Shield's Lady

control of this situation. It was getting ludicrously out-of-hand. “Now just hold on a minute. The restaurant is closed, I’ve told you that. I have a million things to do before I open for the dinner crowd and I haven’t got time to waste calling the police. Kindly take yourself out of here.”
    “A job applicant has to demonstrate perseverance. Employers respond to that. They’re impressed by it.” Quarrel glanced around the dining room. “Have you got an office?”
    “Yes, but I don’t see what that has to do with anything. Mr. Quarrel, I would appreciate it if you would…”
    “Through here, right?” He was already making his way between the maze of country French chairs and small, intimate tables toward the kitchen.
    Verity’s temper overcame her incipient nervousness. “What do you think you’re doing?” She leaped after him.
    “You want a resumé? I’ll give you a resumé.” He paced through the small tiled kitchen, past the large gas stove, the immaculately clean stainless steel counters and the sink, which was still full of dishes from the lunch crowd. Quarrel gave the sink a knowing glance. “Looks like you need me, lady.” Then he was at the door of her tiny office. “Ah, just as I thought. A typewriter.”
    Verity stared at his sleek shoulders and back as he dropped down into the chair at her desk, reached for a sheet of typing paper, and inserted it into the machine. “You’re going to type out a resumé? Right here in my office?”
    “Right. Now go putter around in the kitchen and stop nagging me while I work on this. It’s going to take a little concentration. Been a while since I had to put a resumé together. Christ. A resumé to wash dishes. What’s the world coming to?” He was already flexing his fingers over the keys.
    Short of calling the police, Verity was unable to think of anything else to do. She found herself looking at his hands as he began typing with quick, deft strokes. He had fascinating hands, she thought. Long, supple fingers and strong-looking wrists. A swordsman’s hands.
    A lover’s hands.
    That last impression made her frown. She stepped back out of the office and headed for the kitchen, trying to decide what to do next. This whole situation was bizarre. She didn’t feel personally threatened, but she did feel astonishingly helpless.
    Maybe the poor man really was desperate for a job; any job. Verity picked up the bottle of olive oil and went back to the tortellini salad she had been making.
    There was no denying that she needed help tonight. True, Laura and Rick Griswald, the husband and wife team who managed the Sequence Springs Spa, would be glad to send someone over, but it would be easier if Verity solved her own staff problems. It was unfortunate that Marlene Webberly had given so little notice before running off to get married three days ago. Amazing what love could do to a woman’s common sense. Marlene had always seemed such an intelligent young woman.
    Good help was hard to get.
    Verity was almost finished with the salad when the typewriter hushed in the small office. There was a long silence while her erstwhile job applicant apparently proofread his work, and then Verity heard a few more desultory keystrokes. Obviously Jonas Quarrel’s typing was not letter-perfect. He walked into the kitchen a moment later, thrusting his resumé into her oily hands.
    “Here you are, boss lady. Read it and then tell me I haven’t got the right qualifications for this job. In the meantime, I’ll finish off those dishes for you.”
    Verity clutched the resumé and stared at the opening typewritten lines. Frantically she searched for discrepancies, outright lies, or any other reason she might be able to find for ash-canning the piece of paper.
    “Age thirty-seven? I would have guessed you were a few years older.” Because of the ghosts in your eyes, she explained silently.
    “Thanks,” he growled. “I didn’t think I had that much gray in my hair yet.”
    She shook her head, glanced at his night colored hair and spoke without stopping to think. “It’s not the gray in your hair. You hardly have any. It’s the look in your eyes.” Her own eyes widened as she realized what she had just said. “Never mind. Forget it.” But her eyes widened even further in disbelief as she read the next section. “‘Education: Ph.D. in history from Vincent College.’ You have a Ph.D.?”
    “Yeah. Don’t hold it against me, okay?”
    “What area of history