Bentley Harrison was as good as his word. He faxed the requested documents soon after Michael's phone call. Michael perused them carefully, saw they were valid and in order, giving Miss Rochelle Rathbone access to a great deal of money. Added to what she brought with her, she was a very wealthy woman. Whatever worries she might be plagued with, she would never have to worry about financial security.
Enjoying the comfort of his chair, Michael thought about his life. Each new day became much like all the ones past, revolving around a dull routine, requiring daily phone calls, answering questions from staff, signing documents, along with all the other professional requirements of a bank president. His daily boring lifestyle reminded him of how much he hated banking. He was born wanting to create things, always enjoying any activity involving his hands. Loving to draw when he was a kid, he finally started drawing houses and buildings and soon discovered his calling. He finished high school, went away to college and trained for a career in architecture.
With his new degree in hand, he took a few jobs with some architectural firms, finally deciding to go out on his own when his name and work became a calling card capable of drawing clients on the merits of several beautiful buildings he designed. San Francisco was the base where his success began and spiraled—and crashed.
His success made him complacent, never dreaming that circumstances would throw him a left-hook and he would end up wearing an uncomfortable business suit every day to a job he despised.
Michael once heard or read somewhere the words emotionally deprived, and he had never thought much about the meaning until Rochelle Rathbone walked into his office. Now, glancing toward the door that separated them, he understood what the term meant. It adequately described the outcome of his life since becoming a banker. Sitting in the bank day after day, and cut off from everything that ever meant anything to him, with nothing to look forward to except more of the same, his life quickly settled into a state of anesthesia, a numbness that allowed him to interact with the demands required of him like a programmed machine.
Then Rochelle stepped across the threshold of his office door, jump-starting the adrenaline inside him, presenting a vision of stature and beauty worthy of stimulating feelings he thought were dead. With flaming gold mane framing a delicate and sensitive face, and skin begging for the touch of a man's lips, everything about her stimulated some inherent need. She provided a wonderful diversion from the routine and boredom continuously draining away his life like a missing plug. Her sudden presence, from beyond the borders of his small, confining environment, made him realize how bottled up his life had become.
Following the deaths of his father and stepmother, when his brother got the hell away as fast as he could, the bank became Michael's responsibility whether he wanted it or not. Somebody had to do it, and since his lazy-assed brother had other plans, Michael did not have much choice. The board of directors could have appointed someone else, he supposed, but by then, his life had undergone such overwhelming trauma, he stopped caring. He watched his career and dreams fall by the wayside as he turned to banking.
Banker's hours provided him extra free time, which he found ways to use effectively. He built his own house, a major accomplishment he took tremendous pride in, since there was nothing else to inspire pride. In the empty hours of idleness, he also dated a few females, failing to develop an attachment to any of them. Sometimes he wondered what in the hell was wrong with him that he could not get excited about any of the women he met. He supposed it had something to do with the mentality of small-town girls growing up, getting married, having babies, and then raising their babies to start the process all over again. Something seemed to be missing in such a lifestyle that presented the same boring outlook that his banking position did.
Michael spent more time with Caroline than anyone else, and that was only because Caroline aggressively pursued him. Left up to him, he probably never would have gone out with her again following their first date. She was not what he wanted in a woman.
She was pretty, but her other attributes were sadly lacking. The fact that she aggressively made herself available to him in bed created a sort of open meeting ground between them. Caroline was the one who planned all their intimate get-togethers. She offered, and he took. It proved an uncomplicated arrangement until she began reaching for something more permanent.
The first time she casually mentioned marriage, he found himself reacting with shock, never suspecting she might put greater significance on the relationship than what he did. As far as he was concerned, they were simply two people passing time together. She did the pursuing, acting as though she knew nothing permanent existed between them. Her mention of marriage, however, was a cold awakening, like ice water dashed in his face.
“Caroline, I'm sorry, but you've misjudged things between us.
Marriage is the farthest thing from my mind. I think we need to end this before anyone gets hurt.” He was gentle but blunt.
She gave no argument, letting his statement go in one ear and out the other. Things continued between them as before. She was the pursuer, he the pursued. Michael knew, however, beneath Caroline's subtleness, she hoped to change his mind. He also knew that was not going to happen.
Michael began thinking there was something wrong with him.
Out of all the women he had dated, some very worthy candidates for serious relationships, he always found something lacking in them.
His detachment from any kind of emotional involvement left him with an emptiness that seemed to gnaw at him constantly. Only when he actively dealt with projects using his hands, such as building his house, did he find meaning in his life. It also kept his mind from bouncing around in his head with all his many dissatisfactions following the trauma that sent him to jail.
He glanced toward the door of the conference room where Rochelle counted her money, listening, and thinking he heard sounds from within. With that much money to count, she would probably remain on task for some time.
Leaving his chair and office, he took a leisurely stroll through the bank, greeting patrons, being available to employees who needed to ask him something, mostly just killing time. Since Rochelle Rathbone was the most dramatic interruption in his life for many months, he kept thinking of her lovely face, the bouncy auburn-gold curls, the tall, petite figure with the shapely legs, and the deep fear flickering in her green eyes.
Letting his thoughts run an unguided course, Michael's imagination took over. He could visualize Rochelle dressed in a long slinky gown, her hair piled on top of her head, diamonds at her throat and ears. Then flicking to another scene, superimposed with lascivious visions, he imagined her dressed in a black lace see-through negligee, her long hair falling about her smooth velvety shoulders like polished silk.
Michael shook his head to clear it, feeling a terrible need for a dramatic change in his lifestyle. He was living too much in his imagination instead of actively making memories he could look back on when he was too old to do little else.
He went across the street, lingered over a cup of coffee, exchanged a few words with the proprietor, and then sauntered back to his office. He continued reading the morning paper, put aside earlier upon Rochelle's arrival. The afternoon moved on, the clock on his wall pushing toward late afternoon.
Finally, putting the paper aside, which he could not concentrate on anyhow, he tapped lightly on the door to the adjoining room. He pushed the door open and peeked through the opening.
The money lay in stacks, and Rochelle's head rested in her arms upon the table.
He walked quietly over to her and touched her shoulder. Her head snapped up with a jerk, and for a moment, she glanced about wildly with red, sleepy eyes.
“Oh!” she exclaimed when she saw him, recalling where she was, looking drugged from sleep.
“I'm sorry. I did not mean to startle you. Are you finished?”
She took a minute to get her bearings, looking about tiredly. “I think I am. I counted it twice and ended up with the same figure both times. The stacks are recorded here,” she said handing him the yellow pad. Thereupon, she indicated where her head was resting when he came in. “I'm sorry, I was so tired…”
“No problem. You'll need to fill out these,” he said, handing her an application for a checking account and savings account, and a deposit slip taken from a small table against the wall.
Reaching inside the thick manila envelope, she took out the withdrawal slips she had saved. Handing them to him, she said, “I forgot to give you these.”
She filled out the deposit slip, wrote in a seven figure amount that would have had anyone else bouncing off the walls with excitement. With her, it seemed a matter of routine as she finished the deposit slip and handed it to Michael. If she experienced awe of anything, it certainly was not money. Obviously used to having whatever amount she needed at her fingertips, she took it for granted. Michael did not. This amount of money deposited in his bank was a boon for his establishment. Small town banks were not usually so lucky to have such wealthy clients.
On the small table against the wall was a phone. Michael picked it up and asked someone to step into the boardroom. He expected the head teller's surprise when she walked into the room.
Upon seeing the money on the table in front of the young woman closeted in the bank president's office all afternoon, the woman's mouth fell open and she gasped aloud. “Did someone rob a bank?” she blurted out, looking from Michael to the attractive woman sitting at the table. When her boss cleared his throat, she began apologizing profusely for her blunder. “I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean that.”
“Nell, take care of this for me. Here's the deposit slip and the information to open a checking and savings account.”
Nell looked at the deposit slip, her eyes growing extremely large. Then she looked at Michael as though he had lost his mind.
“A checking and savings account?” No one in his or her right mind would put such an amount in a mere savings account. She kept casting furtive glances toward the young woman who looked more tired than rich.
“This is temporary just to safeguard the cash until she can make other investments. Right now she simply wants it in a safe place.”
“Very well,” Nell said with raised brows, taking charge of what had to be done.
Pulling Nell aside he told her, “This transaction is to be treated by all bank employees as completely confidential. Miss Rathbone's name is not to touch anyone's lips outside this bank or outside business. Anyone choosing to break that confidence will deal with me. Pass that on for me.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied, picking up the phone to call someone to help her.
“Are we finished?” Rochelle rose from her chair, stretching her shoulders and back.
Michael escorted her back to his office and closed the door on Nell's inquisitive gaze. “We'll wait for your receipt and temporary checks, and then I'll take you to the motel just up the street.”
He thought rather indelicately of inviting her home with him as his guest, but he knew that was stretching his business clientele relationship too far. He was just as aware that his interest was not due simply to being a Good Samaritan. His male urges had been in overdrive since the moment he had seen her.
“I need to do a bit of shopping first,” Rochelle said, brushing the wrinkles from her skirt, a tired, dejected dullness in her green eyes. She was recalling her beautiful clothes hanging in her closet in Miami, the expensive lingerie filling the drawers in her dressing room. Now the only thing she owned were the clothes she wore, and the items in the duffel bag.
“What sort of things? You will not find a large selection in the shops here. Perhaps you'd prefer to go into Bozeman.” He was well aware he was offering to take her. She knew it, too.
“I just need some jeans and shirts.”
“I know just the place. I can take you there while we wait.”
“I've already taken so much of your time. Why don't you just point the way to me?”
Michael sensed a dismissive tone in her voice, and was not ready for her dismissal. “My time is your time. I will be glad to walk with you and introduce you to the proprietress. It's the least I can do since you'll need to come back here for your receipts and checks.”
Rochelle gave him a tired smile and nodded.
Michael touched the tip of his fingers to her back and guided her from the bank while dozens of pairs of eyes watched their progress. The old gossiping grape vine was coming alive, as it had not done for some time.
Outside, a playful spring breeze lifted Rochelle's hair. A bank of fluffy white clouds floating by allowed the sun to shine brightly through the expanding opening. Michael offered Rochelle the crook of his elbow and she tucked her fingers in it unabashedly. The physical contact was oddly pleasant. She was aware the gesture was personal, sensing Michael's interest in her in the way he looked at her.
“A friend of mine has a shop where I think you'll find what you need,” he told her, covering her fingers in the crook of his elbow with a dark hand that seemed weathered compared to the rest of him.
Walking, they came to a small women's shop down the street from the bank, diagonally across from the restaurant. Michael opened the door and they stepped inside where he introduced Rochelle to his old friend.
“Hi, Mabel, I've brought you a customer,” he said, his manner friendly and personable.
Mabel raised thick brows over slightly sagging lids. “It's nice of you to bring me a customer, Mikey. Who do we have here?” She looked at Rochelle the way one might inspect a horse. She even turned Rochelle around in a circle to complete her inspection, forcing Michael to step to one side.
“Rochelle, meet Mabel,” he said casually, smiling tolerantly at Mabel's familiarity. With introductions out of the way, he took a chair in front of the store and browsed through a magazine found on a table.
“It's nice to meet you, Mabel,” Rochelle said, extending her small hand.
Mabel's eyebrows went up an inch as she touched a slightly damp palm. This one had manners. She wondered where Michael found her. “It's nice to meet you, too, Sweetpea. What can I do for you?”
Mabel was slightly overweight, had graying black hair, and wore no makeup. Her face was extremely pretty. Her colorful clothing fit nicely and complemented her pretty face.
“I'd like some jeans, a shirt, and lingerie.”
Mabel showed Rochelle the racks of clothing containing her size, and Rochelle wasted no time gathering up the items she needed. When she piled them all on the counter, Mabel turned a quizzical eye upon her.
“Wouldn't you like to try them on, Sweetie? They may not fit, you know.”
“I'm sure they'll do nicely,” Rochelle said, taking money from her purse to pay for the items. She was glad she remembered to keep a generous amount before depositing the rest. She would not need to start using checks until she got into much larger purchases. She put three single Hundred Dollar bills on the counter.
Mabel looked at the bills, then at Rochelle. She raised her brows again. “Sweetpea, you're not in New York City now. Less than half of that will more than pay for what you're buying.”
Michael looked up from his magazine, listening.
Rochelle looked startled by the remark and pulled back one of the bills.
Mabel rang up the purchases and counted out the change. “A word of warning, Sweetpea, you shouldn't go flashing those hundreds around so freely. People around here aren't used to seeing that much money.” She looked at Michael. “If she's banking with you, Michael, you should advise her more carefully,” she cautioned.
“Your advice is well taken, Mabel,” Michael said shortly, as Mabel gave him a quizzical stare and mentally tried to figure out what was going on with this gorgeous redhead and Michael.
“Thank you,” Rochelle said, dropping the bills and coins in her purse. She took the bag of apparel and headed toward the door with Michael falling in beside her. Her world seemed so haphazard in this strange little town. She was out of her element, a lonely, lost creature without a foundation beneath her. Depression hit her like a door slamming in her face.
“Is there anything else you need?” Michael asked before turning the way they came.
“No, thank you. This should do nicely until I have more time to shop. Tomorrow I will need to purchase a car and go house hunting.
Are there any properties you know of that are for sale?” she inquired, walking along beside him while he carried her packages.
“What exactly are you looking for?”
“Oh, I don't know; maybe something roomy, with a bit of land around it, in a good location, and preferably close to the interstate.”
Her meaning was clear. She did not want to be in confined spaces preventing escape if the need arose. “I'm sure our local realtor can help you. I don't suppose you'd be interested in renting instead of buying?”
“No, I don't think I'd like dealing with landlords. I have heard stories about how the plumbing can go bad, or roofs spring leaks, and a number of other inconveniences that can take days to repair.
I'd rather be in charge of my own repairs.”
“Then I'll be glad to introduce you tomorrow to Mr. Shipley, the realtor. Insofar as a car is concerned, I believe you will want to go into Bozeman. Our local car dealer only sells used models. What kind of car interests you?”
“I thought I'd like to look around a bit,” she replied.
“Good idea,” Michael told her. “I'll be glad to take you.”
She showed surprise. “You've been more than kind as it is,” she said earnestly, thinking she needed to get her feet wet on her own.
This was the first time she was in a position of having to look after herself. While it was preferable having Michael, or anyone at all, accompany her, it would be too easy to fall into the habit of depending upon him. As frightening as this new life was to her, she needed to learn how to manage on her own.
They went back to the bank, retrieved the paperwork and temporary checks from Nell, and then Michael marched Rochelle back out to his car.
“Mr. Matheson…”
“Michael,” he reminded her.
“Michael, you're really very kind, but I should probably get used to doing things for myself.”
He backed out of the parking space and drove away before answering. “And you shall, but it's only good business sense to treat a valued client with utmost courtesy,” he said, lightly disposing of the idea of a more personal reason.
“But I mustn't take you from your work. The motel isn't so far away I can't walk, and I can take a cab to the city for a car.”
“Rochelle, have you ever bought a car before?” he asked with questionable doubt.
“No, as a matter of fact I am quickly realizing there are many things I've never done,” she replied in bewilderment.
Dejection hung heavy in her voice, and Michael had the urge to wrap his arm about her shoulders and hold her until some of his strength flowed into her fragile limbs. He was attracted to her and had no qualms about getting in deeper. “If you go alone to buy a car, you will most likely pay several thousand dollars more than the overall value. Those car salesmen love to see a woman coming. If I'm with you, you'll get a better deal.”
“Then I suppose I should accept your generosity. However, please don't let me become a burden. Since I'm going to be on my own, I'd best learn how to manage.”
“You'll be fine, Rochelle,” he soothed in a kind voice, pulling up in front of the motel office. “Consider yourself among friends.
These people here are close, friendly, and willing to help each other.
You will have many friends in no time I am sure. Just do not expect too much of yourself too soon. It can't be easy starting over in a new place.”
“That's probably good advice,” she said as he climbed from the car and came around to open her car door.
He took her inside and spoke to the desk clerk. “George, this is a friend of mine. She needs one of your cleanest and best rooms.”
“All our rooms are clean and best, Michael. But I'll see the little lady is comfortable.” He whipped out a register slip. “Just sign your name,” he said, pushing the piece of paper toward her.
Rochelle quickly glanced toward Michael, wishing she did not have to put her name to any paper. He seemed to understand her reluctance, and took the pen and signed his own name. George handed him the key.
“I'll see her to her room, but keep an eye out for her, will you?
She's not used to being alone.”
“We'll take good care of her, Michael.” George told him nicely, letting his eyes wander appreciatively over a slender, shapely figure.
Back in the car, Michael drove through the lot and parked in front of the unit that matched the number on the key. With Rochelle's bag of purchases and the nearly empty duffel bag clutched to his chest, he unlocked the motel door with his other hand, and handed Rochelle the key. The room smelled airy and clean, the bedding freshly laundered, and he mentally applauded George for airing the units out every day when they weren't in use.
Touching Rochelle's shoulder, he nudged her across the threshold and followed, placing her things on the bed.
“Will you be okay here?”
“I'm sure I'll be just fine. The bed looks comfortable. Sleep is what I need just now.”
“Let me get you some ice,” Michael said quickly, picking up the plastic ice bucket and heading toward the ice machine. She was probably used to room service, and she would not find it too accommodating here where they had no such thing.
When he entered the room, the water in the shower was running. She had kicked off her shoes, and was putting her purchases on hangers. He put the ice bucket back in its place. Then he wrote his home and office number down for her. “If you need anything at all,” he said, handing her the piece of paper, “just call me.”
Her look at him was very intense, but kind. Then she said softly, “I will. Thank you so much.” She dredged up a friendly smile despite the overwhelming feeling of mounting depression at seeing the departing back of the only person she knew.
“Would you consider having a late supper with me, say about eight? That will give you some time to sleep.” He was patronizing her, but she was the first interesting female he had encountered since leaving San Francisco and he was enjoying every minute of it.
“I'm really not sure I'll be up to going out,” she stated apologetically.
“Why don't I call you about seven thirty, and if you're up to it, I'll stop by for you. We can go for fast food, or I can take you to a little steak house I go to frequently not far from here.”
“I really don't have the appropriate clothing for a dinner engagement.”
“Jeans and shirt are fine in most places around here. Most people wear about anything they're comfortable in.”
“Except bankers,” she teased lightly, gently raking her eyes up and down his gray suit. He was a fine looking man, she thought. His dark mane of black-brown hair, his chiseled features, his proud chin, and a smooth brow that hinted at faint worry lines, all seemed to reflect a responsible maturity. His lips drew her attention, and she wondered how many women those lips had kissed, wondered if he had been married, engaged, or simply unattached by choice.
“This is my banking uniform,” he answered, smiling at the timid grin on her lips. “I'll call you, say around seven-thirty.” He left quickly before she could counter his statement.
Rochelle locked the door and put on the night chain, leaning against it for several seconds, rethinking her activities since stepping off the bus in Windy Point. Wherever her thoughts wandered to, they always came back to and centered on Michael. He was interested in her and made no bones about his intention to be with her.
It was strange, she thought now, how just a few hours earlier she was certain she would never desire another man's company.
Now, here she was thinking how fortunate she was to have Michael in her corner. She knew she needed someone, a friend, and Michael was the only person she knew.
She turned on the television, stripped off all her clothing and climbed into the shower. Her thoughts flitted to Miami, to Tobias, and to the brief conversation with Bentley Harrison. Desolation seemed to wash over her in the warm spray of water flowing upon her. Thinking of yesterday was too painful; thinking of the moment seemed futile, and tomorrow seemed only a void. She had nothing to live for and nothing to look forward to in her future.
An explosion of tears burst forth and she slid down the shower wall on her haunches, the water pouring over her head and washing the salty tears down the drain.
With her thoughts trailing back to Miami, she could imagine the anger and furiousness felt by Tobias. He would be in a killing mood, and she believed that if he ever got his hands on her he would follow through on his threat to kill her.
“Oh, God, help me,” she cried in despair.