slade had been absorbed in the computer printouts of one of his latest projects—a renewal of the harbor frontage. He wasn’t happy with the placement of the boardwalk, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what was wrong. “Come in,” he called brusquely. He’d give this appointment ten minutes. Maximum.

      Cory heard the brusqueness and squared her shoulders. He wouldn’t be the first business executive to give her grief, nor would he be the last. Although his CV hadn’t led her to expect real problems.

      “Ms. Cory Haines, Mr. Redden,” Mrs. Minglewood said, and hesitated just a fraction too long before regretfully closing the office door.

      Cory walked into the office as though totally confident of her welcome. The magazine articles she’d searched out had prepared her for Slade Redden’s rugged good looks. But in person the man was far more impressive than any two-dimensional photograph could possibly portray. Oh, my goodness, she thought. It’s a good thing I’m immune... talk about an unfair advantage.

      Slade, quite unjustly, had pictured a gray-haired martinet with a jutting chin. He saw a woman considerably younger than his thirty-four years who nevertheless possessed that indefinable something called presence. In an attractive contralto voice she said, “It’s very good of you to spare me some of your time, Mr. Redden. I know how busy you are.”

      He stood up automatically, wishing he’d taken the trouble to comb his hair. His tie was askew, his jacket draped over the chair and his shirtsleeves rolled up. Oh, well, she’d have to take him as he was.

      At six feet he topped her by three or four inches. “May I take your coat?” he asked.

      It was a smart navy blue trenchcoat. As she slid it from her shoulders, he caught the scent of her perfume, a subtle blend that hinted of warmer climates; the overhead lighting caught in her smoothly groomed hair so that it gleamed like strands of copper. “Please sit down,” he said, hanging up her coat, pushing the papers on his wide mahogany desk to one side and getting right to the point; he rarely wasted time on social niceties. “What can I do for you?”

      He watched her take a moment to gather her thoughts. Her flared wool skirt, kingfisher-blue, worn with a richly embroidered vest and a white silk shirt, spoke of a woman confident of her own taste, who took pleasure in texture and colour. Her face, he thought, rather surprised both at his interest and his acumen, was like

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