Her Man Friday(28)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

Unfortunately, that was less and less up to Caroline, and more and more up to Chloe. And if Chloe didn’t give a damn about her future—or her present, for that matter—then how was Caroline supposed to help her?

The words she had rehearsed so meticulously to recite to Schuyler Kimball tumbled through her head, sounding stilted and stunted and sterile. Twenty minutes, she reminded herself. That was all the time she had to save a girl’s life. Twenty minutes to convince a man who may or may not be her father that Chloe Sandusky’s was a life worth living, a brain worth nurturing, a soul worth saving. God alone knew what the girl was capable of achieving if given even a tiny injection of self-worth. She might become a research scientist who would ultimately rid the world of disease. She might become a composer who created music to calm even the most restless spirit. She might become a leader who ran a government that would bring peace to a weary planet.

But none of that would happen unless someone could make Chloe understand how very important she was. Not just as a brilliant individual, but as a decent human being. Caroline had tried so hard to make the girl see how amazing and abundant her gifts were. But Chloe would be blind to those gifts forever unless someone else—someone she cared about more than she did the headmistress of her school—pointed them out to her, and praised her for possessing them.

Caroline flopped over onto her back again and tried not to look at the empty space on the other side of the bed, the space that had been empty for almost a year now. Instead, she thought about the morning to come. Twenty minutes, she reminded herself. How could she find enough words in that brief span of time to save the life of a child who didn’t consider herself valuable enough to rescue?

The moment his secretary led her into Schuyler Kimball’s library, Caroline knew she was about to undertake a battle for a lost cause. To say that the billionaire looked uninterested in her arrival would have been a gross understatement. In fact, as he closed his book and rose formally from a leather-clad sofa, what he looked to be was hostile. And immediately, instinctively, she shifted into self-preservation mode.

Strangely, though, she recognized at once that the reason her defenses leapt so utterly to alert wasn’t because of his clear animosity toward her. Antagonistic parents—and guardians—were part of the terrain where her job was concerned. But Caroline was fully confident in her ability to manage such situations when they arose. She was, after all, a professional. No, the reason every last one of her personal shields hurtled up now was, she was certain, to keep her safe from Schuyler Kimball as a man. Because Caroline Beecham, for all her self-assurance as an educator, was in no way confident of her abilities as a woman.

Particularly when she was faced with a man like this.

She found it odd that someone who worked at home would bother dressing in a power suit, complete with Windsor-knotted tie. She would have thought that would be one of the perks of self-employment—billionaire self-employment, at that—the freedom to wear whatever one wished when performing one’s job. Schuyler Kimball had so much power and so much money, she couldn’t conceive of a single person who might tell him what to do. Had she been in his place, she would have worn her pajamas every day.

Yet here he stood, in his own home, looking as if he had just risen from the head of an executive boardroom table. Then, for some reason, it struck her that perhaps this was the only way Schuyler Kimball could maintain his authority over his personal empire. By treating it the same way he would his professional one. Still, he seemed out of place here, dressed as he was. And certainly all the more formidable. She had rather been hoping she might catch him between tennis sets, when he would be more relaxed, more exhausted, more malleable. And, naturally, more amenable to seeing things her way.

Ah, well, she thought as she took a reluctant step forward. Might as well get this over with. Tally ho. Half a league onward. Mine eyes have seen the glory, and all that.

"The headmistress of Chloe’s school is here, Schuyler."

Miss Rigby’s announcement from directly behind her made Caroline flinch, simply because, for an instant, she had completely forgotten that she and Mr. Kimball weren’t alone in the room—or in the universe, for that matter. What was worse than her reaction, however, was the fact that he had obviously noticed her quick recoil, because he smiled slightly, almost, she thought, triumphantly.

"Thank you, Lily darling," he replied coolly, his gaze fixed not on his secretary, but on Caroline.

No one moved for a moment, then the soft click of the door closing behind her made Caroline flinch again. Because then she and Schuyler Kimball truly were alone—in the room and in the universe. For twenty minutes. Whether she liked it or not.

In light of his unmistakable antagonism, she inhaled a deep breath, threw back her shoulders, and smoothed a hand quickly down the front of her beige knit dress. The loose-fitting, nondescript, long-sleeved sheath wasn’t, perhaps, the most efficient armor in the world. With a man like Schuyler Kimball, she probably would have fought the battle more effectively if she had donned a hula skirt and halter top. But Caroline had learned long ago that if she wanted others to see past the outer shell that had always betrayed her, then she would have to learn to disguise it as best she could.

Evidently, she thought, as Mr. Kimball flicked a hasty—and indifferent—glance in her direction before turning away, she had succeeded well in that this morning, at least. As always, though, the victory felt hollow at best.

"Mrs. Beckwith, isn’t it?" he asked as he approached her, focused not on her, but on the rows of books he slowly passed.

"No," she replied easily, unwilling to lose her composure in light of his games. A man like him, she supposed, would always want to have the upper hand. Nowhere was it written, however, that she had to let him have it. "It’s Mrs. Beecham."

He kept coming until a scant foot of space separated them. But instead of halting to face her, he seemed to become preoccupied by something else and moved to her left, covering the half dozen feet between him and a wall completely obscured by books. He scanned the titles idly for a moment, until locating whatever had caught his interest. Withdrawing the volume, he opened it to the table of contents, then leaned one shoulder insouciantly against the shelf from which he had pulled the book and began to read.

She waited in silence while he finished his stalling tactic, suddenly none too eager to get on with the reason for her visit. Frankly, she found him far more interesting to watch than she did to talk to. She wondered if he ever stopped thinking, or planning, or scheming. For long moments, neither of them spoke, and Caroline congratulated herself for her patience. Then, as absently as he had taken an interest in the book, he lost it again, closing the volume and reshelving it with much care.