Chapter 2
STEVE took an instant dislike to the doorman at the Cragmore Arms. Maybe it was part of his job to check visitors, but Steve didn't appreciate the sneaky glance he got upon replying: "Mrs. Thomas L. Crandon."
The runty, shallow-eyed character, uniformed like a Napoleonic general, was playing the part to the hilt. Out of that ridiculous tassled-uniform, Steve could imagine the little guy a strip-suited pimp on any Forty-second Street corner.
"Are you selling anything?" the doorman asked, eyeing Steve's bulging briefcase.
"Mrs. Crandon asked me to stop by," he replied, purposely avoiding any mention of selling.
The little general gave him a slow once-over. "Okay," he muttered, and turned to the elevator operator. "Apartment 3410, Joe," he informed his co-worker as though it held a second meaning.
On the thirty-fourth floor, Steve padded along the lushly-rugged corridor until he spotted Apartment 3410. He hesitated before pressing the buzzer, his common sense telling him that people who live in swank places like this aren't interested in "Nutritious meals at incredibly low prices—made possible by Polar Bear's Food Freezer plan." People like this dine out at expensive restaurants.
But who was Mrs. Thomas L. Crandon?
He had passed out his calling card and brochure to countless women. He couldn't possibly remember them all. There was only one way to satisfy his curiosity and he took the first step by pressing the buzzer.
The waiting seemed endless. He suddenly found himself as frightened and nervous as the first day he had ventured out to sell magazine subscriptions.
He steeled himself as the door opened. His eyes widened, taking in the length of her sleek haunches encased in sheer black leotards. His eyes traveled over her firmly pointed breasts. The sparkling auburn tresses were piled high, like a coiled snake, pointed and ready to unleash its fury on the world.
She waved him into the foyer with one hand, holding a glass of what appeared to be tomato juice in the other, and closed the door behind him with a certain air of finality. "I guess you're here to sell me a freezer."
"That's right. My name's Steve Turko."
"I know," she smiled. She set the drink down long enough to slip on a smock and tug the sleeves up above her elbows.
Puzzled, Steve studied the woman. There was a sureness about her, the regal way she carried herself. And yet, she radiated a certain warmth. Her age could have been anywhere from twenty-five to forty.
"Well," Mrs. Crandon gestured with arms spread out. "Let's hear your pitch." She hesitated. "Do you think you can sell me a bill of goods?"
Steve started to open his briefcase. "If you'd care to look over our brochure—-"
"I'd rather hear it from you," she interrupted.
Steve stared down at a lavishly-furnished, sunken living room. To his left, an extension of the foyer, leading doubtlessly to any number of bedrooms. To his right, he spotted a tiny kitchenette—hardly the place to install a bulky freezer unit.
"As you've probably heard," Steve uttered, forcing himself to start the spiel. "Polar Bear's food plan is geared to meet your family's needs. Might I ask the size of your family?"
"Just my husband and I," she shrugged. "But he's rarely ever home."
"I see."
"Mister Crandon travels a great deal," she explained. "He's down in Australia at present—the Melbourne Tournament."
"You mean tennis?"
"That's right," she beamed falsely. "The game where two grown men in little white shorts hit this ball back and forth over a net."
Although he didn't follow the sport closely, Steve was aware of some of the top tennis stars. "You mean—your husband is that Crandon—Tommy Crandon?" She nodded. "His picture was in the news-paper the other day."
"Yes," she deadpanned, "holding his dear trophy." She sipped at her drink. "Now tell me all about your marvelous food-freezer plan."
"Well, Mrs. Crandon…." Steve flustered, not certain of his next step.
"You seem to have forgotten your lines," she smiled knowingly. "Maybe you need a drink." She displayed her glass. "This is not ordinary tomato juice. It's a delightful Bloody Mary—perfect for dismal Mondays."
"Well . . ." Steve stammered, "I never drink while I'm working."
"A salesman with no bad habits?" she questioned, somewhat haughtily. "I don't believe it."
Steve flushed, annoyed with his schoolboyish reaction to the situation. His imagination ran wild at the thought of what might possibly follow the drink. She'd be a lot of real woman . . . Steve caught him-self. From experience, he knew that all those spicy traveling salesmen stories with the solid punchlines were strictly from hunger. It just didn't happen that way in real life door-to-door selling. Mrs. Crandon was most likely indulging in what she considered clever repartee. One false move on his part and she'd doubtlessly scream bloody murder.
"Shall I mix your drink?" Mrs. Crandon asked. "Thanks, anyway," Steve replied stiffly. "I wouldn't want to put you to any bother."
"No bother," she interrupted, pointing to a plush bar in a corner of the sunken living room. "In fact, I'm all set up for a cocktail party this afternoon." She started gracefully down the three steps into the enormous ultra-modern room. "Oh, dear, I must remind my maid to order some hors d'oeuvres."
Steve enjoyed the agility of her body in motion, the even flow of her steps. "Entertaining must be quite a task," he started, merely to make conversation while automatically following her to the bar.
"Sheer drudgery," Mrs. Crandon groaned. "You invite twenty people and you wind up with sixty."
Suddenly something clicked in Steve's brain. He was certain he'd never sell Mrs. Crandon a freezer unit with a spiel geared toward middle-income families. Maybe there wasn't much kitchen space for a Polar Bear freezer unit—but there was room to spare behind that plush bar.
"Mrs. Crandon," he started, suddenly sure of him-self. "Why not let our company assist you with your entertainment problems?"
"Really?" she questioned, turning suddenly, extremely close to him.
"With our service," Steve went on, "you'd be the most popular hostess among your circle of friends."
Mrs. Crandon deliberately placed her glass on the bar, watched Steve with a sudden new interest. "Tell me more."
"The freezer unit could be installed behind the bar—in a blending decor, naturally—and it would be supplied with trays of beautifully decorated delicacies from all over the world! Merely defrost and serve."
"Really?"
Steve swallowed hard, decided to go for broke. "Ma'am, our special foods department is capable of handling any request whatsoever," he lied.
Mrs. Crandon started swaying her head in a continual motion until her smile broke out into laughter.
Steve stiffened. "Lady, I'm glad I amuse you! If you don't mind I'll leave now—"
"No, wait—" she pleaded, checking her laugh-ter. "Please don't go." She placed her hand on his wrist, her eyes meeting his. "I was laughing at myself—not you."
Steve hesitated. He found himself suspended by the seemingly hypnotic gleam of her green eyes. She calmly removed the hat from his hand, placed it on the bar. "I guess I owe you an explanation, Steve." She gave his wrist a squeeze. "You don't mind if I call you Steve?"
"No . . ." he shrugged dumbly.
"Fine," she smiled, releasing her grip on his wrist. "Why don't you take off your coat and let me mix you a drink?"
Steve silently removed his coat, placed it neatly on one of the three bar stools.
"Why don't you have a seat?" she asked, moving behind the bar.
Steve perched himself on the plush middle stool. He started to place his hands comfortably on the bar when he suddenly grew angry with himself. This woman had a certain way of asking a man to do something that was in reality a command.
"Will a Bloody Mary do it?" she asked in the same manner.
Steve relaxed. "Make it scotch on the rocks," he shrugged, "if you don't mind?"
"I don't mind at all." A smile formed effortlessly on her crimson lips. "In fact, I'll join you."
Steve watched her pour ample amounts of the amber fluid over the ice cubes in each heavy tumbler. "Mrs. Crandon, might I ask what was so funny a while ago?"
She placed his drink before him, leaning over the bar, extremely close to him. "If I'm calling you Steve, shouldn't you call me Adele?"
"What was so funny, Adele?"
"The Polar Bear Company catering to cocktail parties with frozen trays of hors d'oeuvres."
"Why do you doubt it?" he asked, aware of the slight quiver in his voice.
She took a sip of her drink, placed the tumbler on a gaily-colored doily. "Because I happen to be the major stockholder in the Polar Bear Corporation," she deadpanned.
Steve swallowed hard. "You mean—" he stammered. "Mister Moore doesn't—"
"Oh, Dan Moore owns a solid chunk of the company," she explained, then grinned devilishly. "Let's just say that I own more of it than he does. And Mister Moore is very grateful for what you did for him—you know, that touchy incident."
"For rescuing him—or keeping my mouth shut?" Steve asked cynically.
Adele smiled. "Dan Moore was right. You are sharp. And I happen to think your brainstorm about party freezer cabinets has possibilities. But I doubt if Sheldon and most of that sales crew have enough class to put it across."
Steve watched her move gracefully from behind the bar to the stool alongside him. She perched herself regally, swiveling her long limbs toward him. He stared down at the sheer black material of the leotards hugging her curvy thighs, accentuating her full hips.
Steve started slowly out of his daze. The rumors were true and Adele Crandon was the woman behind the scenes. He suddenly realized one other thing. She had just made a damned fool of him.
He watched her perched precariously on the edge of the stool, stretching and flexing her legs with the agility of a ballerina. Instantly forgetting all that puzzled and annoyed him, his prime instinct was to reach out and steady her in his arms.
She halted the movement of her long legs, bringing to a standstill the provocative twitch of her hips, leaving Steve with his arms suspended in midair.
"I won't fall," she informed him.
A sudden anger overtook Steve; he bolted off the stool. "I don't know the name of your game, but somehow I managed to earn a living before I ever sold Polar Bear Freezers and I'll earn a living long after I'm through with your outfit!" He angrily grabbed at his second wind. "And you can tell Mister Moore that his little secret is safe with me. I'll never repeat what happened that night—because I'd rather forget the whole damned thing!"
"Suppose Mister Moore wanted to show his appreciation?" Adele asked suggestively.
Steve grabbed his hat and coat. "All Mister Moore had to do was say `Thank you.' And he's had practically a month to say it."
Adele made a point of mulling this over. "You're sharp, Steve, but you haven't been around long enough to understand a man like Moore."
"Okay, so I'll leave in blissful ignorance."
"Before you do, Steve, I'd like to ask you one question. Do you intend to be a door-to-door sales-man the rest of your life?" She took a delicate sip of scotch and soda. Her hesitation seemed deliberate, annoying Steve. "Dan Moore thinks you have the potential for something better."
Steve's jaw dropped. Adele arched her back primly and pointed to the drink she had poured for him. "No sense letting all that good scotch go to waste, is there, Steve?"
"Let's take this nice and slow," he monotoned, close enough to her for his nostrils to be aware of delicate, obviously expensive perfume. "Why should he reward me with a better job?"
"Very selfishly," Adele nonchalantly explained. "You might be damned good for us."
Steve hesitated. "And you? Do you share his enthusiasm?"
Adele grinned devilishly. "That little selling charade I put you through—wouldn't you say that's a tip-off to my very suspicious nature?"
Steve nodded, pieces of the puzzle starting to fall into their proper places. "This past month—ever since that night—you and Moore have been checking upon me?"
"I have," Adele confessed. "Moore's the type of man who relies too much on first impressions and his own snap judgment. Let's just say I've checked up on you a bit."
"And you were satisfied?" Steve asked cynically.
Adele hesitated, her hands pressing the flat of her stomach. "Fascinated is more like it," she finally replied. "I probably know you better than you do yourself."
"I'm listening."
"Play it big. Don't ever let people know you're down—because all they'll ever give you is another boot further down. But when they think you've got something—they fall all over each other to give you more."
Held in the fascinating sway of her, Steve studied her, pondering the mystery. "You're quite a woman."
"Thanks for the compliment," she replied dryly. "It's difficult being a woman. The closest I've come lately to really being a woman was a moment ago when you held me in your arms. It felt a helluva lot better than looking at a roomful of trophies."
Steve's jaw dropped and he felt a sharp jab in the pit of his stomach as she calmly gathered his coat and hat, moved across the length of the room, up the three steps, across the foyer and waited for him at the door.
Each step seemed a mile until he was alongside her at the exit. She handed him his hat and coat.
"I'll give you another tip for success," she started slowly. "Don't ever level with anyone—like I did with you. It weakens your bargaining position."
She reached up and kissed him gently.
"Was that on the level?" Steve asked.
"I always manage to get rid of the last of my cock-tail guests by eight o'clock. That might be as good a time as any to find out for yourself."
She opened the door and as he exited he was certain of but one thing: he had finally met a real woman.