LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

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