Chapter 8
STEVE TURKO whistled a show tune as he entered the office for the start of his first not-so-routine week.
Aggie, the pert blonde receptionist overdid it with a shrill, "Good morning, Mister Turko!" He darted her a smile. Until last Thursday when his new position was officially announced by Dan Moore, she never so much as cracked him a smile. He back-glanced the girl, concentrating on the firm tightly-skirted buttocks perched on the edge of the chair. Maybe she, too, had set her goals on becoming the new executive's private secretary, Steve smugly thought. The word was out that he would now rate his own Girl Friday and the run-of-the-mill office girls were bidding for the position with their most suggestive smiles.
"This might be fun," he devilishly told himself. He could think of at least a dozen qualified candidates for the position. Of course, he'd have to check their qualifications one-by-one up in his apartment, he mused, his brain racing wildly at the mental picture of each girl trying out for the job on his bed.
He shrugged tiredly. At his present pace with Adele, he'd never have that much free time—much less the energy. He glanced up at the clock over the conference room entrance. Nine-thirty—that was a good executive starting time, especially for a Monday morning. His thoughts traveled beyond the thick double portals; he could picture Sheldon holding ay over his captive audience of salesmen, mouth-g the same old tired "Get out there and sell the housewife," cliches. A faint smile traced his lips as he thought of Mildred Whitney surely perched on her stool in there, supposedly taking notes. He stopped momentarily, wondering if her legs were crossed at his favorite position—the right leg over the left—and if the eager young salesman hired to replace him appreciated the willowy view as much as he had for the past two years.
Steve shrugged it off; he had much more important matters to concentrate on. He jauntily paraded past desk after desk, each girl giving him the glad smile and the big hello. Nina Caldwell remained head down, deliberately thumbing through a file of papers.
"Good morning, Nina."
Head down, she nodded slightly, glued to her work. Steve stopped short. Saturday night, he suddenly recalled. Nina's surprise party for her parents ... he had forgotten all about it. He felt like kicking himself, angry that he had hurt her.
"Nina," he started apologetically, "I'm sorry about Saturday night."
"That's perfectly all right, Mister Turko," she monotoned, furiously thumbing the papers.
"You see, Saturday morning I had to go over to the factory in Jersey, and then I got tied up." Tied up. He recalled the drive over to Hackensack with Adele and her fire-red Jaguar. Sure, they had gone over plans for the new bar unit with the plant engineers, but then after cocktails and dinner—damned that Adele and her persuasive ways. She could make a man forget even his name. What was it she had said when they registered at the motel as Mister and Mrs.Smith? "Steve, darling, I've always dreamed of a honeymoon in Hackensack!"
"Nina?" he started again, wanting to soothe her hurt feelings.
"There's really no need to explain," Nina shrugged. "It's perfectly understandable how your new executive duties might tie up your entire Saturday evening and not even allow you time to call."
"Nina, I'm sorry—"
"It's all right, Mister Turko."
Steve hesitated. "Why the Mister Turko? I'm Steve, remember? We're still friends, aren't we?"
"If you wish—"
Steve studied her. So she was a good kid but, dammit, he was on his way up. And he didn't hurt her intentionally. "I'll see you," he said softly, continuing to his office.
He turned sharply into the corridor—a surge of satisfaction hitting him—executive row. He stalked past Sheldon's office, stopped at his own, lingered, admiring the lettering on the door:
STEVEN TURKO
SPECIAL SALES MANAGER
Pushing the door closed behind him, he stopped short, losing his wind at the sight of Mildred Whitney hovering about his desk, busily arranging folders.
She looked up at him with a smile. "Good morning, Mister Turko!"
He caught himself, edged closer to her. "Will someone please call me Steve—that's still my name."
She brought a little something extra to her smile. "Good morning—Steve."
He stood across the desk from her; enjoying the graceful body outlined by the clinging, knitted dress. She swooped over the desk to rearrange a file and he sucked in his breath at the daringly low plunge revealing the firm upper flesh of her breasts. She looked up at him, knowingly. He pulled out of his stupor, yanked off his coat and tossed it on the leather couch along with his hat.
Mildred clamped her hands on the slide of her hips. "I can see that you're going to need house-breaking," she sighed. He watched her dumbly as she moved into action, taking his hat and coat, hanging them properly in the small closet. She returned to him with a satisfied, "There."
"Why aren't you with Mister Sheldon?" he started slowly, many questions now ganging up within him. "Isn't there a sales meeting this morning?"
"Monday morning," she started with a toss of her head, "of course, there's a sales meeting. And some-how, they'll manage without me taking notes." She brushed close to Steve, supposedly rearranging an-other folder on the desk. She turned suddenly to him. "Those sessions can be a bore . . . "
Steve steeled himself. "The sessions— or Sheldon?" She wet her lips, a deliberate smile traced her crimson lips. "You're putting me on a spot, Steve."
Steve breathed her delicately-scented perfume. His eyes slanted downward, thoroughly appreciating the long-legged willowy body. A fire kindled in his loins as he thought of Mildred sprawled out on the couch as she had been a week ago. Only this time she wasn't writhing ecstatically on Sheldon's red-leathered couch, but twisting steadily on Steve's new green-leathered couch. And this time, Sheldon wasn't rolling down her sheer hose—Steve was performing the task, expertly backing up his hands with his lips.
The wall of perfume was closing in on Steve. He rubbed his chin, measured two paces away from her and gestured broadly at the paperwork on his desk, "What's all this for?"
"You're to have your pick of the present sales crew before you hire any new men. Mister Sheldon agreed to let you have one-fourth of the old crew."
"That was damned sweet of him," Steve sarcasmed.
"Mister Sheldon thought you might like to study the individual sales records and conduct reports—to pick out your men."
"Damned nice of him, Mildred, but you wasted a lot of time for nothing. I've already decided on the five men I want."
"But shouldn't you check the records—"
"I've worked with those men," he interrupted. Steve squared with her, a sudden anger mounting. "I don't give a damned what Sheldon thought! I'm running this new show!"
"Of course—" she flustered.
Steve rapped the flat of his hand dead-center of the paperwork. "So you can get this spy-data off my desk and give it back to Sheldon with all my regards!"
"Yes, of course—" she started, evidently caught offguard by his sureness. She quickly began to gather up the folders.
"Mildred." Without thinking, he clamped his hand about her sleek wrist. He turned slowly, slightly away from the sight of the invitingly smooth skin. "I didn't mean to bark at you. You were only doing what you were told to do."
"I understand," she smiled. "And I'm thrilled to see that you have a mind of your own."
"I only hope I get a secretary half as efficient as you are." He hesitated, then pressed his luck. "And merely a fraction as beautiful as you."
She turned to him fully. "How does a girl go about applying for the job?"
"You?" Steve tightened, reeling slightly away from her. "I'd give anything to have you work for me. But you're Sheldon's girl."
"Sometimes a girl needs a change," she montoned.
"Sheldon would never stand still for it. Right now his pride is bent to the breaking point."
"Steve, suppose you leave it to me."
Steve studied her. "I'm listening."
"Breaking in a private secretary is a big job. You'll be too busy to do it. Why not hire a new girl—an outsider—to assist me for a few months. I'll supervise all the details and paperwork for both you and Sheldon until the new girl can handle one of you on her own."
Steve paused long enough to backtrack her little scheme. He smiled widely. "Then one of us gets the new girl—and the winner takes you."
"That's very flattering of you, Steve," she sighed with a false coyness.
"I like the idea," Steve said. "But will Sheldon buy it?"
"Suppose you leave that to me, Steve."
He moved in closer to her. "I'm curious to know who you're betting on, Mildred."
She wet her lips devilishly. "The winner," she in-formed him. "A girl can't be too careful."
Steve hesitated, suppressed his urge to let his hands get the feel of her sleek sides, grip at her haunches, bury his face in the low plunge of her dress, inhale the warmth of her bosom. Instead, he uttered: "Something tells me we'll get along just fine, Mildred." Her lips were inches away from his, but he swallowed hard and mustered all his restraint. He forced himself away from her, edging around the desk, seating himself comfortably. "How about a drink after work?" he proposed.
"About five-thirty?" she asked, as though to tone down her quick acceptance. He nodded his approval of the time and an uneasy pause ensued.
The phone rang and they reached for it simultaneously. Steve retreated with a smile as Mildred picked up the receiver. "Mister Turko's office," she beamed, the words music to Steve's ears. "Who's calling, please?" Mildred pulled the receiver away from her ear, stared across the desk at Steve. "She won't say."
Steve reached out and took the receiver from Mildred's hand. "Hello," he said gruffly.
"Steve, darling," Adele's voice cut sharply into his senses. "Get rid of that bitch. I'd like to talk to you." Caught offguard, Steve froze, remained silent. "What's the matter, Stevie, darling," Adele's acid-like words poured into Steve's ear, "did the cat get your tongue? Or did you give it to that redheaded snake?"
Steve flushed with anger, was forced to use restraint because of Mildred's presence. "Just one moment," he tightlipped into the mouthpiece. He looked across the desk at Mildred, forced a smile. "Mildred, would you mind very much—"
Mildred interrupted him with a knowing smile. "I understand." She turned, made the most of her exit with a somewhat practiced long-legged undulation. She darted Steve a final glance before closing the door behind him.
Steve steeled himself, firmly gripping the receiver. "Listen, Adele," he started angrily. "I said I'd call you—"
"Oh, dear me," she sighed syrupy. "Will you listen to the big executive!"
"All right, all right."
"Steve," she seriously intoned. "Don't be fooled by the sudden attention you're getting. Especially dear little Mildred."
"She brought me some files from Sheldon's office," he shrugged.
"I'd like to suggest a more qualified girl to be your private secretary. Nina Caldwell."
"Nina Caldwell?" he gasped.
Steve reddened, fought his urge to hang up on her. He loosened slightly. "I'll think about it," he offered. "And I might be a little late tonight, Adele," he added, remembering his date with Mildred. "You needn't hold up dinner for me."
"Take all the time you need, darling," she quickly countered. "On one condition. If you do manage to make Mildred tonight, then wise-up to her working with Sheldon." Steve remained speechless. "Are you still there, Steve?"
"Damn you," he whimpered, beginning to feel like a broken record.
"'Bye, darling," she oozed before he heard the click terminating the phone call.
He hung up, puzzled and angered.
"That woman—" he shrugged, conceding defeat.