 
MORGAN'S CHASE

Power Play

By

# Lucy St. John

#

#

# Professionally Edited Second Edition

Smashwords Edition

©Copyright 2013 by Lucy St. John

Chapter 1

Morgan Chase always suspected that professional success brought with it a certain amount of sexual satisfaction. It had certainly worked for her mega-rich, super-successful ex-husband, Brock Ballentine. She guessed this from the way he puffed on those enormous Cubans with such self-satisfied smugness. Certainly, a man's cigar was proxy for his penis.

Now, she knew it for certain.

There she was, commanding the oak-paneled boardroom of Tech Teachers Ltd., having brought the firm's breakthrough education project in on time and on budget. Morgan's entire team gazed up at her with respect and admiration. Her male personal assistant -- a decade younger with the dark features, hair and body of a Greek god -- was by her side, as well. His smoky, brooding eyes were locked on her.

Even the company's executive vice president – Morgan's boss – Hal Linden was rapt by her commanding presentation, the final internal unveiling before her breakthrough project would be unfurled before the Pennsylvania Department of Education.

There was no doubt. She, Morgan Chase, had reached the pinnacle. The blue-collar born, Wharton-educated daughter of a humble Pittsburgh firefighter was now setting the world ablaze. And it thrilled her, even as she stood at the center of the boardroom and aced her carefully crafted presentation. The hair on the back of her neck prickled. Her sculpted cheeks flushed with just the right amount of pride. And, yes, an electric charge buzzed beneath her Victoria's Secret thong.

Morgan Chase was feeling it – that mythic business boner that the Big Boys like her ex-husband and Hal Linden had tried to keep all to themselves. But she had it now. She earned it. And, by damned, she would keep it erect.

"What we have created, what we will bring to market, ladies and gentlemen, will do nothing less than revolutionize public education," Morgan Chase annunciated with perfect diction that had long ago been sanitized of her Western Pennsylvanian accent.

As she spoke, her assistant, Darren Spencer, cycled through the fully animated three-dimensional samples of the digitized teaching tools that would make books, notes, tests and even teachers completely obsolete.

"In the age of the Internet, the smartphone and the personal computer tablet, where digitized bits command our children's attention for hours on end, the classroom teacher is as outdated, quaint and financially unwise as 1950s television," Morgan sang on, her voice a perfect mix of confidence, enthusiasm and competence. "We are harnessing the undisputed hypnotic power of the video game and turning it into an undeniable force of light, knowledge and education. We are making it a teaching tool that won't be seen as a chore to our children. It will be sought out by them as an immersive, mind-altering, game-changing fountain of knowledge. These tools harness digital technology to conjure first-hand experience and hands-on education that can transport our children to the ends of the earth, the depths of history, the halls of science, and the pantheon of business. Not to instill a mindless mush of facts, dates, places and people, but to engrain, instill and inspire real emotion, experience, experimentation and imagination. And our young people will come to this vast oasis of education, not because a class schedule tells them to, or a bell rings or a teacher stands before them. But because their very neurons and nerve endings will crave it. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the precious fruits of your long and loyal labors. I give you my dream that each one of you has toiled tirelessly to make a workable reality. I give you Project Renaissance."

With that, the video presentation reached a crescendo in which characters from history, science, math, economics and various other disciplines came together as if to underscore the 360-degree education that was now at the click of a mouse or the jerk of a joystick, all courtesy of Project Renaissance and Morgan Chase. As music swelled, the iconic characters surrounded an empty classroom seat. This symbolized the space waiting for each and every school student across Pennsylvania and beyond. All that stood in the way of their access to this limitless knowledge served up in this addictive new way was an unprecedented $890 million upfront commitment by state education secretary David Dillon. Morgan would be meeting with Dillon in just two days to tie up this remaining detail. With her team breaking into spontaneous applause, Morgan had no doubt that she would secure the contract, instantly legitimizing Project Renaissance as a nationwide teaching tool capable of nothing less than revolutionizing public education, as we knew it.

Right on cue, the swelling music ended, the boardroom lights came up and the entire boardroom stood and continued its admiring applause. All eyes were locked on Morgan. She had done it. And everyone in that room knew it.

"Thank you," she said, shouting over her team's enthusiastic applause. "But you're applauding yourselves. You, each of you, did this. You took a pipedream and turned it into reality. And by the end of the week, we will take the product that each one of you created and turn it into a multi-billion-dollar licensed property that will be sought after by each and every school district in this country. So I salute you. All of you."

"I second that," executive vice president Hal Linden echoed in his rich baritone.

Morgan was both surprised and appreciative that Linden, who headed the company's heretofore-stodgy education and textbook division, had permitted her to get through her entire presentation without so much as a peep. Perhaps, this was because Linden knew he had bucked against the project from the start. And now that it would mint the company as a national player, he soon would be deferring to Morgan, rather than directing her. After bringing in Project Renaissance, Morgan was in line to head up her own division – Interactive Education Technologies. It would be spun off from Linden's Education Division. And with Morgan installed as its executive vice president, she would control the company's biggest revenue-generating sector. And then Linden would be lucky to be Morgan's co-equal, let alone her boss.

"What a fantastic job. All of you," Linden continued. The one-time college quarterback's handsome face was relaxed into his most gracious grin. "All of you taught this old textbook salesman a thing or two about the future of education, I must say. But none more so than Morgan, here."

Linden turned and looked admiringly at Morgan.

"You did it," he said, dipping his head in a show of deference. "You had the vision – one I admit I did not see – and you executed it. It's the greatest display of product innovation, team-building and institutional transformation that I've ever had the pleasure of witnessing in the corporate world. You should be proud. And you will be rewarded. All of you will, but none more so than your leader, mentor and friend, Morgan Chase."

With that, the applause swelled again, and Linden leaned over and hugged Morgan, then planted a fatherly kiss on her reddened cheek.

She didn't expect this. To be sure, she had long fantasized of the flirty, dismissive Hal Linden kissing up to her one day. But the sharp break and sudden reversal of their roles was too abrupt, even for her.

"Thank you, Hal," she said, somewhat embarrassed and, yes, even feeling a bit sorry for old, gimpy Linden. After all, he had always been a straight shooter with her. He was upfront about his skepticism. Yet, he had never tried to sabotage her project -- or her authority. And now that the tables had turned, he would not stand in the way of her rightful ascendancy in the company.

"All right, everyone," Morgan announced, trying to regain a measure of control over the situation. "We don't have that contract signed yet. I want each of you to write a one-page review of the presentation so I can tweak it for the secretary. We meet in two days. This was our pat on the back, but that meeting is our defining moment. It's when Project Renaissance becomes the new reality of public education. So let's go people."

Morgan would not have to speak twice. Her team knew and respected her boundaries. They began packing up their laptops and iPads, each of them pausing to shake Morgan's hand or hug her on the way out of the boardroom. In a matter of minutes, the only people remaining in the room were Morgan, her assistant Darren and Hal Linden, who had crashed back into his swivel chair. His audience gone, Linden's grin had wilted to a frown, and he appeared decidedly less powerful slumped in his chair.

"How do you think it went?" Morgan asked Darren.

The twenty-something's piercing eyes shone brightly under his dark brows.

"Fantastic," he gushed. "You'll have Secretary Dillon eating out of the palm of your hand."

"As long as his hand is curled around a pen that scribbles his signature on a state contract -- that's all I care about," Morgan shot back. "I know you're going to kill me, but I'll need you to collate all the staff reviews to determine if there are any common themes that might prompt us to rethink portions of the presentation."

Darren bobbed his chin up and down in the affirmative as he scrawled Morgan's instructions on paper.

"Not a problem. I'm on it. Anything else?"

"I'd probably feel better if we went through it a couple more times. How's first thing tomorrow?"

"Perfect," Darren chirped.

"You're the best," she said, and then turned to Linden.

"Any feedback, Hal?" Morgan asked.

The vice president frowned.

"I think you nailed it," he said, matter of factly. "With that product, a monkey could close the deal."

"Gee, thanks," Morgan said uncertainly, her face twisted into a puzzled expression.

"You know what I mean," he said, waving his hand. "You did a great job. But it's product that will make the sale. That's what an old textbook salesman once said to me – let the product close the deal."

Morgan nodded. "My plan exactly."

"Good," Linden brightened. "Can I borrow you for a second?"

"Sure," she said.

"In private," Linden elaborated, shooting a look at Darren, still right by his boss's side, as always.

Yet, Darren didn't so much as move, even though the executive vice president had just dismissed him. Instead, his eyes went to Morgan. She absolutely loved his loyalty.

Finally, she nodded to her handsome, young assistant.

"Do you need anything else, Ms. Chase?" Darren inquired, as if not having heard Hal Linden at all.

"It's fine, Darren. I'll meet you back in the office," Morgan said, smiling her appreciation.

In moments like these, she could imagine herself getting lost in Darren's deep brown eyes. She was only human, after all. And she was all woman – a woman who had been without a husband for nearly two years and one who had never quiet shaken off her college coed shyness around men, especially handsome men. Sometimes, Morgan, as beautiful and confident as she was now, still saw the pimply, bespectacled freshmen frowning into her dorm room mirror.

"Absolutely," Darren replied. "I'll get right on those staff reviews."

Darren's dexterous hands and long fingers gathered up the laptop, mouse and legal pad, folded them under an arm and glided to the door. Morgan watched him depart with a mix of pride and just the slightest hint of lust. As professional as she was, there was no denying that her sexual juices still stirred at work. Mostly, it was a function of all the time she spent at the office, along with all the attractive people who populated it.

"Got quite the loyal puppy, there, don't you?" Hal Linden spoke from his chair, as if reading Morgan's mind.

The remark caught her by surprise. She half-jumped, then turned to Linden, attempting to collect herself.

"He's competent," she said. "It's the main metric I use to evaluate my team."

"Of course," Linden said, leaning forward, a knowing grin on his face. "How many points for his looks?"

"Hal," Morgan scolded.

Linden coughed a laugh.

"That's the problem with you female executives," he chuckled. "No sense of humor about sex. If you were a guy, you'd be calculating your hubba-hubba rating right down to the decimal point as we speak."

Morgan frowned at what she knew was the truth. For ages, looks were part of the criteria male executives used to grade their female employees. Why not the other way around?

"All right," she said. "He's a 9.7."

"And the deduction?" inquired a playful Linden.

"If anything, he's a bit too subservient," Morgan confided, feeling liberated at her first foray into locker room banter. "I like a little more of a challenge. He could do with a bit of an ego and attitude, as well."

"Of course," Linden agreed. "You were married to the great Brock Ballentine. Talk about an ego."

"Too much in the other direction," Morgan corrected. "Way too much in the other direction."

"Now you're getting it," Linden cheered. "Once you start being the Alpha, it comes easy, believe me. You'll even come to appreciate subservience. In fact, your own ego will demand it."

Linden let loose a wicked chuckle. This time, Morgan felt cheap. She needed to switch tracks.

"Well," she muttered. "Thanks for the lesson."

"Anytime. It's about the only thing I can teach you anymore."

"Not at all," Morgan shot back, perhaps a bit too consoling.

"I don't need your pity," he scoffed. "I'll be fine. Textbooks still have a long run ahead, despite your new-fangled teaching tools. I'll miss working with you, though. Once you move out and up to your own division."

"Thank you, Hal." Morgan glowed at Linden's acknowledgement of her imminent promotion. It made it all the more real. And she couldn't wait.

"That's why I'm requesting the honor of your presence for dinner – 7:30 tonight at Ruth's Chris. My treat, of course. No office talk, either. Just two old souls chewing over life – and filet mignon."

"Sounds wonderful," Morgan haltingly replied. "But with the presentation coming up..."

"It's two days away," Linden cut her off. "And you already have it down cold. I insist."

"Okay."

"Don't sound so thrilled."

"I am. Thrilled that is," she said. "Thanks for the gesture."

"Don't mention it," Linden said, pushing himself from the chair. "Meet me at the bar. Come hungry – and thirsty. Your move to the Big Boys' table starts tonight."

With that, Hal Linden, all six-foot, three-inches of the old college quarterback, scrambled out of the boardroom.

Morgan was left alone with her triumph.

Could it really be true? At long last, had she finally arrived?

Chapter 2

Morgan clomped confidently across the 28th floor of the Pittsburgh skyscraper. Her corporate colleagues seemed to stop and stare as she strode through the plush, paneled, labyrinth hallways and offices, until reaching her own spacious but not-yet-corner office.

Her assistant, Darren Spencer, rose wordlessly, right on cue as she breezed by his desk. He swiped his iPad from his too-neat desk, turned on a heel and followed Morgan into her comfy confines. She proceeded directly to her leather captain's chair and promptly plopped down into its arm-like embrace.

Darren dutifully closed the office's heavy wooden door behind him. And just like that, Morgan was finally off stage.

She exhaled with a mix of relief, pleasure and exhaustion from behind the wooden expanse of her desk. She kicked off her heels, and flung her pedicured feet atop her desk, then leaned back in her leather chair.

After a moment to center herself, Morgan looked up sheepishly at Darren. Her crystal blue eyes peeked through tufts of sandy blonde bangs.

"So how do you think it went? Really?"

This was the unconfident college coed fishing for a compliment but secretly expecting the worst. It was as if Morgan always expected to be unmasked as a fraud. Deep down, she still didn't believe that she belonged here.

Darren deposited his iPad on her desk, danced around its expanse, and expertly laid his strong, gifted hands on the knots in her shoulders.

"It went absolutely great," he reassured, as he kneaded at the tensile-strength tension Morgan carried in her shoulders. "You know it did."

Morgan's eyes were closed in ecstasy. She grinned, then opened them, only to see the designer photographs of her two children staring back at her.

Samantha, 12, was a whip-smart, hard-charger with an underdog's determination but a nihilist's perfectionist bent -- just like her mother. Geoff, 10, was the complete opposite. He possessed a devil-may-care attitude, harbored no shortage of confidence and a strong sense of entitlement -- just like his daddy. He even looked like Brock. They shared the same sly, slanted smile, along with eyes that seemed to hide the constant calculations going on behind them.

Morgan allowed her eyes to fall closed again, surrendering to the pleasure being delivered by her personal assistant's talented fingertips.

"Right there," she commanded. "God, you're good."

"Only because you deserve it," Darren insisted. "You deserve a lot of things."

"I don't know about all that," Morgan moaned. "But I'll take your shoulder rubs any day of the week."

As if on cue, Darren dug in deeper, working the muscles, kneading out the tension. It had been building throughout the day, the week, the year. It had been a long, hard slog bringing Project Renaissance to fruition.

"So what did Linden want?" Darren probed ever so gently, his hands never missing a beat.

"You won't believe this one," Morgan purred, her voice deep and lost in Darren's massage. "He's insisting upon taking me out tonight. Drinks and dinner at Ruth's Chris."

"Hmm," Darren hummed in non-response.

"You don't like him," Morgan said. It wasn't a question. It was a fact.

"I don't trust him," Darren corrected. "But that's not the issue. The fact is, Linden likes you. He's liked you for months now. But not as a colleague, or even his direct report. He's targeting you because you happen to be the great Brock Ballentine's ex-wife. Linden is one clumsy corporate-climber who won't rest until he can bag those bragging rights."

Morgan's eyes popped open in shock. "Tell me what you really think, why don't you!"

"I'm just saying -- be careful," the chided underling offered demurely.

"I can take care of myself," said Morgan, sliding up in her chair, finally emerging from her brief pleasure coma. "Problem is, I can't seem to take care of my kids. Not while pursuing a career, that is. I have to make yet another call of shame."

"Isn't that why you employ a nanny?" Darren pointed out. "And spoil her with pay, I might add."

"Ramona is worth every red cent, and then some," Morgan answered, reaching for her smartphone. "Her doting, diligent care of my two children is the only thing that pries open the jaws of guilt just enough to allow me to function. I just wish I didn't feel as if I were turning into their father. I pounded Brock into the ground for never being around and choosing the office over his wife and children. And now that I'm a corporate contender, damned if I'm not doing the exact same thing."

"No. You're not," Darren insisted, swinging around the desk and locking eyes with his boss. "You'll never be like him. Ever. You're all heart. It's what makes you good at your job. And it's what will keep your bond strong with your kids."

"I hope you're right," Morgan said, just before touching the phone's illuminated screen to call home. "God, I hope you're right."

"Ballentine residence," Samantha said with practiced pronunciation after a few rings.

"We'll hello there, young Miss Ballentine. Aren't you the little lady today."

"Mom," the girl giggled good-naturedly.

"Guilty as charged." Morgan smiled into the phone.

"When are you coming home?" her daughter immediately inquired. It was always the first question. It was as if Samantha sensed the reason for her mother's call.

"Oh, baby. I'm going to be late," Morgan exhaled her confession.

"Again?" her daughter glumly asked.

"Yeah, Honey. I'm sorry."

"I know," Samantha said, sounding so defeated, as if she'd heard it all before, hundreds of times.

"What's Geoff doing?" Morgan asked as brightly as she could, desperately trying to change the subject – and the mood.

"What do you think?"

"Playing video games."

"Yep."

Morgan knew her son was an addict for anything with action and on-screen graphics. In fact, it was this infuriating fixation that actually inspired Project Renaissance. Morgan had come to her epiphany after years of browbeating Geoff to put down the joystick and pick up the books. She remembered thinking: If only he spent as much time on his schoolwork as he did those damn video games.

But it was the reverse of the question that was Morgan's moment of true inspiration: _If only his schoolwork were as engaging as those damned video games!_

A mother's idle, wishful thinking soon germinated into an idea, a concept, a paradigm shift.

Now that was something she could run with, Morgan thought to herself, even as Geoff remained hypnotized by the sound and fury of some combat game or other. "That's something that could start a revolution."

The rest, as they say, is history.

Now the same interactive video technology that had made such a willing prisoner of her son was separating Morgan from her children. She told herself this was different. This was for the greater good, to improve education, to salvage the next generation, to make America great again.

But was it really that different?

"Should I get him?" Samantha asked.

"What?" Morgan sounded bewildered. Lost in all of her doubts.

"Do you want me to get Geoff, so you can talk to him?" Samantha's temper seeped into her voice now. Her mom wasn't even paying attention to her on the phone.

"Uh, no. That's okay, Honey." Morgan snapped back. She knew if Samantha put her son on, Morgan would just get his brain-vacuumed, zombie voice. A string of yeses and no's that far too often passed for conversation between a workaholic mother and her game-obsessed son.

"Just say 'hi' for me and make sure he listens to Ramona, okay?"

"Sure. Like that will ever happen," Samantha deadpanned.

"It's not that bad," Morgan added, not even convincing herself of this. "Put Ramona on. I'll have her take you guys somewhere cool tonight. Where do you want to go?"

"P.F. Chang's," Samantha answered without hesitation.

And for that fleeting moment, she sounded like herself. Her daughter sounded exactly like a normal, happy-go-lucky 12-year-old. Unfortunately, the moment came courtesy of a well-paid nanny and a junk-food chain restaurant – not on account of Morgan. Still, she would take it.

"P.F. Chang's it is," Morgan agreed.

Chapter 3

Morgan waltzed into the crowded, oak-paneled bar clad in a short, black dress that she kept in an office closet for just these occasions – unplanned, after-work evenings out.

Businessmen crowded around the small bar in their shirtsleeves and cufflinks. They swilled single-malt scotch and downed double martinis. But the Boys' Club gathering parted like the Red Sea to turn and watch as Morgan entered the room.

Hal Linden held a martini to his lips and nearly spilled it down his shirt when he caught sight of her. He quickly recovered and casually waved a hand in the air, directing Morgan to his end of the bar and the men who hovered within his sphere of influence.

Putting on a show, Linden placed his drink on the bar and barreled through the crowd to greet his prodigal protégé. He kissed her on both cheeks and took her by the hand, providing her safe passage through the den of business wolves. He introduced her to his cadre of cronies. The names sped by her – Walter, Joseph, Buck, Channing. None of it mattered. Morgan had been the wined-and-dined wife of the Fortune 500 club. As a veteran of such rarified air, nothing much impressed her. Certainly, not this collection of B-listers, stock brokers, bank vice presidents and insurance swindlers.

"So what are we drinking?" Hal Linden inquired after polishing off his martini in one final gulp. His ruddy cheeks glowed with an alcoholic light. It hadn't been his first glass.

"A Pinot, perhaps," Morgan ventured.

Linden frowned.

"All this time, I've been grooming you for the Big Boys' Club, and you order wine?" the gimpy ex-college quarterback slurred.

"I'm sorry." Morgan played along. "What are my choices?"

"Single-malt scotch, neat, or a dry gin martini," Linden said.

"Are we getting drunk?" she asked.

"Maybe, but that's not the point. It's all about projecting power. Those are power drinks. They're what the executive suite swills."

"In that case, a martini," Morgan commanded. "Bombay _Sapphire,_ please."

Linden's alcohol-infused facial features brightened all the more.

"Now, you're talking," Linden approved, and then turned toward the bar.

"Barkeep!"

Later at dinner, Morgan was pleasantly lit.

It was as if all her burdens and cares – her ex-husband, guilt over the kids, and pressure from the project – had floated away on a river of gin. She laughed longer, blushed deeper and flirted freer than she ever had with Hal Linden.

There had always been a certain, ill-defined sexual tension between the older, wiser ex-jock and the younger, pretty protégé with a business pedigree provided by her super-successful ex-husband. Morgan had always controlled this aspect of their relationship, letting off sexual sparks only when it was to her advantage. But somehow, Linden had managed to level the playing field. Here, amid the low-murmur of the high-end steakhouse, feasting upon bloody rare filet mignon, washed down with copious amounts of alcohol, Morgan was succumbing to Linden's charms.

There was something absolutely masculine and quintessentially American about him. He wasn't drop-dead handsome. But he was strong, sturdy and rugged in a wonderful, wholesome way. He was a 50-something Ronald Reagan, but with a mischievous glint in his eye, instead of a genial one. And by damned, he was winning Morgan over.

It had been far too long for her. Too long without a man, a real man. And Linden's magnetism was pulling her in. No wonder he was such a good salesman.

"You know what makes this work, don't you?" Linden inquired, leaning over the white-clothed table.

"What do you mean?" Morgan joined him over the center of the table.

They were two business conspirators, or soon-to-be lovers. At this moment, it could go in either direction.

"You and me. This." He gestured between them. "How free we are tonight. How loose and open to any possibility."

"Lemme guess," Morgan slurred. "The alcohol."

She cracked herself up, as if this were the funniest thing.

Linden's ruddy, strong-jawed face broke into a pleasing grin. He lifted his near-empty martini glass, hoisted it in a toast salute and knocked back the remainder.

"Well, it sure doesn't hurt. But that's not what I mean," he continued, his voice both strong and soft, like velvet.

"It's you and me. We're equals now, Morgan. With your completion of the project and your promotion all but assured, we're equals. That mere fact redefines everything."

Morgan looked directly into Linden's eyes.

"I thought we weren't going to talk about work?"

Linden's eyes bored deep into hers.

"I'm not talking about work," he firmly said. "I'm talking about us. Whatever happens between us tonight and here after is because we both want it. And whatever that happens to be, it doesn't translate beyond our personal lives. It's a safe zone. An oasis. As co-equals, we can create that for ourselves."

Without breaking their deep stare, Linden rested his hands on top of Morgan's. His hands were huge and strong. They were knotted with veins, and the fingers were twisted like the roots of an old tree. Linden's fingers had been broken many times in his football days. But his powerful, tanned hands enveloped Morgan's soft, white ones.

And she felt safe. She felt good.

"I do like this," she said softly.

"Then don't over-think it."

"Isn't this too fast?"

"Compared to what? Life? Computers? Youth? God blinks and our lives are over."

"What do we do?" Morgan asked.

"I have a reservation at the Renaissance." Linden answered a bit too quickly, a bit too eagerly.

Morgan's brain registered this sour note. She blinked and looked down, then withdrew her hands from underneath Linden's.

When she looked up again, she saw a desperate salesman who had just realized he pressed a little too hard to close the deal.

Morgan shook her head softly. "I appreciate everything. I really do. This, all this, it's wonderful. The evening was spectacular. I can't thank you enough for tonight, or the past two years. But it's just too soon. I appreciate everything you said about us being equals now. But it takes time to wrap my mind around it."

Linden looked glumly at his empty martini glass.

"I should go," Morgan said, reaching for her purse. "The project's not a done deal, yet. We still need that signature on the contract."

Linden managed to lift his suddenly tired eyes to look at Morgan. His face sagged with defeat and the numbness of one too many martinis.

"So we'll say, 'to be continued,'" he offered. "Not an end, but a pause, perhaps?"

Morgan forced a smile.

"Absolutely," she said. "A pause to wait and see where this goes."

She popped up from her chair, lunged in and planted a kiss on Linden's cheek, then fast-stepped through the dining room in her high heels.

Linden was left to stare glumly at an empty chair -- and at his empty martini glass.

Chapter 4

The cool spring air on the mostly quiet Pittsburgh street sharpened Morgan's alcohol-dulled senses. She marched directly toward the parking garage, her heels clicking on the concrete.

What a night, Morgan thought as her feet pounded the pavement with almost violent determination. She nearly laughed out loud.

Hal Linden! My God, what had she been thinking?

But that was precisely the point. She hadn't been thinking, not with all the alcohol, the emotional highs and lows of the day, the last two years of transition from blissfully married mother, to unhappily spurned spouse, to finally, the determined divorcee.

But she would keep moving, just as she focused like a laser on the parking garage just ahead. That was what she did.

Morgan was a survivor.

She breezed into the deserted garage lobby, fed her parking ticket into the machine, inserted a credit card, then waited for her passport to freedom to be validated.

The machine spit out her ticket, credit card and a receipt. And Morgan headed for the elevators.

The seventh floor, she thought, confidently recalling where she had parked. The color-coded garage number plate had been green. She could see it in her mind's eye. It would not do to get lost in a Pittsburgh parking garage at 10:30 at night.

The elevator bell rang; the doors rolled open; and the elevator car deposited Morgan on the seventh floor. Her black Lexus SUV -- so practical with two kids and all -- was waiting for her just where she left it, down at the end of a shadowy row of cars in a far corner of the garage.

The soles of her pumps sounded gritty on the sandy concrete as she walked. It should have been a softer sound. But the concrete, echo-chamber acoustics of the vacant, silent garage amplified her every footstep.

For some reason, Morgan's mind took note of this fact. She began even to listen for it. The sounds made her feel all the more isolated and alone.

And that's when she heard it: A second set of gritty footfalls.

These sounds were a whisper compared to hers, at least at first. But, rapidly, they moved closer and grew louder.

The footsteps were coming.

For her.

Morgan quickened her pace to an all-out speed walk. The gritty, sandy sounds of her footfalls were like a soft-shoed dance shuffle. But she refused to run, or even trot. She reached in her bag for her key – and her can of mace. She palmed both. She was ready.

The other footsteps had quickened, as well. They were close now. But in the shadowy parking garage, Morgan couldn't see anything for sure.

She strained her peripheral vision to its limits, but nothing came into view. Nothing of substance. But the shapes and shadows of the darkened garage played hell with her imagination.

Morgan returned her focus to the front. Ahead was the goal, and it was in sight now.

The dark, gleaming Lexus shone like a black diamond at the end of a long row. She fingered the car's key fob in her palm, and pushed the button unlocking the car. The SUV's taillights winked, and her vehicle chirped in pleasant recognition of its owner.

Morgan's chariot awaited. And as soon as she was inside its cocoon of safety, she would hit another button to slam shut the vehicle's electronic locks, then another to ignite its purring engine. She saw all this happening inside her mind. She envisioned her safety. It was right from the pages of every self-help book: You can't achieve it unless you can visualize yourself achieving it. The mantra worked in the corporate world. Morgan hoped now that it held true in deserted parking garages.

She reached the rear bumper of the SUV.

Morgan needed only to make a sharp cut to the right, swing around the driver's side of the car and grab for the door handle.

She made her turn. Her right ankle wobbled a bit, fighting to hold its ground as her body weight and momentum shifted abruptly.

Don't fall, she told herself. God, don't fall now!

She didn't.

Instead, she lunged for the door handled, grasped it, and then pulled it open.

Her car door swung wide. Morgan clutched the interior door handle like a gymnast gaining purchase on parallel bars. With her arms and shoulders assuming her weight, she swung her feet forward and plunged legs-first into the leather bucket seat.

It was one fluid motion. And Morgan was in.

She reached out her left hand to close the car door behind her. Morgan's white-knuckled fist gripped the door handle. Her muscles' fibers fired with all their strength to slam shut the door. It swung toward her, then stopped dead in its tracks.

Someone was holding the door, preventing her from shutting it.

The footsteps had reached her.

Morgan relinquished her hold on the car door handle. The force acting in the opposite direction pulled the door open wide.

Morgan plunged both hands into her bag, pawing and scratching for the mace.

The cold, slender canister found her hand. She pulled it out and brandished it like a revolver, aiming it toward the terrifying vacuum of the open car door.

But as her body swung around to defend herself, her action was halted by a familiar voice.

"Morgan," the shadowy shape said from outside her SUV.

"Ms. Chase."

She recognized the voice, of course.

She identified the moment she heard it echoing off the garage's concrete walls. Relief washed over her at once, but it didn't slow her pounding heart a whit. It would take many seconds for Morgan's anaerobic, fight-or-flight response to ease.

In the meantime, someone had some explaining to do.

"Jesus Christ, Darren," Morgan exhaled, a mix of relief and annoyance. "Are you trying to give me a coronary? What the hell are you doing here?"

Darren's well-muscled, finely tailored figure filled the frame of the open car door. His boyishly handsome face wore a sheepish, shamed look that was impossible to remain angry with.

"Waiting for you," he said in a low, embarrassed tone. "I'm sorry I gave you such a start."

Morgan rolled her eyes. Her heart rate was ebbing now, and the rush of adrenalin surging through her system felt quite wonderful, in fact. She never felt more alive.

She let out another, long release of air from her overworked lungs.

"Let's just say, it's probably the most excitement I've had in a while," Morgan said, dialing back her anger. "No harm done on that score. But why in the world were you skulking around a parking garage like some serial killer?"

A still-chastened Darren dipped his head and frowned.

"I just didn't feel right about you and Mr. Linden," he said without meeting her eyes.

"You didn't feel right about it?" Morgan repeated with emphasis. "Two colleagues going to dinner to celebrate a successful project? What's the problem?"

Darren raised his eyes, but not his lowered chin. He looked at Morgan from under his thick brow, like a little boy.

Somehow, this made Morgan feel all the more powerful, yet struck a chord deep within her. It was an emotionally resonate string that hadn't been played in years and years. Maybe not since high school, when her lot in life had been the underdogs and misfits, not corporate gods like Brock Ballentine.

"I know there was more to it than that," Darren finally muttered. "At least on Linden's part. I didn't want him taking advantage of you."

Morgan frowned. She did not need protecting. Not like this.

"Why do you assume he was using me?" she asked, reversing tables on the automatic male image of a damsel in distress. "I think I can take care of myself."

Darren lowered his eyes again.

"Well?" she demanded.

"I know," he mumbled.

"Then, what were you thinking?"

There was a long moment of silence, then he spoke.

"Maybe, I was jealous," Darren offered shyly.

"Of your boss having dinner with her boss?" Morgan repeated.

The young, handsome man raised his head. This time, he was fully confident, and his voice was strong.

"Of you with another man," he stated.

Now, Morgan was the one with no words.

The chemistry between them -- all the lingering looks, the soft touches, the shoulder massages, the too-close office contact, even the playfully suggestive banter – always managed to remain unspoken and undefined.

Now, Darren Spencer was laying it all out there.

"Darren," Morgan stammered. "It's not like that."

Morgan looked down. She could no longer face Darren's confident, defiant stare, his willingness to look this thing directly in the eye.

"I know what it's like in the office," he said. "How it has to be. How it will remain so. But it doesn't have to be that way out here. In private. With you and me. Just Darren and Morgan, not Ms. Chase and her hunky assistant."

"So that's what people say?" Morgan sheepishly asked.

"Huh?"

"About you and me?" she clarified. "That I'm the Alpha female getting serviced by her hunky assistant?"

"Pretty much," Darren shrugged. "That and worse. You know, little remarks about how closely I'm assisting you. Whether I make house calls. Whether my duties include the bedroom, as well as the boardroom."

"People think we're doing it, don't they?" Morgan ventured, wrinkling her cute, pert nose, as if not wanting to hear the answer.

Darren nodded. "A lot do. Others think it, but won't say it. They must have taken the company's sexual harassment training to heart."

"You mean people actually listen to that HR crap?" Morgan cracked, chuckling and lightening the mood.

"Guess so," Darren smiled.

"What about you?"

"Sure," he said. "In the office, I do. It makes sense. Not out here. Not off the clock."

There it was, wasn't it?

The opening. The fine print. The addendum to the contract.

It was there if Morgan wanted it. Darren was there if she wanted him. And why shouldn't she? He was young, smart, discrete and absolutely gorgeous. She'd be kidding herself if she denied the pangs in her pleasure zones, those warm, moist sensations that sometimes gushed forward from just looking at him. Just looking and allowing her mind to wander. Permitting her mind's eye to show her images of Darren without his shirt. Darren in her bed. Darren on top of her.

But would Morgan set loose her lust in real life?

Hal Linden would, she thought.

Their dinner together had been an object lesson in how the so-called Big Boys rationalized and justified their corporate conquests. For them, office flings were part of the perks. And they didn't deny themselves any of those pleasures. None of them did. Only women executives would try to establish stricter rules for themselves. Only they would wring out one of the best rewards from the prize that they had finally grasped. They had scratched and clawed their way up, finally achieving the money, the corner office, the status, and the respect. Why not the romance?

When it came right down to it, that was the most human part of the whole damn thing.

Morgan scanned Darren up and down. He was still standing in the space of her car's open door. He had made his stand, and she respected him for it. It took courage that she didn't possess. She would have kept playing their little office games unrequited, if not for this.

If not for him.

Darren had made this possible, and Morgan could not deny his effort or this moment.

"Get in," she finally said.

And like a good assistant, Darren Spencer didn't need to be told twice.

Chapter 5

Darren climbed into the SUV's passenger seat, closed the door, and the two of them sat together in the luxury vehicle's quiet, comfortable tomb.

Darren looked over at her eagerly. Morgan took one glance at his expectant, excited features and nearly regretted the whole thing.

She narrowed her eyes at him.

"Don't act like some kind of mutt who's about to get a bone," Morgan admonished.

"I'm not," Darren smiled, failing to remove the excitement from his features.

"Perhaps, bone was the wrong metaphor to use in this situation," Darren retorted, his grin only broadening.

Morgan finally gave in and was smiling, too.

She shook her head from side to side, and blew out air.

"What am I going to do with you?" she said in mock exasperation.

"That is the question of the hour, now isn't it?" Darren playfully said.

Morgan punched his shoulder. "I haven't said anything's going to happen here. Got it, buster?"

"I know. But you haven't ruled out anything, either. That's enough to keep me smiling all night."

He was right, of course. Perhaps, it was time to set some ground rules.

"Okay," Morgan said. "Let's just say I'm willing to go along with your Morgan-Darren private-citizen experiment, just to see how it goes?"

"All right. Call it a test drive of sorts," Darren put in.

"I'm thinking more along the lines of a drink, some conversation, maybe some music and dancing," Morgan clarified.

"That can be arranged," he said.

"Someplace where people in my circles don't travel," she insisted.

"I know just the spot. It's a Morgan-Darren place, not a Ms. Chase and her assistant one."

"Okay, fine," Morgan tentatively agreed. "Let's go for one drink."

Two hours, three drinks and who know how many jumpy, bouncy, arm-flinging dances later, Morgan was nuzzled in Darren's arms. His muscular body was as hard as oak. His alcohol-infused breath was sweet and delicious. Even the musk of his sweat was intoxicating.

And Morgan?

She was letting herself go, as well. So what if she were a few years too old for this hot, hip nightspot on Pittsburgh's South Side? No one knew her here. Hell, no one in her circles was up this late. It was like having the entire place, crowded and pulsating as it was, all to herself. And she certainly had Darren to herself. His hot, hungry mouth was at her throat as they swayed to the beat. Her own chest was sprinkled with perspiration. Her nipples were hard, raising the fine fabric of her black dress. Her thong was a humid rain forest. The pleasure button between her legs was activated, as was every nerve ending in her entire body.

In short, there was no stopping this now.

Morgan's body ached for it. The primal part of the human animal inside her that craves contact with the opposite sex positively howled out for it. Her inner college coed who had gone to bed with a vibrator far more often than she had a college guy – and never, ever one in Darren's elite league -- absolutely screamed for it.

"We should go somewhere," Morgan breathed hotly into Darren's ear.

He knew at once exactly what she meant. He wanted, craved the same thing.

"The Sheraton's just down the street," he answered, his mouth a flame against her ear, his whispered words and steamy breath vibrating every part of her.

Darren drove.

They left the SUV with the valet in front of the hotel. Darren marched directly to the front desk to check them in. Morgan waited discretely but excruciatingly by the bank of elevators.

It seemed to take forever. But Darren was back with the hotel key cards in a matter of minutes. Nearly 2 A.M. isn't necessarily a busy time for high-end hotels. But even they get their share of horny couples looking to dance between the sheets.

The two of them turned to face the unopened elevators like silent, stoic soldiers. But after the doors opened and they took refuge inside, they were on each other like teenagers as soon as the shutting doors sealed their privacy.

Open hungry mouths, probing tongues, and roaming hands found new places and body parts to explore.

Darren's muscles weren't the only thing about him that was hard now. His crotch was a thick, rigid flagpole, bowed to the left and straining for release inside his tight pants. Morgan's sexy thong was a damp blotter, long overwhelmed by the torrent of moisture lubricating her velvet walls of pleasure. She jumped and gasped with pleasure as Darren gently slipped a finger inside her.

The elevator bell rang, and the two separated like two sparring boxers in the ring. But the scars of their battle were plainly visible – the flushed faces, the tousled hair, the jostled clothing and their moist, panting mouths.

The hallway was empty. There was no one to see their state of passionate dishevelment. No prying eyes could identify their late night rendezvous for what it was.

They walked quickly to Room 1217.

As soon as they were inside, they were on each other again. This time, there was no need to restrain their unstoppable, insatiable desire for each other.

Morgan pulled back from a deep, long kiss to look at the gorgeous instrument that would finally free her from a decade of marriage.

Darren stared by with brooding, dark brown eyes.

She reached out at hand and tousled his thick, black hair. It was moist and shiny from the sweat of their dancing and the heat of their lust.

Then, she reached up another hand and worked the buttons of his collared shirt. When she was finished, she grasped either side near his collar, and pulled his shirt off his shoulders and down his arms, like some magician revealing a trick.

But there was no trick, here. Darren's dark skin was as smooth as cocoa butter. It made a soft, touchable covering for the ripples and ridges of his hard, developed muscles.

He possessed the torso of an art statue. And Morgan gazed upon him with the appreciation of an admiring critic.

Darren didn't move to undress her. Right now, he was Morgan's muse. Her model. Her plaything. And he would let her do as she pleased.

Her hands and fingers stroked his muscled arms, ran down his developed chest, felt the ripples of his honed abs.

She leaned in and put her hot, hungry mouth on his tiny brown nipples. She kissed his chest, while her hands wandered south, over his firm buttocks and around his waist to the front.

She pulled back and looked down. She could see his huge erection, undiminished and yearning to be freed from his dark jeans.

Morgan took his belt buckle firmly in hand, yanked the strap, even jerking and pulling Darren toward her, until she undid the belt. The buckle jangled free. Her fingers slid underneath the waist of his jeans until they found the button clasp of his pants.

Her fingers worked it open while her eyes locked on his. She undid the button, lowered his fly and pushed down his pants without ever breaking her stare.

When she looked down, she saw the thick shape of his penis bugling underneath black boxer briefs.

Without even thinking, she moved her hands to his hardness, rubbing its long length, through the fabric.

Then Morgan crouched down, until she was eye level to his enormous crotch. She lowered his jeans the rest of the way. Darren stepped on the heels of his shoes, freeing his feet, and then he kicked off his fallen jeans. Morgan ripped down his socks, then flung them across the hotel room -- a room they hadn't fully entered yet. They were far too occupied with each other there in the room's short hallway entrance. Beyond them, the room's curtains were wide open, revealing the picture window overlooking the blackness of Pittsburgh's three rivers and the dark outline of the city just beyond those waterways.

Morgan was on her knees now, as if worshiping this Greek god before her.

She reached up with both hands and worked his erection, which needed no help. She palmed it and fingered it through his underwear. But there was no need for his pretense, for this politeness. She wanted to see it, wanted to give it the kind of female attention it surely deserved.

She reached both hands to the elastic waistline of Darren's Calvin Klein's, and then ripped them down violently.

Immediately, his heavy, engorged member fell out and twisted slightly to the left, while standing at attention and pointing toward the ceiling.

It was veined and ridged and thick and bulbous.

And it was glorious.

Morgan's mind echoed with just one word. This male organ before her would not be called a member, a sword, a love muscle, a dick, or even a penis.

This magnificent specimen was a cock, pure and simple. Maybe it was the dateless college coed inside her spitting out that secret, vulgar word that made Morgan all the hornier. But the word fit. And Morgan needed to say it aloud.

"I want to suck your cock," she whispered. "Your big, fucking cock. Put it in my mouth."

Darren lunged his hips forward, and his huge erection was in Morgan's face.

She could smell the musk of his loins and feel the white-hot heat of his erection, even before touching it.

She could hold back no longer.

She pushed her whole face into his cock and balls. She rubbed its hardness on her cheeks, and she allowed her lips to glide over the soft wrinkled skin of his scrotum. And with her wet, juicy tongue, she licked his organ from the end of his ball sack to the mushroom tip of his penis. And when she reached the summit, she opened her mouth wide and lowered down over his throbbing cock.

She pumped her head, slowly at first, then building speed and rhythm. She allowed the salvia of her mouth to flow out and run down the length of his shaft until it gleamed.

Morgan would have kept going. She would have kept on pleasuring Darren until he climaxed. But he reached down, his soft hands swiping back her hair and slowing her rhythm, until she came to a stop. She eased off of him and looked up with big, sultry eyes.

"I want to feel you," he whispered. "I need to feel you."

Darren's strong hands reached for her shoulders, pulling her to her feet. She stood before her naked lover, and realized she was overdressed. She reached a hand behind herself for the zipper of her dress. But Darren's own hand stopped her.

Morgan stood before him, hands at her side. He reached up and touched her hair, her face, her neck, her shoulders and arms with the softness of a painter's brush. His eyes gleamed with the awed quality of an admiring viewer taking in a masterpiece.

Ever so gently, he ran his fingers behind her neck and dexterously undid the clasp of her dress and slowly lowered the zipper until it was all the way down. He brought his hands and fingers forward now, slowly, gently lifting the fabric over her shoulders and arms, and allowing it to slide down Morgan's slender curves, until it fell to the floor. The designer frock gathered in a heap at her heels.

Gracefully, Morgan stepped out of the dress and then backed closer to the bed. Darren followed her lead. Never did they not face each other as they danced closer to their ultimate destination.

Darren's admiring, respectful hands found her body again. The lightness of his touch prickled Morgan's skin with gooseflesh. It was as if her every nerve ending were crying out, moaning, for more.

He traced a finger on the silk bra straps on each of her shoulders, following the soft trail of material to her breasts. Her erect nipples strained at the thin, silky fabric. As his gentle hands reached their destination, they cupped her womanhood. Heat radiated from her chest to his hands, and then back again.

As his hands worked north again, his fingers twirled around the delicate shoulder straps, then slowly brought them down. He reached to the center of her rising and falling chest, and undid the clasp.

The bra fell away. And Morgan's loosened breasts were no less pert and perfect.

Darren lowered his head to her chest. His breath and mouth were so hot, it was as if they were radioactive. His hands crawled up her stomach and lifted one breast, then the other to his greedy, hungry mouth. His wet tongue painted and swirled all over her nipples and around the rises of both sides of her chest.

It felt wonderful, even though both of them realized that even this would not quell their mutual hunger.

As he buried his face in her chest, his hands moved down the small of her back to her buttocks. He took the firm flesh freed by her thong into each hand, and kneaded and squeezed.

With every rotation of his hands around her half-moons, Darren moved closer and closer to the center. Soon his wandering figures were brushing her moist mound and fingering her wet lips through the sopping fabric of her panties.

The pleasure was so exquisite, the muscles of her legs spasmed, making her bounce with the electric charges racing all through her body.

Darren's knowing hands increased their rhythm until Morgan's entire body was aquiver. And when he brought her to the highest state of maddening delight, his strong hands found the thin string of her thong at the small of her back. He tore it in two, and let the last garment fall from her body.

Then, in one motion, he lifted her off the ground. He held her high above himself, she looking down at him, he at her. Then slowly, gently, she slid down his muscular torso. Her legs wrapped around his waist. And finally her warm, wetness enveloped his hardness as their aching bodies interlocked with each other.

It was as if Darren's erect manhood could support her entire weight. She lowered herself still more to take all of him inside herself.

Morgan's hands were clasped loosely around his shoulders, and her high-heeled feet crossed behind his back. But the strongest connection between them was the long-delayed joining of their needy, throbbing body parts.

The undeniable power and pleasure of that initial coupling was so strong, the two of them froze this way for a long moment. There was no movement, no thrusting. Just a still, static artist's sculpture of two bodies having become one for the first time. The thrill of this long-awaited connection between them built enough heat and moisture to be worthy of the most humid rain forest.

Morgan felt her wetness dripping out of her in rivulets that would paint Darren's loins and scrotum with the shiny sheen of her pleasure. His rigidness was a pulsating piece of molten steel, boring deep inside her. And when passion dictated that they could hold their pose no longer, the natural, nocturnal rhythms began.

He thrusted from below.

She grinded from above.

These instinctual movements were slow and deliberate at first. She needed to feel every inch, every vein, every ridge of him as he slid in and out of her. Morgan would ride up Darren's full length, then down to its base, and back again. The silk of her canal, its heat, and the intense smoothness of all her body's natural lubricants painted him with pleasure. And as minutes passed, their pace quickened until it was Darren's muscular legs, supporting their weight, that now spasmed with uncontainable pleasure.

He backed her to the waiting mattress and lowered her body to the bed's soft embrace. Darren enveloped her as he took position over Morgan. His thrusts were deeper now, more urgent. And she urged him on, squeezing his tight, muscular buttocks and pulling him deeper inside of her.

Darren's eyes were locked on hers as he hovered right above her. His sweet breaths were coming quicker now, building to an undeniable, unstoppable conclusion.

But Morgan didn't want it to end. She never wanted this to end.

She wiggled from underneath him like a wrestler escaping a hold. She gripped his shoulders to raise herself up. And when her body reached his level, she pushed him down until he was the one lying flat. It was Morgan's turn to rule over him.

Darren looked down the length of his body as Morgan crawled up toward him. His erection was a fully-armed, purple-tinted warhead aimed at the sky.

The launch code had been initiated. All Morgan need do was to fire this weapon.

Morgan climbed on top of him, straddled his loins. She used her hand to guide his hardness inside her wetness.

And then she began her gyrations. Her undulations. Her languid sloshing and rolling. Her riding and galloping. Her absolutely fluid, wonderful movements.

Controlling everything astride her man, Morgan reached a cascading, quivering climax, just as Darren's entire body jerked, arched and shuddered with his own spasm of release.

The heights of ecstasy the two had summited together were so stratospheric and cataclysmic, their pleasure zones would continue to tingle and buzz until yet another round of passion kindled between them.

By dawn, it would be as if their bodies were drained of every last drop of fluid.

They never even bothered to close the drapes.

Chapter 6

The morning came as it always does after soul-shaking, bed-rattling evenings of ecstasy and fulfillment – all too soon and cruelly.

The bar of sunlight slowly creeping toward the bed as the sun rose over Pittsburgh finally reached Morgan's closed eyes. As long as they remained shut, they would seal in all the joy and discovery from her night with Darren. But as the sunlight brightened and bored through her eyelids, the new day intruded. The calendar page had flipped, and that one, dreamy night was assigned to history.

Soon, it would be as if it never even happened at all.

Consciousness returned to Morgan like a swimmer coming up for air – all at once and greedily.

Morgan popped up from the pillowy mattress, monetarily disoriented by the alien surroundings that she had never bothered to explore last night. She had been too busy exploring other things.

She squinted against the brightness from the big, naked picture window. Still, just that first blast of daylight and awakening was enough to send pain shooting across her temples and behind her eyes.

The alcohol, she thought. All that alcohol.

Hit by the hangover's uppercut, Morgan gently lowered her head to the bed.

With a hand covering her brow like a baseball player scanning the bright sky for a fly ball, she searched the cushiony terrain of the king-sized bed for her partner in passion. Perhaps she could command Darren to draw the curtains and smother the offending daylight.

But among all the bumps and lumps of pillows, sheets and blankets, Darren Spencer was nowhere to be found.

She closed her eyes and listened for the shower.

Nothing but the distant hum of a housekeeper's vacuum, beginning the thankless task of cleaning up the leavings of lodgers' nocturnal rituals.

Morgan exhaled, her eyes closed but her mind working, collating and calculating the probabilities and outcomes.

In the light of day, she had no choice but to be the levelheaded business executive. It was as if her very cells would not allow her to be anything else.

Perhaps this was best, she thought. Darren's morning absence would make their transition to their daytime roles of boss and assistant all the easier. When they next encountered each other in the hustle and bustle of the office, they would slip into their former roles and routines like an old man putting on well-worn shoes.

He was making it easier, she thought. That was all.

Morgan turned her head and squinted at the digital clock. It said 9:32.

She squeezed her eyes shut yet again.

"Shit," she breathed out. "I'm late."

Still, she didn't budge. Thankfully, there was nothing pressing awaiting her back at the firm. If there were ever a night to drink and party and, well, everything else she did until the wee, wee hours, last night was it.

Her night of release and abandon had been timed perfectly. It came right on the heels of a flawless internal review of her signature project and nearly 36 hours before she would need to put the project over the plate with the client.

Morgan was covered.

Not only covered, but deserving of this indulgence. It would make her better, sharper and more focused going forward.

If she ever shook her killer hangover, that was.

Then another thought occurred to her: Grease. I need grease.

In college, there had been nothing better than a buttery, greasy breakfast of eggs, bacon and sausage to emulsify and counteract the alcohol in one's system. It was the morning-after rescue.

Morgan blindly reached for the hotel phone, then managed to punch zero.

"Room service," she pleaded in a hoarse voice.

Her mouth was parched, and the mere whiff of her rank breath nearly induced a wave of nausea.

Finally, a man with a Hispanic accent asked for her order.

"Scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage and wheat toast," she said. "Give me a large O.J., bottled water and coffee, too."

She paused and listened to the Hispanic man attempt to repeat her order. She thought she understood him. More to the point, she was fairly confident that he had gotten her order at least mostly correct.

"I'm not sure what room. Can't you tell from the phone number? That must be correct. Thank you."

She didn't bother to hang up the receiver. And she still didn't move.

At some point, she would have to. At the very least, she would need to slip into one of those hotel-provided terrycloth robes so she could accept the room service she had just ordered. But not right now. She still had a few moments to revel in her immobility.

The next thing she knew, someone was rapping at the door.

Morgan quickly cycled through the disorientation of again waking in unfamiliar surroundings. Her alcohol-hazed brain worked more rapidly through its analysis.

Room service, she determined.

Morgan, still naked, called out, "Just a minute," then extricated herself from the twisted, bundled covers and tiptoed to the bathroom for a robe.

Out of habit, she peeked through the peephole before unbolting the door to allow the uniformed room service attendant to serve her breakfast.

As soon as she opened the door and smelled the food, her angry, empty stomach growled at the unmistakable aroma of good grease.

Yes, she thought, this was just what the doctor ordered.

"On the desk is fine," Morgan directed the waiter, who dutifully deposited the tray, then returned with the check in a black folder.

Morgan opened the folder and was mildly surprised to see her name on the hotel bill. But the full implication of this didn't register, at least not then.

She signed the slip, added a tip and returned the folder to the waiter.

"Thanks," she said as she escorted him out, and then bolted the door behind him.

On her way toward the desk, where her breakfast awaited, Morgan picked up her handbag and pawed for her smartphone.

She checked its display for a call from Darren.

Nothing.

Then Morgan saw the record of her last phone call, the one she made to her home early last evening before events and passion overtook her.

"Shit," she muttered.

But these were things best tackled on a full stomach and following a hot shower and a strong cup of coffee. She sat down before her feast, and removed the metal lid, revealing her plateful of cholesterol.

"Here's to ya," she said, unwrapping the silverware, placing a napkin on her lap and digging in.

Later, after breakfast, a shower and a headache-inducing, guilt-ridden call home, Morgan called Darren.

This wasn't an insecure older woman seeking reassurance from her younger lover. This was a hard-charging boss seeking to orient her day and cover for her late arrival by obtaining office reconnaissance from her most trusted assistant.

At least, that was what it should have been.

Instead, Morgan's call immediately bounced to voicemail. She listened to Darren's flat, professional voice run through his by-the-numbers greeting.

Her message to him was terse and far less professional:

"Call me. ASAP."

Her thumb disconnected the call. Her eyes moved to the hotel's picture window framing Pittsburgh's iconic skyline. But Morgan wasn't gazing at the scenery. Her eyes were vacant. Behind them, her mind was working through a multitude of calculations.

Why didn't Darren pick up? He never not picks up.

But she couldn't dwell on this. Not if she wanted to salvage the afternoon at the office. She slipped into her cocktail dress from the night before and didn't bother with her hair or make-up.

It was a classic "walk of shame" moment as she slunk out of the hotel, and palmed a ticket to the valet.

The sight of her SUV rolling up in front of the Sheraton was the most welcome one of the morning. She slapped a five-dollar bill into the valet's hand, climbed behind the wheel and slammed shut the door.

Morgan tore off for home.

Chapter 7

Morgan barreled through the back roads to her historic fixer-upper in mannerly Squirrel Hill. Rush hour was over, and she was going against traffic to boot. The good time she made was but a hollow victory. She would be very, very late. And with Darren incommunicado – she had tried him two more times, to no avail – she had no one watching her back at the office. She would have to fend for herself, but she couldn't do that until she primped and changed. It was one thing to be unexplainably late. It was quite another to show up desperate and disheveled.

The smell of fear and uncertainty was a highly discernible scent among the hallowed halls of executive office suites. Morgan would not make this mistake.

She zoomed up her driveway, and nearly rear-ended the dated, dented, shit-brown pickup truck hogging her parking spot in front of the side kitchen door.

"What the hell," she mumbled as she kicked open the car door.

She stormed through the door and shouted for Ramona, her nanny/housekeeper.

Instead of the matronly Mexican, Morgan was greeted by a very masculine man, who climbed up from behind the Formica-covered island in the center of her badly-dated, lime-green kitchen.

"You must be the lady of the house," the man said, as he casually wiped his rough-hewn hands on a rag. "I'm Travis." He reached out a newly cleaned hand toward Morgan.

Morgan's mouth gaped with incomprehension. The entire, disorienting morning had put her off her game, but this stranger in her kitchen was the capper.

"Who you are isn't foremost in my mind at the moment," Morgan said, refusing to extend her own hand in greeting. "Why don't you start with what in the hell you're doing here?"

Now it was the stranger who looked confused. The playful grin that had animated his lips dipped into a slight frown. He dropped his head as if just then comprehending an embarrassing truth.

"I take it Big Al didn't tell you about me," Travis said, shaking his head.

Morgan's eyes narrowed at the mere mention of her firefighter father's name.

"What's he up to this time?" she asked suspiciously.

Travis raised his head. His amused grin was back. His warm, friendly eyes were ice blue and seemed to look right through Morgan. She noticed then how handsome he was.

"He kinda hired me to redo your kitchen," Travis sheepishly said.

"He what?" Morgan bellowed.

"He said if it were up to you, you'd never get around to it," Travis added.

"And is that the usual way you get clients?" Morgan pressed.

"Nothing's usual when it comes to Al," Travis pointed out. "But I guess you'd know that, being his daughter and all."

Just then, Ramona burst through the swinging door separating the kitchen from the dining room.

"Ms. Chase, you home," the nanny said. "No work today?"

Work, Morgan thought. _I gotta get to work._

Morgan narrowed her eyes at Ramona now.

"I was just wondering why you decided to let a stranger into my house – into my kitchen." Her words smoldered.

Ramona winced defensively, and then shook her head uncertainly.

"No," she said. "No stranger. Mr. Al bring him. Mr. Al say everything A-Okay. Good guy. A-number-one good guy will fix the kitchen. Make it gourmet."

By the time she finished her explanation, Ramona was smiling at a job well done and a decision well made.

"Hmm," Morgan hummed, un-amused and still unconvinced. "That's funny, because I thought I was the one who signed your paychecks."

"Yes, ma'am," Ramona nodded. "You very good boss. Very kind."

It was no use, Morgan thought as she stared at her smiling housekeeper. It wasn't Ramona's fault, anyway. It wasn't Travis's fault, either. Blame rested, as it usually did, with her meddling Old Man.

Morgan shook her head and held up her palms as if trying to push everything away.

"I don't have time for any of this right now," she said. "I have a multi-million-dollar project just hanging in the air, and I've got to get to work. We'll discuss this tonight."

Travis nodded. "Fine. By then, I should know what we're looking at."

"Just don't do anything," Morgan snapped. "Nothing more until you clear it with me."

"Understood," he added.

Morgan, exponentially more flustered than when she had arrived, turned on a heel as if to exit the house.

"Uh, you might want to change first," Travis said in a low, gentle voice. "I love the dress, but it just doesn't say, 'powerful, professional female business executive.'"  
Morgan stopped dead, and looked at herself.

Wordlessly, she reversed course, headed across the kitchen and went upstairs. But not before Travis added one more thing.

"Must have really burned the midnight oil last night," he said, shaking his head in mock-awe. "Your old man was right about you – all work and no play."

Morgan glared at the grinning, handsome handyman as she stormed from the room, her heels pounding the worn linoleum.

Chapter 8

By the time she arrived at the office, Morgan had coached herself to calm down. But each unrequited call to Darren – four more in the course of changing clothes and driving into work – had only added to her anxiety.

Power-walking the corporate halls, Morgan tried to convince herself that people weren't staring at her, that this, too, was a figment of her own insecurity born of a disorienting, routine-exploding morning that had now bled into the early afternoon.

But the fact was, they _were_ staring.

Morgan only quickened her heel-clicking, military-like pace and fixed her eyes straight ahead. She reached her corridor, where around the corner the familiar site of Darren holding down the fort right outside her office had always managed to comfort her.

But when she rounded the corner this time, an overweight, middle-aged, officious-looking woman was anchoring Darren's desk, instead.

This was the absolute last shock to the system that Morgan could tolerate this day. She marched up to the woman and demanded answers.

"Where's Darren?"

The pudgy woman peered at Morgan over her half-glasses and frowned.

"Who might I say is inquiring?" she snipped.

"You might say that I am Morgan Chase. You might say that this is my office you're sitting in front of. You might say that I want to know where my assistant is, and you might say that I want to know that information right now."

"Ms. Chase," the woman repeated.

"Yes. Now can you please tell me what's going on?"

"No," the woman said, then read the increase in Morgan's rage and quickly corrected herself. "I mean, I can't. They called me in at the very last minute. I'm merely here answering the phones and taking messages."

"Okay, let's start there. Any messages from Darren Spencer, my assistant? The person who usually sits right there and who never misses a minute without talking to me first?"

"No," the woman chirped. "No messages given to me, at least."

"When they called you to fill in, did they say anything about where Darren was?"

"Not to me. I'm sorry."

"Do you know anything?"

"My only instructions were to answer your phones, take messages, greet you when you came in, and ask you to wait in your office until Mr. Linden returns from a meeting. He's scheduled back at 3:30. He wants to meet with you privately, I believe."

"Impossible," Morgan retorted. "I have a major client meeting to prepare for. Besides, I just saw Hal last night."

"He was very specific," the woman added. "Specific. And very direct."

Morgan narrowed her eyes. Nothing added up.

"This meeting he's at. What can you tell me about it?"

"Not much, I'm afraid," she answered. "I got the impression that it was important – and hastily called. People were running around here like chickens, as it were."

"Here?" Morgan pressed. "Running around here?"

This time, she didn't wait for another unhelpful answer from the useless fill-in. Instead, Morgan turned and burst into her office. This was her domain, her bastion of productivity and promise.

She flicked on the lights. Her eyes scanned the room. She knew right where to focus from months of habit and ritual. And it was gone. All of it was gone.

Morgan's heart pounded, and her stomach dropped.

Her personal laptop and all of her files pertaining to Project Renaissance had been removed from her office – her jealously guarded zone of personal space.

Morgan zipped around and dashed back to the woman, who wore a look of fear and dread against Morgan's onslaught.

"Where?" Morgan shouted. "Where is Linden's meeting?"

The woman cowered, lowering her head and pulling her arms protectively against her own body.

"I don't know, Ms. Chase," she squeaked. "All I was told is that you were to wait here until Mr. Linden returns."

This wasn't good enough. Not nearly good enough.

Morgan dashed to the offices of other key staffers on Project Renaissance, only to find them empty and their assistants equally unhelpful. After her manic rounds through the corridor, Morgan retreated to her own office.

She slammed the door, slumped in her chair, and once again phoned Darren Spencer.

She knew then that Hal Linden couldn't have done this without him. He couldn't have stolen away Project Renaissance without Darren's complicit involvement. She wondered if the whole damned thing was a set up. Had last night simply been a seduction so Hal Linden could control the fruits of two years of Morgan's blood, sweat and tears?

Morgan pressed the icon on her phone for Darren. It immediately dumped her call into voicemail. And that was a good word for it, wasn't it.

Morgan had been dumped. Duped and dumped by Darren Spencer. Played for a fool and deceived by Hal Linden. And unceremoniously dumped in the trash by her own company.

She sat and seethed for each and every interminable second until Hal Linden waltzed into her office later that afternoon as if nothing at all had happened.

Chapter 9

Linden perfunctorily rapped a knuckle on Morgan's closed office door before proceeding to let himself in without waiting for a response.

A leather briefcase dangled from his hand, and a laptop was tucked under his other arm. He walked toward Morgan's desk without a word. She just glared at him.

Linden placed the laptop – Morgan's laptop – on her desk, as if this lone gesture mended everything.

The two locked eyes, and the silence between them swelled. Finally, mercifully, Linden broke he thickening ice.

"Project Renaissance is signed and sealed," he said, trying on the slightest of pleased smiles. "We got our price. Considering the events of the past twelve hours, it's a win. A major win."

Morgan had suspected as much. But the confirmation of her having been cut out of the deal still carried a sting.

"And that's what this was all about, wasn't it?" she posed. "Winning. You, winning. Beating me."

Linden's lips curled downward. His shoulders slumped. He bent down to relieve himself of his briefcase. And then the gimpy quarterback took a load off in one of the cushioned chairs arranged in front of Morgan's oaken barge of a desk.

"You sidelined yourself on this one," Linden gently said. "I did what good teammates do. I picked up the ball and put it over the goal line before this thing blew up in our faces. And it came this close to doing just that."

Linden held two fingers centimeters apart to emphasize his point.

"And how exactly did I sideline myself and jeopardize the project?" Morgan's tone was icy and flat. It was as if she were denying herself all emotion. If she allowed even a molecule of her anger to seep in to her dealings with Linden, she feared losing it completely.

"You compromised yourself with a subordinate," Linden flatly stated. "Lord knows, I am not one to judge, but on the eve of consummating our division's biggest project ever, your celebration with your assistant got out of hand. No one is adjudicating the details of what might have happened between you two. If this thing is handled correctly – which is what we all should prefer – there will never be an adjudication. But the fact is, you as a manager -- the project leader, for Christ's sake -- put yourself in this position at an absolutely critical time for this project. And you even used your company credit card to pay for your hotel room.

Just when Morgan had believed herself to be immune to further surprises on this terrible day, another electric wave of shock shot through her system.

The credit card, she thought. _That's why her name was on the room service bill. Darren had used her card to pay for the room._

Morgan knew he held a duplicate card, which he used to make all her travel arrangements. But Morgan had counted on him to be more discrete.

"Not stipulating to any of your absurd allegations, I still don't see how this presents a threat to Project Renaissance and my handling of the state contract." Morgan's even tone never wavered.

"Heretofore, it wouldn't have," Linden answered. "Unfortunately, your assistant made an early morning visit to the company's HR department and requested to file a sexual harassment complaint." He paused for effect, then added, "Against you."

Morgan's system sustained yet another blow. She knew it had to have registered on her face, but she groped for Zen, anyway.

"Just so happens, I have a friendly contact at HR," Linden continued. "This person placed an off-the-record call to me before any paperwork was field. And I was able to reach out to Darren and reward him with some well-earned time off in order to consider his options. I made it clear to him that he could come back at any time to the equivalent position anywhere in the company. And I suggested strongly that his application for any senior openings would be given serious consideration. He most graciously agreed to delay his filing."

"So, there's no case," Morgan concluded. "Why am I still on the sidelines?"

"There remains the potential for a case," Linden corrected. "And when you are dealing with state contracts -- even more sensitively, state Department of Education contracts -- just the whiff of scandal is a deal breaker."

Linden paused, looked down, considered ending things there, then changed his mind. When his eyes returned to Morgan, they glinted with indignation. And when he resumed speaking, Linden's voice was intoned with a rising note of superiority.

"Here, we have the project director and program's creator inches away from a sexual harassment beef," he resumed. "There's no way that doesn't leak, should any paperwork be filed. Even worse, this supposedly highly respected executive paid for her tryst on the company dime, money that now would be coming from the state of Pennsylvania. Not just from the state, but from its schools. Money that goes for books, pencils and paper – not one-night stands at the Sheraton Station Square. The only prudent thing to do was to fast-forward the agreement, get the contract signed and move on. I was fully within my fiduciary responsibility to this company in acting in the manner I did. _And_ I was covering your ass in the process."

Linden let the kicker ring off the walls of the otherwise silent office for a second, then plowed right back in, really piling it on now. Morgan sat stone-faced, taking it all, absorbing every blow. What else could she do? Linden held all the cards, had all the facts. She, in turn, was being blindsided by one devastating surprise after another.

"The least you could do is show a little gratitude that your name and reputation aren't being kicked around all over the World Wide Web, right about now," Linden incredulously said. "You are a very high-profile divorcee, by the way. And this little project we are peddling is nothing less than a revolutionary realignment of the Pennsylvania public education system that will have the teachers' union crying foul from Pittsburgh to Philadelphia. Talk about a target on our backs?"

The ex-jock was practically winded from his diatribe. His boardroom beat-down of Morgan was all but complete. Linden had her right where he wanted her – under his thumb. But it was all too convenient – the timing, the string of circumstances, the devastating results. It all began with Linden's invitation to dinner. And events just kept cascading until Morgan was left outside looking in at her own project.

She was positive Linden had orchestrated everything. Ever the quarterback, he had called the plays. But Morgan could prove none of this. Not yet. So she swallowed what was left of her pride.

"I guess I should thank you," Morgan managed in a small, defeated voice. She would play the vanquished rival so that Linden would relax. Perhaps then, she could get to the bottom of it all.

"Hey," Linden drew out the word in a reassuring tone of sympathy. "Don't sound so down. So, you're on the bench for a few plays. That doesn't mean you're off the team. All I'm asking you to do is sit it out for a series or two, until this thing blows over. Are you with me?"

"You obviously know best," Morgan glumly said.

"I hung back and let you run with the ball." Linden continued with the coach-speak that Morgan so vehemently detested. "And by damned, you scored a big one with that project of yours. So what if I had to come in late in the game and get us over the goal line? You drove us downfield. I'm not going to forget that. No one is. All the things we talked about last night – the vice presidency, heading up your own education technologies division – that's all still on the table. We just needed to call an audible here. The good thing is, there's a whole second half of football left. But it's halftime now, and you need to take a break. Hell, you deserve one."

Morgan took in a deep breath and exhaled.

"Maybe you're right," she allowed. "In that case, can I take a couple of days? You know, get my head back in the game?"

Linden grinned. The coach had worked his magic.

"That's my girl," he smiled. "You take all the time you need. Just do me a favor?"

"If I can," she replied.

"Let this thing cool down," he said. "The worst thing you can do is to keep calling this assistant of yours. And for God's sake, don't leave any voicemail. All that stuff, it just fits in to a pattern of harassment should he decide to pursue this."

Morgan cocked her head, considering this. It was good advice. She just wished she had thought of it before she had spent all morning and most of the afternoon peppering Darren's cell phone with missed calls and voicemails.

"You're right, Hal," she said. "When you're right, you're right."

Linden popped up, his bad knee cracking.

"Hey, kid," he said, lunging down from his briefcase and wincing at the pain. "You showed me something here, the way you handled all this today. Must have stung like a bastard, but you evaluated the situation and what I had to say with your mind, not your emotions. Sometimes, it's only when we stub our toes do we discover who can grin, bear it and soldier on. You just passed the test, Morgan. It's like I said last night, you're earning your Big Boy stripes, one by one. Keep it up."

Linden flashed his best "Get one for the Gipper" smile, then pumped a fist for emphasis. His creepy condescension, coupled with everything else that happened this day, nearly made Morgan vomit.

Instead, she grinned back at him.

But there was nothing behind her ice blue eyes, except cold calculations.

Chapter 10

Morgan had come in late, and now she would go home early.

No one met her eyes as she walked out of the office building she had exited so triumphantly less than 24 hours before. But on bad days like this, there was nothing to do but retreat. Besides, she had work to do at home.

The grueling ten-month drive to land Project Renaissance had transformed her into an absentee parent. Geoff had withdrawn further into his video game and social media world. And Samantha had developed the calloused feelings of the oldest child who swallows her hurt and attempts to act like everything is okay.

Morgan knew better. It was not okay. And she was to blame.

Last night's dalliance with Darren was the capper, and not because it had turned out so badly and ruinous to her short-term career goals. But rather because it had replaced reason and responsibility with abdication and abandon.

Somehow, Morgan had lapsed into the careless college student she had never managed to be when she was actually in school. Yet that studious, overlooked coed was always inside her, waiting for her chance to be sexually adventurous and absolutely irresponsible. Finally, Morgan's inner coed had managed to get the best of her for one night, and look what had happened.

Her family relations, already on life-support from all the oxygen sucked out by her career, were dealt another mortal blow. And now even her hallowed corporate career -- her only instrument with which to prove her worth to her ex-husband -- had suffered a major setback, as well. As she drove for home, Morgan, the mother and career woman, vowed that the reckless, repressed college student who defined her id, would never be allowed to romp in such a destructive way again.

Morgan's drive home ahead of the choking Pittsburgh traffic that clogs bridges and backs up tunnels nearly managed to relieve some of the stress that had taken deep root in her shoulder muscles and at the center of her temples. Then, as she pulled into her Squirrel Hill driveway, she saw the beat-up truck again.

That guy – what was his name? – was still there.

She still had the task of dealing with him, yet another minion sent by the master-meddler, her father.

Big Al was the bigger-than-life, blue-collar firefighter and friend to everyone who Morgan had been trying to show up, shake off and run away from her entire life.

She pulled to a stop beside the truck, giving it plenty of room to pull out and be gone, hopefully never to return. But as Morgan marched toward her house at the unscheduled, early hour, she encountered something truly shocking.

Would the day's surprises ever end?

She noticed it even before she entered, as she breezed by a kitchen window on her way to the side door. Something made her pause and take a longer look. Something totally out of place -- and out of character.

Yet, there it was.

There _he_ was. Morgan's uncommunicative, anti-social, computer-wired son was there in the kitchen with the humble, flannel- and jean-clad handyman.

And Geoff wasn't just there. He was talking, actually conversing. The son who Morgan couldn't coax to remove the buds from his ears and pry his eyes away from the screen he was viewing in order to hold an actual conversation was doing just that with some stranger.

Not only that, her boy with the perpetually downcast, otherwise-occupied eyes was looking at the man, engaging with him. Actually listening.

The pair looked to be talking about tools, kitchen pipes, electrical wires, countertops and cabinetry. In other words, manly stuff that was far removed from Geoff's usual interests in computer gadgets, video games and Facebook posts.

Yet, it all made sense in a way. The son born to an absentee father now forced into a life with his distracted mother craved male bonding.

The look in Geoff's eyes was unmistakable. Her son was gazing upon this down-to-earth day laborer as a male role model.

Even as Morgan comprehended this, it was incomprehensible. She shook her head, shut her eyes, then opened them again, only to see the same incongruent scene and draw the same inevitable conclusion.

Geoff needed this. In fact, he had needed this for a long, long time.

These circumstances forced Morgan to reset her game plan. Up until now, she had intended to thank the handyman for his troubles, pay him cash for his time and usher him out of her house, never to return.

But if she did that now, she might as well sprout horns on her head, as far as her son would be concerned. She also knew that she couldn't make a big deal about Geoff hanging out with the handyman, either. Otherwise, he would grow self-conscious and withdraw. In this one way, mother and son were alike. Morgan couldn't count the number of times her own father's well-meaning comments about her interests had sewn social insecurities, the tight stitches good and deep in her very being. So much so, that by the time she went to college, Morgan lacked the self-confidence to claim the kind of out-going, experimental campus experience she craved.

It took her many years in the shadows of strong men – first her father, then her Alpha ex-husband – to finally come into her own. She would not do this to Geoff.

Instead, she entered with a neutral demeanor. She would shake off the melancholy of her disorientating day, expunge the guilt over her all-night absence from home and even release her annoyance at her father's meddling in her home repairs.

Because if there was one thing Morgan could count on Big Al for, it was his instinctive assessment of the human character. If her father had sent this handyman, Morgan knew she could trust him. She could trust him in her home, and she could trust him with her children. Big Al would accept nothing less.

Morgan inhaled, braced herself and entered the home where she was mostly a stranger.

Geoff turned to door. The easy, good-natured expression on his face wilted at the mere sight of his mother.

"What are you doing here?" Geoff asked accusingly.

Morgan didn't blame him. She was out of place, especially at such an early hour. She stammered for a response, but before she could find the right words and approach, the handyman intervened.

"Hey, Geoff, you're a nice kid, but that's no way to talk to your mom," Travis Walker pointed out from under his furrowed brow.

The boy's head snapped around at the man's understated, yet unmistakable authority. Morgan could see that the handyman's opinion already mattered to her son.

"It's just that she's usually not home this early," Geoff stammered in explanation to Travis.

The handyman relaxed his knitted brow, softening his judgment of Geoff.

"Then, this is a good thing, right?" Travis tested the boy.

Geoff shrugged, unsure. "I guess so."

Morgan stepped further into the kitchen.

"Geoff's right," she said. "I haven't been around a lot. Work's been crazy, and I've allowed it to eat into my time at home. That was a mistake. One I've decided to correct starting tonight."

Morgan attempted her most positive and confident grin.

Her son just frowned. With his mother around, he would have to do weird mother-son bonding stuff with her, instead of hanging out with Travis. She had managed to ruin everything, yet again. Even when she wanted to spend time at home, his mother ruined everything.

There was an awkward silence. Travis studied the sullen boy whose demeanor had changed in front of his eyes.

"Geoff, why don't you go say 'hi' to your mom," Travis gently suggested.

"Hi," the boy muttered.

Travis leaned toward Geoff and spoke in a stage whisper. "She looks like she could use a hug."

Geoff shot back an "are you out of your mind" stare. Travis deflected the unstated question with a flat, stern look. Geoff dipped his head in compliance, pushed himself to his feet and slunk over to his mom.

"Glad you're home," he said in an emotionless line reading, then flung his limp arms around Morgan's waist.

Yet even this half-hearted display orchestrated by a complete strange caused Morgan to suddenly, unexpectedly mist up. Her son's heavily prodded, highly pathetic gesture was cold, clear evidence of how far she had allowed things to slip at home.

Morgan attempted to cough away the onrush of emotion. When she spoke, the bright tone she tried to strike sounded choked and weak, quivering with a potent mix of feelings.

"I'm glad I'm home, Geoff," Morgan managed. "How about we order pizza tonight?"

"I guess" her son said, looking up at his emotional mother as if she were an alien.

Just then, Samantha burst through the swinging kitchen doors.

"Mom!" she said in surprise. "What are you doing home?"

Morgan looked at her daughter, so shocked by her own mother's sudden appearance, and her eyes moistened again against her will.

All Morgan could do was shrug. This, all this, how it had come to this? It was beyond explanation.

"I don't know, baby," Morgan squeaked. "I just am. I just am."

Morgan held out her arms and Samantha came to her, not as reluctantly as Geoff, but still uncertain in her own awkward way.

"How's pizza sound?" Morgan tried the suggestion out on Samantha as she pulled her daughter tight.

The confused girl didn't answer. That's when Travis spoke up.

"It sounds great," the handyman enthusiastically said. "But not that cardboard stuff with the domino on the box. I'm talking about real, juicy, tomato-y pizza where the mozzarella is so stringy it practically chokes you going down. How's that sound?"

Geoff turned at once. "Yeah!" he cheered.

Samantha pulled back and looked at her mom, as if expecting a negative verdict.

Geoff pivoted to plead his case.

"Can we, Mom?" her son said.

Morgan stared silently at the carpenter. Who was this handyman, she thought.

His deep, blue eyes only begged the question, as well.

"Well?" Travis joined in.

Morgan shrugged, smiled and turned over a new leaf.

"Why not?"

It was the best she had felt all day.

Chapter 11

They all piled in to Travis's rattletrap, throwback of a pickup truck, the four of them lined up shoulder-to-shoulder on the single bench seat. Geoff insisted upon being Travis's wheelman. Samantha, who was far less enamored with the mode of transportation, was next. Morgan took the spot nearest the passenger door, which closed nothing like her new Lexus.

Travis looked over bemused that this rich family had piled into his poor man's pickup for a night out in what Pittsburgh locals called the "Boonies," the far-out ex-burbs where roadside pizza joints were big on portions, jukeboxes and pitchers of Yuengling draft. He rocked the key, and the truck's engine rumbled to life. He dropped it in gear, and they were off. The tinny AM radio chirped and twanged with country music as they made it out of the city.

The strengthening spring was pushing dusk later and later now, and the four of them pulled into the pizzeria's gravel parking lot just as the waning sunset was descending into its deep orange and purple death throes.

On the long but relaxing ride out, Morgan had to remind herself that she was doing this for her children, most especially Geoff. But as the miles away from Pittsburgh piled up, she felt herself relaxing in a way she hadn't in a long time. And by the time they reached the restaurant – her mind categorized the place as a ramshackle roadhouse with a couple of neon beer lights in the window – Morgan Chase was actually enjoying herself.

Cynical people – and that included most of Morgan's colleagues at the office – would say she was slumming it. But she found herself stealing looks at Travis out of the corner of her eye. He had a natural calmness at the center of his being. And he seemed absolutely comfortable and totally at ease with who he was, as he drove the truck with a few fingers on the wheel and his right arm slung over the back of the seat. He was unhurried and happy and he never sent out a single vibe that there was somewhere he'd rather be. It was more than Morgan could say for most people. And she found herself both liking him – and envying him.

The truck rolled to a stop, and Travis jammed the transmission stick into park.

"If you folks were hoping for Pizza Hut, you're plum out of luck," he said, turning to them. "What do you say we go grab a table?"

Travis jerked open the squeaky door and got out.

"Yeah!" Geoff shouted, parachuting out of the large pickup and into Travis's waiting arms.

Inside the truck's cab, Samantha turned to her mother. The girl's confused, uncertain expression appeared all the more exaggerated by the shadows cast by the truck's dim dome light.

Morgan shrugged. "When in Rome?"

"Mom, this isn't Rome," her daughter corrected.

"Well, let's give it a chance," Morgan said, elbowing the passenger door several times until it opened. She hopped out, and then turned to help her daughter down.

"It looks dirty," Samantha said, wrinkling her nose at the restaurant's fogged windows, which obscured the goings-on inside.

Travis and Geoff circled around the truck and must have heard the comment.

"Don't worry, princess," Travis said, coming up behind them. "The paper plates and the plastic forks are clean. Hold your judgment until you taste the pizza."

With that, Travis led the way, holding the door for Morgan and the kids.

Inside, a waitress whizzed past with a foaming pitcher of beer, paying the new customers no mind. Morgan's eyes followed as the waitress raced by, then she tisked at the slight.

Travis leaned in. "This is a seat yourself kinda place. How about that round table over there? Looks like it could fit a couple of large pies, don't it?"

Geoff headed for the table without another word. Morgan followed with Samantha taking each step as if her feet were planted in wet concrete.

The décor was wood-paneled walls, a red Formica bar and red-and-white checkered plastic tablecloths that were sticky to the touch. And Travis wasn't kidding about dishware. A stack of cheap paper plates and a roll of paper towels topped each table. At least it smelled good – a top note of fresh sourdough, sweet tomato sauce and browning mozzarella over an undertone of stale beer.

"So what do you guys like on your pies?" Travis enthusiastically inquired.

"Pies?" retorted Samantha.

"Pizzas," Travis clarified. "Pizza pies."

"Usually, pepperoni," Geoff chimed in.

Travis nodded in approval. "Good call. Anything else?"

Geoff shook his head.

"Well, if you like pepperoni, you're gonna love their Meat Eaters," Travis said. "It's pepperoni-plus. Trust me."

Geoff was sold.

"Maybe something a little lighter for us girls," Morgan put in.

"Thought you might say that," Travis said. "How about the Veggie Delight?"

"Well, I like the veggie part," Morgan agreed.

"That settles it."

As if on cue, the fleet-footed waitress waltzed up, her pencil already poised over a thick tablet of checks.

"What can I get you, Hon?" the gum-snapping 20-year-old asked Travis. She didn't so much as look at Morgan.

"I think we're gonna do two large pies, one Meat Eaters and the other a Veggie Delight," he said.

"Large?" Morgan shot back. The waitress didn't so much as glance at her. "We'll never eat two large pizzas."

"Not tonight," Travis agreed. "But I love leftovers. Nothing better than cold pizza for breakfast."

"Ewww," Samantha sang.

"Don't knock it until you try it," Travis advised.

"Yeah," Geoff agreed.

"And to drink?" the hurried waitress pressed.

"I'm gonna do a beer," Travis said. "Yuengling draft."

"You're driving," Morgan pointed out. "You're driving my kids."

The waitress frowned her annoyance.

"I can drive on one beer," Travis said. "Technically, it's legal. But if you're not comfortable..." He trailed off, as if relenting on the beer, then quickly added: "You can drive."

"Ha!" Geoff laughed. "I'd give anything to see Mom drive that truck. That would be too funny."

Morgan pursed her lips at her son's playful challenge.

"Hmm," she hummed. "You think that's funny, buster. I'll show you a thing or two. I used to drive your grandfather's truck. Heck, I even drove a few fire trucks in my day. I can hold my own behind the wheel." Then to Travis: "Go ahead, get your beer. I'm the designated driver tonight."

"Okay, so what are we doing here?" The impatient waitress chomped her gum.

"You heard the lady," Travis smiled. "A beer for me, and a pitcher of Coke for the table."

It was the most natural, easy and unforced five minutes that Morgan had shared with her children in a long while.

Chapter 12

Their fun feast of stringy, saucy and delicious pizza only extended the comfort zone surrounding Morgan and her children. It was an hour's worth of good-natured one-liners and spontaneous laughs – along with a record-breaking absence of awkward pauses, pouted lips and angry defenses.

Then, just as they were ordering boxes for the hemisphere of uneaten pizza, Morgan's one and only father burst into the restaurant, eliciting a chorus of good-natured calls of his universally known nickname: "Big Al."

Morgan's father exchanged a torrent of good-natured backslaps and shouted, enthusiastic greetings with nearly everyone at the bar. The commotion was too big to ignore. Geoff swung his head around and instantly recognized his grandpa, even though Morgan was less than diligent about visiting her side of the family.

It didn't matter. Big Al would not be denied. Over the years, he had concocted a series of never-ending excuses to pop over to the house, a pattern that only increased following Morgan's separation and divorce. Big Al's ploy to dispatch Travis to remodel Morgan's kitchen was just the latest example of his constant meddling.

But what Morgan saw as interference, her children, especially Geoff, longed for as welcomed interactions with a fun family member with seemingly no agenda but doting on his grandchildren.

"Papa!" Geoff chimed from his seat.

Instantly, Big Al broke off his conversation and squinted his eyes in the direction of the familiar voice. The loveable grandfather feigned ignorance at the source of his summons.

"Who's that?" Al boomed from across the restaurant. "Do I know you?"

"It's me, Papa," Geoff called. "Over here."

Al made a show of walking uncertainly toward the table of seeming strangers.

"It can't be," the robust 60-something said. "That's not my favorite grandson in my favorite pizza joint, now is it?"

"Yes!" Geoff giggled, as his seemingly bewildered grandfather stumbled closer to the table.

"By darned, if it isn't," Al said as he drew closer. "And my favorite granddaughter, to boot!" Al added.

Samantha smiled, despite herself.

"But this isn't possible," Al continued the charade as he stepped closer. "It can't be. No, it isn't." A disbelieving father was focused on his daughter, now.

Morgan refused to meet her father's eyes. She looked at her lap and frowned.

"Not my _highfalutin_ , high-society, 'better-than-us-Monroeville-mongrels' daughter?" Big Al played it for all it was worth. And just like the little girl under the intensity of her boisterous, braggadocios father's white-hot spotlight, Morgan's cheeks turned crimson. She absolutely hated that Al could still do this to her.

"What in the world could _she_ be doing here?" Al continued.

It was a good question. Morgan raised her head and locked in on Travis like a laser.

"You're in on this," she accused. "You took us here because my father told you to. This is a set-up."

Travis chuckled, raising both palms in a show of utter innocence.

"Not guilty," he pleaded, his eyes crinkling and sparkling with irresistible warmth. "I can't help it if your father and I have the same taste in pizza. Besides, you're the one who came home early and suggested it."

"I suggested ordering in," Morgan corrected sternly.

"Wasn't this better?" Travis goaded. "Come on, Morgan. Admit it."

Morgan's stubborn mouth resisted answering.

"It was," she grudgingly allowed. "Until now."

But it was too late. Big Al and the gravitational pull of his out-sized personality were upon them all now.

The fit but barrel-chested firefighter-grandfather scooped Geoff right off his seat, bounced him in the air, then pulled him close.

"You didn't eat all the pizza, did you?" Big Al mockingly accused.

Geoff violently swung his head from side to side.

"Saved some for me, did you?" Al asked.

Geoff vigorously nodded.

"Good," Al said. "That's a good grandson. Saving some pizza for his hungry, ol' Pap."

"Dad, he just ate." Morgan shot her father a disapproving look from under low, furrowed brow. Her father didn't even notice.

"Oh, he's okay," Al shrugged it off. "Aren't ya?"

Geoff nodded again.

"Can't baby a big guy like this," Al corrected. "Not if he wants to be a tough, smoke-eating firefighter like his Pap."

Geoff's smiled widened as Morgan's annoyance grew.

"I'm sure Geoff is going to do something with computers," Morgan said.

"That geeky, bookworm stuff?" Al scoffed, making a face at Geoff and ignoring his daughter. "That's not man's work. That's not for guys like you and me."

"He isn't like you, Dad," Morgan announced to no avail.

"And what about this young lady?" Al asked, lowering Geoff to his seat and turning his attention to Samantha.

"Bet all the boys are after you?" the grandfather asked. "I bet you're beating them off with a stick, aren't ya?"

Samantha forced an embarrassed, uncertain giggle. "No," she said shyly, then looked at her lap.

"Sure you are," her grandfather prodded, reaching down and gently tweaking his granddaughter's reddening cheek. "Pretty sweetheart like you."

Samantha glanced up at her grandfather with a shy, break-your-heart look as the red in her cheeks bloomed.

"Dad, you're embarrassing her," Morgan admonished. "We don't encourage dating at her age."

Al acknowledged his daughter's protests for the first time. He stared at her with an expression of absolute innocence.

"I'm not encouraging her," he pleaded. "Heck no. I think pretty, little Samantha, here, should stay away from those badgering boys for as long as she can. If she were my little girl, why I'd put her under lock and key. There's no one good enough for my baby. Not until Pappy Al, here, has a chance to check them out. See what they're all about. Isn't that right, Samantha?"

Al tweaked her cheek again. Samantha smiled at her lap.

"Well, she's not your little girl, Dad," Morgan said.

"I know," Al sullenly said. The sudden swing in his emotional state was disorientating. But Morgan knew it was all part of her father's act.

"I'm just her poor, old Pap," he said. "What do I know?"

"Good to see you, Al." Travis reached out his hand to his friend, trying to change the subject.

Al took the extended lifeline of Travis's hand and shook it vigorously.

"You, too, my friend," Al said. "You must be one heck of a handyman if you got my daughter to come way out here."

Al swung his gaze back to Morgan. "This here's a fine man, yes sir," he said, nodding toward Travis. "Don't pull that bossy stuff with him, the way you do with your Old Man. This here's a guy you want on your side."

Morgan frowned, but for the first time tonight she suspected her father was right.

"Thanks, Dad," Morgan said.

"Wow!" Al exclaimed. "That's something I don't hear too much. I'll tell you, Travis, I don't know what you did, but there might be hope yet for my little girl, here."

"Morgan's great," Travis said. She raised her head to see him staring right back at her. "Anything I can do to help, I'm there."

Al seemed to notice the unstated connection and chemistry between Travis and his daughter. He knew better than to toy with this, something that he had helped to create.

"Sorry, folks," Al announced. "Gotta go. Pizza won't do, if it's cold."

"Bye, Papa," Geoff intoned. Al reached out his ham-sized fist to bump knuckles with his grandson.

"So long little lady," Al said, as he stooped down to kiss shy Samantha on a cheek.

"You watch out for my family," Al said to Travis. The two clasped hands again.

Al pivoted, swung in and planted a quick kiss on Morgan's cheek, just like he did when she was a little girl. And despite everything, Morgan felt nothing but love for him then.

"Bye, Love," her father said. "Try not to be so hard on yourself."

With that, Big Al walked to the cash register, where he exchanged twenty dollars for two big boxes of pizza, then barged out the door into the chilled spring night.

Chapter 13

As promised, Morgan drove the truck home. Travis was perfectly fine with one beer under his belt, but it wasn't about that. Not anymore. Morgan had said she would do it, and she meant to follow through.

Geoff giggled at the sight of his mother behind the oversized steering wheel. Travis grinned in delight and admiration.

Morgan was nothing if not a good sport.

"Are you really gonna drive it, Mom?" Geoff asked, after Travis hoisted the boy into the cab.

"You betcha," Morgan nodded, then looked to Samantha, who snugged up against her on the bench seat, for some girl power affirmation. Her shy daughter flashed an uncertain smile. And then, the womea in charge dropped it into gear. She gave it a bit too much gas, and the truck's treaded tires sprayed gravel the whole way out of the parking lot.

"You go, Mom!" Geoff cheered.

"It's a bit touchy," Travis calmly advised.

On the dark, quiet ride home, Morgan's mind raced over her long, eventful day. To her surprise, her brain's rewind fast-forwarded over the boardroom intrigue that spelled such a reversal in her fortunes at the office. Those things would sort themselves out in time.

Instead, the lingering thoughts and images were of family -- her fast-changing and ever-maturing children who Morgan needed to get to know all over again. How Geoff so instinctively and immediately gravitated toward the new male presence in the household. How badly must he have needed that, after years of a pre-occupied father whose absence in his son's life was only formalized by Morgan's divorce?

And then there was Samantha. Fragile, swan-like Samantha. Morgan made a mental note that she would have to work on boosting her daughter's confidence. Samantha was such a unique flower, so ready to blossom. But she needed a gardener's gentle nurturing and loving care. And she required some time in the sun -- time away from men like Morgan's father, her ex-husband and even her young son. Samantha needed her own oxygen, just as Morgan had needed it. It was a supply she tapped into only after college, and even then the flow wasn't constant. Not in the shadows of her then-husband's atmosphere-sucking gravitational pull.

Travis was just the opposite of most of the men in her life. His coiled, compact body seemed to pull in on itself from its center. He did nothing to call attention to himself. Nothing he did was for show. And as Morgan watched him on the drive out, all throughout dinner and, especially, the strained scene with her father, Travis's placid but deep reserve seemed to be drawing her in.

The dense substance at the core of this easy-going, centered man had its own gentle but firm attraction. And Morgan had felt it. She was fully aware of this, however. And she remained bound and determined not to fall within its tractor beam.

Because all the men in Morgan's life had agendas. She knew that even Travis' still, placid waters hid something in their depths. Morgan would need to discover this man's deep secrets before she permitted herself to plunge in.

She would not be fooled. Not so soon after the debacle with Darren and all the irreparable harm it had wrought to her career. She could not afford another misstep, especially not with a man she had allowed into her children's lives. The handyman dispatched by her father had been around for just one day. Yet, there they were, packed into his pickup truck like some happy family. Geoff even laid his head on Travis's firm chest for the long, soothing ride home.

By the time Morgan pulled the pickup truck into her Squirrel Hill driveway, the kids were asleep and the coolness of the spring night had turned cold. Morgan turned the key and the old, balky engine coughed dead. She looked over at Travis.

"So this is what a regular life is like?" she whispered.

Travis shrugged. "I wouldn't know. But whatever this is, I like it. You have great kids."

Morgan looked away.

"Too bad their mother sucks," she whispered.

"You don't suck, M," Travis said, bestowing a nickname on Morgan that would come to stick. "You just try to have everything."

"Don't remind me about work," she said in hushed tones. "Right now, I feel light-years away from that office. And I mean it to stay that way. At least for a couple of days."

"Good," he said, putting a period on the subject. "So how do we get these zombies inside?"

Travis glanced down at the slumbering children with their slack, sweet faces.

"I think I can carry Geoff," Morgan said, sizing up her son. "My personal trainer has me pumping well over a hundred pounds."

Travis nodded in appreciation. "Look at you."

"Chinese fire drill," Morgan said, gently opening the creaky truck door, so they could switch sides and claim the kid they would carry to bed.

Travis followed suit with an even greater stealth. He didn't make a sound as he climbed out and crept around his big, old truck.

Travis scooped up Samantha with an ease and delicacy that belied his compact build. It was much more of a struggle for Morgan to hoist Geoff from the truck's high perch. The boy stirred and his mother groaned to heft his dead weight.

"Mom?" he groggily said.

"I got you," Morgan answered.

And the security of his mother's embrace seemed to send Geoff back to a blissful state of unconsciousness. And as Morgan looked down at her son, she realized she had not held him like this since the boy was fresh out of diapers. Still, her mother's power to send her son off to sleep remained undiminished.

At the side kitchen door, Travis gently shifted Samantha until she was comfortably flopped over one shoulder, his strong arm providing a secure seat. He extended his free arm for Morgan to hand him Geoff. She carefully transferred her son, until he was draped over Travis' opposite shoulder.

Morgan keyed the lock and held the door.

"Lead me to the bedrooms," Travis said.

Morgan tiptoed through her own house.

First, they laid Geoff down in his computer and electronics filled room. Morgan spread back the sheets, then caught her son as Travis dipped the boy off his sturdy shoulder. She kissed her son's forehead, then led Travis down the hall to Samantha's room.

After similarly putting her daughter to bed, Morgan slowly pulled shut the bedroom door as the two adults stepped quietly into the dimly lit hallway.

"Thanks." Morgan smiled at Travis. He flashed her a thumbs up, then followed her back down the stairs.

Walking into the outdated, lime-green surroundings, Morgan surveyed the scene as if seeing it for the first time.

"I guess this place could do with a bit of a makeover," Morgan mused, craning her neck about the room.

"It could," Travis neutrally agreed.

"So, how do we start?" Morgan turned to the handyman who was, indeed, so very handy.

"You tell me what you want," Travis said, looking his beautiful client right in the eye. His gaze had warmth and power. It was as if there were a current running between them. For a long moment, Morgan could not break this connection, just as a person being electrocuted cannot rip his hands from the source of the current.

"What are we doing?" Morgan said in a low voice that was nearly inaudible.

"We're starting," Travis answered. "You're telling me what you want."

And in that moment, the two strangers who were opposites in nearly every way weren't talking about cabinets, countertops and wallpaper.

But Morgan didn't have an answer for him. Not about this. Not yet. Too much had happened. Things were changing too fast. And the truth was, Morgan didn't know what she wanted.

The silence between them swelled. Yet, neither broke their electrically charged stare.

"I don't know," Morgan whispered after a long moment.

"Lots of people feel that way," Travis answered.

"Nothing too modern," Morgan elaborated. She could have been talking about her kitchen -- or her life.

Travis nodded.

"Yeah. Something classic," she added. "Nothing trendy. Something tried and true. Something that can stand the test of time and never goes out of style."

"Classic's good," Travis agreed. "I can work with classic."

"So can I," she said.

"But we shouldn't rush this," Travis pointed out. "This is something you're going to live with every day. You should be careful and deliberate in your choice."

"That's only wise," Morgan concurred.

"How 'bout I bring some catalogs in the morning?" Travis said.

"The morning?" Morgan asked.

"Bright and early," he said. "Sometimes, things look different in the morning."

"And what if they don't?" Morgan asked. "What if you're more sure than ever?"

"Then," Travis said, stepping toward Morgan and taking her hand. "You know you're onto something."

He gave her soft, delicate hand a gentle squeeze. She could feel the understated power in his callused palms and rough-hewn fingers. And the electricity that had connected their stares now coursed and sparked throughout Morgan's paralyzed body.

"I had a great evening," Travis said, giving Morgan's hand one more squeeze before breaking the connection. "Thanks."

With that, he was gone.

And Morgan, a woman of constant motion, remained as still as a statue in his wake.

Chapter 14

Morgan awoke the next morning to a buzzing sound that bored into her brain. But it wasn't her alarm clock. The hard-driven corporate executive who rose at 5:30 AM every weekday and who was prone to logging double-digit office hours over the weekend, as well, had not set her alarm, despite the fact that it was a Friday.

Instead, the source of the annoying sound was inside the drawer of Morgan's night table. The wooden echo chamber only amplified the grinding, grating sound.

Morgan stirred in her bed, feeling refreshed and recharged. She blindly reached a hand for the drawer pull. And when she opened it, the sound became clearer and instantly identifiable.

It was her smartphone. And Morgan, being Morgan, that signature sound seemed to instantly snap her back into corporate climber mode. With her eyes immediately clear and alert, and a single cough to transform her voice into its typical calm executive confidence, she answered the phone, even though she did not immediately recognize the caller's number.

"Hello?" she said, snapping herself out of bed and springing to her feet. She was always better – sharper, quicker \-- on her feet.

"Morgan Chase?" It was a male's voice, sounding somewhat uncertain. It was not one that Morgan could identify.

"Who's calling?"

"Dale Barbaro. From the Journal," he replied, more confident now, even arrogant. "May I speak to Morgan Chase? It's concerning a story that we're planning to run."

Morgan's stomach, full of the remnants of last night's pizza feast, suddenly sank. She began pacing the original oak floor of her bedroom.

What did they have on her?

"This is Ms. Chase," she said.

"I hope I'm not bothering you," the business reporter said. But Morgan could tell Barbaro could have cared less.

"A source gave me this number. I was told you're not expected in the office today."

"I have meetings," Morgan said curtly.

Barbaro blew out air that whooshed like a tornado through the phone. "That's not what I heard," he scoffed.

"Then you're misinformed."

"Why didn't you attend the client meeting with Pennsylvania Department of Education officials yesterday?" the reporter shot back. "Your absence was quite noticeable, considering it was your project and this was your company's first major client for this product."

"It was a private meeting," Morgan said as evenly as she could. "Neither side is releasing a list of attendees. The news – the real news – in case you missed it, is that the contract is signed. Our company's Public Education Renaissance Curriculum is being rolled out across Pennsylvania. And because of this, there will be many more client meetings and many more contract signings to come. That's the story, Mr. Barbaro."

It was a classic non-denial denial, and Dale Barbaro knew it.

Morgan had never answered his question. She never said if she was present for the Pennsylvania meeting, or not. Besides, reporters like Barbaro hated being told what the story was, especially by corporate executives who earned ten times his salary.

Barbaro's journalistic license to harangue business big shots was the one thing that made up for his salary deficit. In this one respect, Dale Barbaro, and all the nettlesome journalists just like him, possessed the one form of power corporate titans could never wield.

And he meant to use it.

"Then, I take it you're denying the rumors of your suspension?" Barbaro plowed ahead, each question more inflammatory, sensational and provocative than the last.

"I'm not commenting on anything beyond the news of the successful consummation of our agreement with the state of Pennsylvania. It's a bold, groundbreaking step that will allow our company and the students of this state to show the world the power of progressive, self-directed and fully integrated intellectual software."

Morgan quoted rehearsed, scripted lines.

"We are gratified that we will have this unique opportunity to partner will the educators of Pennsylvania, and more importantly, to engage, excite and re-invigorate the students of this state."

"Yeah, yeah," Barbaro sloughed her off. "I heard that one before. Funny how no one's talking about why the design director who conceived and created all that groundbreaking software is nowhere to be seen when this historic stuff goes down."

Morgan said nothing. The phone line swelled with silence.

"Ms. Chase?" Barbaro asked.

"I'm here," she said. "I'm not just in the habit of responding to a reporter's idle musings, even one as accomplished as you, Mr. Barbaro. Now, if you'll excuse me, I do have work to do. Believe it, or not."

"I understand," the squelched scribe dejectedly said. "Thanks for the time."

"I do appreciate your calling for my response," Morgan said. "I hope I've settled the matter to your satisfaction. And if in the future there is anything I can report, you'll be my first call."

"I can live with that," Barbaro said. "To be continued, then. I guess we can leave it at that."

"Yes," she said, wondering how all those future pages would be written. "To be continued."

The moment Morgan disconnected from Barbaro, she called Hal Linden's personal, private line, the one for internal executives only.

The genial vice president picked up on the second ring.

"Hal, this is Morgan," she said in tones that sounded more urgent than was wise.

"Morgan," Linden gregariously said. "I thought I told you to relax. That voice of yours doesn't sound very relaxed."

He came off like a father scolding his little girl. So damned condensing.

"You tell me," Morgan demanded hotly. "Do I have reason to relax?"

"Well, we haven't heard a peep from Darren, if that's what you mean," Linden elaborated. "No further calls to HR. No push to move this mess into a full-fledged accusation. It sounds like my little huddle with him is working. Cooler heads are prevailing. I just need you to simmer down, as well. For once, no news is good news."

"That's just it," Morgan said. "I'm not sure there is no news."

She paused for effect, and Linden didn't say a word. It was either shock on his part that she had discovered his back-channel play, or his genuine interest beckoning Morgan to continue.

"No sooner do I take your advice to lay low for a couple of days, and I get a wakeup call from a reporter," Morgan said.

"Who?"

"That pain-in-the-ass tech writer for the Journal," she said.

"Christ," he sputtered. "Barbaro?"

Linden sounded genuinely surprised. If he had set her up, he was a hell of an actor.

"That's the one," Morgan said. "Don't tell me someone's selling me out at my own company. You said you were putting a lid on this thing."

"I was," Linden stammered. "I am. Now, tell me exactly what this bastard said."

Morgan related the conversation, nearly word for word. Linden listened intently, then rendered his verdict of what it all meant.

"Nah," Linden drawled. "He's fishin'. Barbaro doesn't have anything. Not on you, Morgan. But he might have got wind of the company's financial play."

"There's been rumors all along that Nestor would take us public," Morgan pointed out, referring to the company's slick British CEO, Nigel Nestor. "It's always been a matter of when, not if."

"Well, let's just say that the 'when' has gotten a lot closer," Linden hinted. "Unofficially, Nigel is in London as we speak courting investment bankers for a deal. The timing of our Pennsylvania contract, the prospect of a nationwide rollout for this software and the friendly climate for international IPOs makes now the time to strike. I'm not privy to details, but I've been instructed to eliminate all bumps back home. That's why I've handled your situation the way I did. It's for all of our benefit, really. As an equity partner in this company, do you have any idea what your share of an IPO would be worth?"

There was a pause in the conversation. Morgan had been so focused on the details of Project Renaissance and the path to an executive vice president's position it represented, that she had almost forgotten the bigger picture. The company itself was ripe for promotion to the wild world of the public sector, where the sky was the limit for the stock price of a suddenly hot technology company.

"Well, I haven't calculated it down to the penny, or anything," Morgan said. "But you're right. Everything makes more sense in the context of a pending IPO. I hadn't considered it when last we talked. But the whole thing with Darren – could he be a puppet for someone trying to torpedo the deal?"

"I don't know," Linden answered in low, measured tones that dripped with deep contemplation. "That's why I'm handling him with kid gloves. Sorry if I was less than ginger with your feelings, but I assumed you would be on the same page with the bigger picture, given everything that's at stake. Besides, now I know that you do fit in with the Big Boys. Not a doubt in my mind."

Morgan wondered if Linden was playing her again, but it didn't much matter. He was right. And all of his actions up to this point had served larger interests – theirs personally and the company's."

"I'm over it," she said. "And I'm with you one hundred percent. But I'm wondering how leak-proof your containment really is, what with Barbaro sniffing around. Not just sniffing, either. Coming right to me, the unexpected chink in the company's armor."

"I still don't think he knows anything," Linden analyzed. "And if he has caught wind of Nigel's moves in London, a little fishing from a reporter is to be expected. In fact, the media scrutiny will only intensify as this deal moves closer to consummation."

"Not a great time to have a rogue secretary out there with secrets." Morgan's voice dripped with self-recrimination. "It's all my fault. I wasn't thinking far enough ahead."

"Don't beat yourself up," Linden consoled. "It happens. And right now, we have it contained. I've set myself up as Darren's white knight in the company. He knows to come to me when he's ready to talk. Going to him before he's ready will only strengthen his hand by signaling our own desperation. In my experience, people tend to think only as big as their job titles. An executive assistant sees a pampered department director, and dreams of walking in those shoes. He doesn't dream of corporate sabotage to service a rival investment banker and bring down billion-dollar deals. We shouldn't let our imaginations run away with themselves. Let's not invest your handsome secretary with the skills of a boardroom chess player. Not yet, at least."

Morgan's esteem for Linden had increased ten-fold since their conversation began. As field general, people-reader and corporate strategist, the old quarterback was an All-Pro. There was much she could still learn from him.

"You're right," Morgan said. And the mere words themselves were a relief. "You're absolutely right. We sit tight."

"We sit," Linden corrected. "No need to be uptight about it. In fact, I know one dedicated director who should be enjoying some well-deserved downtime. How are we doing with that?"

"Not bad, actually," Morgan said. "Believe it or not, I actually managed to decompress and feel somewhat human last night. I guess I have you to thank for that, as well."

"Not necessary," he said. "Just carry on. And let me know if you receive any other calls from fishing business journalists. I'll stay in touch on my end, as well."

"Thanks, Hal," Morgan said. "I really mean that."

"I know," he said. "And you're quite welcome."

Chapter 15

After a relaxing, rejuvenating, unhurried shower that nearly released the morning's tension, Morgan was toweling off her hair when her smartphone buzzed again.

Almost immediately, the restorative efforts she had just completed were ruined. When she glanced in the phone's display showing the source of the incoming call, any last bastion of stress relief was obliterated.

It was her ex-husband, Brock Ballentine.

Morgan frowned as she hit the answer button on the phone's display. She might have lamented her ex-husband's call, but she never once considered not taking it.

"Yes, Brock."

"What's this I'm hearing of a scandal?" Ballentine blustered. "Some sort of embarrassment that could spill over onto me and my children?"

"Good to hear from you, too," Morgan deadpanned.

"Come now, Morgan," her imperious ex-husband lectured. "You can't possibly expect pleasantries. Not with these wild rumors zipping about."

"You'd think I would have learned from eight years of marriage not to expect pleasantries from you, Brock," she somberly said.

"Get on with your life, woman," he snorted. "This is about the future."

"No," Morgan corrected. "It's about you. It's always about you. What did Morgan do now to fuck things up for Brock?"

"I hope you're not talking like that around our children," he said.

"Maybe you'd know if you ever bothered to see them." Morgan swung back.

"I see them," he said weakly.

"Is that all you have to do? Wave at them from your limo? Exchange platitudes and pleasantries over the phone? Send them parcels from whatever five-star hotel that hosts your latest business meeting? I have news for you. Hotel gifts are all the same, no matter where in the world you happen to be."

"I did not call to re-litigate our custody arrangement, nor to defend my parenting skills," Ballentine said, not even attempting to take a stand on such shaky turf. It's what made him such a skilled negotiator. Brock Ballentine saved all his battles for when he held the high ground. Sun Tzu would be proud.

"Perhaps then you're calling to compliment me on the successful launch of my new project," Morgan fished, trying to find a weak nerve that would send a jolt of guilt racing through her ex-husband's otherwise impenetrable system.

"That's just it," Ballentine pounced, seeing firmer footing now. "I'm hearing you got sidelined at the last minute. Word is, that joke of an ex-jock, Linden, had to close for you. Why weren't you at the biggest client meeting of your life, Morgan? I know you well enough that you wouldn't have missed it."

"And why would Mr. Fortune 500 care about our little private company that could?" Morgan deflected the question.

"I don't," he bellowed. "But I do care about my reputation. And if something makes my ex-wife and the mother of my kids too toxic to preside over her own meeting, I need to know about it."

"It was a private meeting." Morgan retreated to the company line once again. "You know I can't confirm or deny who attended and who didn't. Corporate strategy is off limits. Lord knows, you shut down many a conversation between us with that line."

"This is not the same, and you know it," Ballentine huffed. "Don't make me come in there and clean this up. You might not appreciate how I sanitize the situation."

"There's nothing for you to worry about," Morgan reassured. "I mean it."

"I do worry," he said. "This isn't the best time for me, you know? I realize you have to have your little hobby with these video games, or whatever it is that you're doing. But we both know that the real money still comes into this enterprise from my accounts. That's what will fuel the children's trust funds, pay for their Ivy League educations and purchase their futures. You do realize this, don't you?"

"Yes, Brock," Morgan droned back, as the conversation had taken its inevitable turn. With Ballentine, it always came back to money – his money. Everything and everyone took a backseat to Brock Ballentine's bank account.

"Then you might want to take greater care to ensure whatever you do in your little playground doesn't sully the real work I accomplish in the cut-throat theater of international business."

Ballentine was just pouring it on now, just twisting his thumb and grinding it in. Morgan let him continue the lecture.

"I just can't afford a scandal, even if it only involves my ex-wife. Please tell me you haven't allowed that ball-playing buffoon you work for to get one over on me," Ballentine warned. "I won't allow a moronic minion like that to hold anything over my head. I'll take any and all measures to prevent it."

"Brock, really." Morgan tried brushing it off, but she couldn't help but wonder what measures her ex-husband was talking about. "Don't you have bigger things to worry about?"

"Yes," he hissed. "I do. But I always watch my back. Always."

"I'm not your enemy." Morgan pleaded innocence. "I never was."

"So, you'll let me know if there's anything I need to know – as soon as I need to know it?"

"Yes."

"And I do mean anything, Morgan," Ballentine forewarned. "Absolutely anything. Any little thing."

"Anything, Brock," she said. "I got it."

"No surprises, then?" he pressed further. "You know how I hate surprises."

"I don't like them much, either, Brock," Morgan added, referring to the scores he had sprung on her over the long, tortured course of their marriage. Not the least of which was the conniving mistress whom Brock Ballentine eventually elevated to be his second wife.

"No one does," she added. "No one."

Chapter 16

It wasn't yet mid-morning, but Morgan already felt defeated and drained. Instead of being the businesswoman who authored her own opportunity, events were happening to her now. Away from the office, she felt unmoored, unplugged and adrift. A bobbing buoy to be buffeted by whatever direction the tides happened to be running.

This wasn't Morgan.

But what could she do?

With both her ex-husband and a reporter sniffing around her exploits at the office, she had no choice but to stay away from the one place that had been her anchor for the past two tumultuous years. And as reluctant as she was about it, Morgan would have to trust Linden. She realized now that it was in her boss's own interest to protect her. Doing so would safeguard the company's IPO, which would rain money into all of their pockets.

Clad in a terrycloth robe and slippers – a rare luxury on a weekday midmorning -- Morgan lumbered down the steps of her house. Her alert nose followed the delicious aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. And by now – hours behind her typically high-octane schedule – Morgan's very soul craved caffeine.

She padded into the kitchen to find a fresh pot underneath the coffee maker. A mug and spoon were laid out nearby. Morgan so honed in on the coffee, she didn't immediately notice Travis surveying a sheaf of plans, sketches and materials catalogs at the kitchen table.

Morgan poured and sipped at a steaming mug before her slowly sharpening eyes finally rose beyond the cup's brim. She wasn't surprised at all to see Travis there. In fact, she had been looking forward to seeing him.

With both hands wrapped around her warm mug, she padded over to the table.

Travis's brow was furrowed in concentration as his eyes surveyed the array of documents. Morgan didn't disturb him, merely padded up behind him and peered over his shoulder.

She sipped from the cup, and as the mind sharpening properties of the caffeine pumped through her system, she began to realize what she was looking at.

It was her kitchen. The kitchen she had imagined. The classic warm, country hearth that in her mind smelled of fresh baking bread and bacon sizzling on a griddle, along with that wonderful foundational undertone of good, strong coffee.

"You did all this in one night?" Morgan whispered.

Travis still didn't look up at her.

"This house has a lot of potential," he said, still studying the drawings. "I guess I couldn't get it out of my head."

He finally turned to her. His sharp, blue eyes found hers. She felt inadequate in his gaze, what with her wet hair and her face free of makeup.

But his kind, comforting eyes held no judgment of her. Only warmth, just like the kitchen he had imagined for her.

"Besides," he said. "I knew you'd be around the house for a couple days. And I know that isn't always the case. So I figured I'd better take advantage of the fact that I have a captive audience."

"So, I'm your captive?" Morgan playfully asked. She could get used to such things.

Travis raised one side of his mouth in an amused grin.

"Let's just say I was worried that once you got back into your usual routine, I'd never get you to stand still long enough to make a decision."

Morgan raised her gaze to her pathetic kitchen's ceiling, as if considering this. Then, she dipped her chin in agreement. Travis had a point there.

"Maybe I've changed," Morgan allowed.

"I go by what I see," Travis answered. "You've lived here going on two years. And while it's a great old house, it could use some work. It's not like money is a problem for you. So I'm thinking it must be time. You're just too busy to sign off on a project to fix your own house."

"Money's a problem for everyone," Morgan pointed out, cynically.

"Not me," Travis countered. "Never was high on my agenda."

"That's not a very good opening position from which to negotiate your rate." Morgan smiled devilishly. "A woman in my position could really squeeze you for all you're worth now."

"Only if I let you," he said. "But I don't negotiate. My rate is what it is. I know what I'm worth, and that's what I charge. I haven't had many complaints."

"That, I do believe," Morgan said, raising her mug with both hands, and gently sipping from it.

"I do like what I see," Morgan said.

She meant the drawings, but her comments could have applied to Travis himself.

"It's like you read my mind."

"No," he said, narrowing his eyes and considering her. "That would be a fool's errand. I just listened and took my best swing."

Morgan sat down at the table, and rested her cup on its surface. She picked up a catalog showing various cabinet styles and materials. She moved the booklet to one of the drawings, as if attempting to see how Travis's sketches would come to life.

Travis watched her comb through the appliance catalogs, circling her favorites, and comparing them against the sketches. He was quiet, jotting occasional notes and figuring up prices.

The two sat together like this for most of the morning, until nearly everything was decided.

"So what do we do now?" Morgan brightly posed.

"Well, you write me a check, and I order all the materials and appliances," he said. "The cabinets themselves could take up to three weeks, so I'll hold off on the real demo work until I get the delivery dates firmed up. You'll want to keep a working kitchen as long as you can. Believe me. It's going to get pretty ugly around here, before it gets better."

"You wouldn't be one of those contractors who leaves a girl hanging, would you?" Morgan was playing with him again, randomly poking and prodding, looking for buttons on this calm, centered man whom she found so intriguing.

"Haven't yet," Travis said. "But to be honest, there's not a lot I can do around here until the orders start coming in."

"So you're going to just sketch and run?" Morgan asked, disappointed.

"Actually, after I get these orders in, I was thinking about taking in a ballgame," he said. "There's a businessperson's special this afternoon."

"I'm a businessperson," Morgan pointed out. "You tell me, am I special?"

Travis broke into a full grin.

"You're special, all right," he agreed. "Is that your way of inviting yourself to the game?"

"A guy like you wouldn't want to drag a mother and two kids to a ballgame," Morgan tentatively stated. "Would you?"

"You're clients now," Travis pointed out. "I can write it off."

"Oh, I know," Morgan excitedly said. "I can call the office and see if I can get us seats in the corporate skybox."

Travis frowned for the first time that morning.

"That's not baseball," he said. "I'll get the seats. Just have the kids ready. And bring your mitt. I have a feeling we're gonna catch one today."

"My mitt?" Morgan said, dumbfounded. She hadn't taken a mitt to a game since she went to old Three Rivers Stadium with Big Al.

They sat way out in left field. Terrible seats by any standard. Big Al drank beer, ate peanuts and got sunburned. And Morgan hadn't had that much fun at a baseball game since. She had had plenty of better seats and much better food – yet not nearly as much fun.

Chapter 17

This time, Morgan insisted upon driving her Lexus.

After all, the afternoon baseball game was billed as a businessperson's special. Therefore, Morgan reasoned, she might encounter actual business people – executives she or her ex-husband knew. Quaint and retro as it was, it just wouldn't do to be seen piling out of Travis's seen-better-days pickup truck. Morgan didn't much mind being seen with Travis, himself. Although in some ways, he was as rustic and iconoclastic as his truck. She was duly divorced, and it was nobody's business with whom she went to ballgames with. Besides, while the jeans, tees and checked flannels didn't make any fashion statements, Travis's intense eyes, his strong, square jaw and his compact, coiled strength more than made up for his fashion deficiencies. And Morgan knew that if she did happen to encounter any female executives at the game, they would be more than jealous of her escort. Travis Walker was all man – far more than any blowhard, cigar-champing Warren Buffet wanna-be they might happen to have on their arm.

As if on cue and in character, Travis Walker showed up at Morgan's side kitchen door in a well-worn white T-shirt with a badly faded Pirates' logo across the chest. He clutched a relic of a leather baseball glove that had been rubbed and oiled so many times, it was as soft and pliable as a baby's bottom.

Morgan was packing her purse and calling for the kids when Travis stepped in the kitchen.

"Where's yours?" he inquired, holding up his glove.

"Let's just say, I must not have won it in the divorce," Morgan whispered conspiratorially. "Geoff doesn't have one either. He's not exactly the 'play-catch-in-the-backyard' type. Neither was his father. The only sports he plays are on the computer."

Travis shook his head gravely. "That's child abuse in some states. We'll have to fix that."

Just then, Morgan's son slow-walked into the kitchen, his head down and his eyes fixed on his smartphone. He didn't even notice Travis.

"Are we really going to a smelly Pirates game?" Geoff asked, refusing to remove his hypnotized eyes from his electronic device.

Her own eyes still locked on Travis, Morgan tilted her head like a lawyer who just presented case-clinching evidence.

"I'll let you use my glove," Travis spoke up.

Geoff lifted his eyes. "Oh," he said. "Hey, Travis."

Travis held out the glove. Geoff eyed it uncertainly.

"Looks old," the boy said.

"It is. Some of the best things are. Try it on."

Miraculously, Geoff slipped his smartphone in his pocket and held his hands out for the glove. Travis tossed it to him.

"You used to play?" the boy asked.

"Only in high school," Travis said. "But that mitt's been just about everywhere I've been in the world. Nothing clears my head like throwing and catching a baseball."

Geoff pulled on the glove. He worked it deeper onto his hand by pounding its center with his other fist.

"It's soft," Geoff said.

"All the best ones are," Travis smiled.

"Where's your sister?" asked Morgan, to which her son simply shrugged.

"I better go get her, or we'll be waiting until the seventh inning stretch," Morgan announced, before marching off in her very springy ensemble of a breezy blouse, casual slacks and strappy sandals.

A few minutes later, Samantha appeared, sullen but ready to go.

"Okay if we take mine?" Morgan said, swiping her keys from the kitchen counter. "It's easier with the kids."

Travis held up his palms in surrender.

"As you wish," he said. "The whole goal here is to relax and take in a game. So whatever makes you comfortable – all of you."

Travis palmed the heads of both Geoff and Samantha. "Can we show just a little enthusiasm here, guys?"

Travis squinted as if the effort he was demanding of them were extraordinary. He raised a hand, showing the slightest space between his thumb and index finger.

"Anything?" he prodded again. "Can you give me anything?"

Samantha rolled her eyes. "Woohoo," she sang sadly.

"I guess it would be cool if I caught a ball," Geoff allowed finally.

"You never know," Travis shrugged. "But we gotta actually get to the ballpark first. Are the Chases and the Ballentines ready to depart? Should we have a countdown? A drum roll? An announcement that the family is leaving the building?"

Morgan shot him a forced grin at the not-so-veiled references to her high-maintenance family.

"Is he going to be like this all day?" Samantha asked, looking up at Morgan.

She considered the question.

"No," she finally answered. "I'm sure it gets worse. You'll just have to forgive him. Back in his day, going to a baseball game was a big deal."

Travis smirked a grudging submission. Morgan had gotten him there. Baseball still brought out the kid in him.

Chapter 18

Travis insisted upon purchasing the tickets for all of them. He did this at the ticket window and with cash. No Ticketmaster, Stub Hub or scalpers for him. The seats were down the left field line. Not the outfield, exactly. But no luxury skyboxes, to be sure.

Once again, the kids were singularly unimpressed.

On the way to their distant destination, the band of them stopped for refreshments that they would carry to their seats. Here again, Travis insisted upon the traditional -- hot dogs, peanuts and beer (water for the kids), all around.

Yet, when the group finally made its way from under the dark concourse surrounding the stadium, through the tunnel and out onto the field level seats, some sort of magic occurred.

The brilliant blue sky, the cool spring breeze, and that fluorescent green grass opened up to them all at once. On the plush field below them, players tossed baseballs in the outfield. Batters cracked bats in batting practice. And pitchers labored in the bullpen, the strengths of their pitching arms and the speeds of their pitches registering with the sharp smacks of the baseball hitting the catcher's glove.

Travis stood there for a moment, taking it all in.

Morgan noticed this and wondered whether such a constant as this in a person's life somehow connected him to all iterations of him former self down through the years.

Looking at Travis Walker's content, contemplative face, she suspected that it did.

Clutching a cardboard tray containing her beer and hot dog, Morgan brushed up close to Travis and whispered in his ear.

"Nice, huh?" she said.

She watched him close, his eyes sparkling.

"Yeah," he agreed. "The best."

"I'm glad you brought us," she whispered softly. "It means a lot."

He turned to her then. Travis' eyes were another of the brilliant, crystalline things in the ballpark that day. They seemed to penetrate her then.

"It means a lot that you came," he said.

His mesmerizing eyes seemed to possess the power to hold Morgan, to freeze her in place. On the periphery, Morgan was aware of her children and their growing impatience to get to their seats. No doubt, they were eager to dig into the junk food she normally wouldn't allow. Perhaps, they were confused by this developing bond with Travis.

Geoff took advantage of the lull in the action to plug one end of the foot-long dog into his mouth. Samantha, meanwhile, shuffled uncomfortably from foot to foot. The idle, uncertain moment between her mother and another man was much too long for a twelve-year-old girl with self-esteem issues and a daddy complex.

"Can we, like, go now?" Samantha said with every ounce of her adolescent sarcasm, judgment and disdain.

It was enough for Morgan to break from the trance Travis had her under. She looked down at her daughter.

"Sure, Honey," Morgan smiled. "But I told you we weren't done seeing the weird side of Travis."

Samantha looked at her feet, and then mumbled a rejoinder that was right on target.

"He's not the only one acting weird," she said.

Morgan turned her head, leaving her daughter's comment undressed. She stepped forward, as if leading the way to the seats. But it was Travis who held the tickets.

"Over here," he called, nodding to the left, further toward the outfield. "Those four right on the end."

The group of them headed in that direction. On the way, Geoff mumbled over his mouth full of hot dog: "Do you think we'll catch a ball out here?"

Adept at deciphering hot dog speak at baseball games, Travis answered: "We're sure going to get our share of chances. I can tell you that."

"Cool," Geoff said, his lips pulling into a ketchup-stained smile that stretched over his mouthful of food.

Travis took the seat farthest away from the aisle. Morgan sat next to him, leaving Samantha and then Geoff to complete the row.

"It's important for the guy with the glove to be on the aisle," Travis instructed Geoff. "This way you're freer to go for the fly balls."

And even though the game was still about a half-hour away, Geoff kept the glove on his left hand, leaving him just one arm with which to finish his food.

The ballpark filled in with a respectable, but far from capacity, crowd. Clusters of fans dotted the seats around them, but no one was forced to sit elbow to elbow. Travis clasped his hands behind his head and kicked his feet over the back of the seat in front of him. In his position, his biceps swelled and pulled at the arms of his seen-better-days Pirates T-shirt. Morgan couldn't help but admire his pose – and his body.

She used the excuse of some idle chitchat to remain locked in his direction and study his form. She noticed the dark shapes of what had to be a tattoo of some sort encircling Travis's left upper bicep. But she didn't recognize the design, nor think much about it. It was just another of Travis' charming blue-collar traits.

The game began, and Geoff sat ready with his glove. Travis made work of shelling his peanuts and washing them down with beer. The discarded shells were like a carpet of sawdust on the concrete underneath his seat. Morgan seemed to think that this blatant disregard for littering laws was a breach of etiquette of some sort. But Travis assured her that this was yet another of the charms of being at the ballpark. And he watched delightedly as Morgan began cracking her own shells and letting the brown pieces fall to the floor.

After her first few peanuts, Travis raised his beer in a toast.

"To the cheap seats," he said.

Morgan smiled and grabbed her beer from a cup holder.

"The cheap seats," she agreed. And so as not to exclude her children, she turned with her beer to Samantha and Geoff, and repeated the toast.

Geoff immediately got the drift, and raised his water bottle, but Samantha just frowned at another of her mother's weird ways.

By the third inning, they were ready for more refreshment. At the very least, Travis and now Morgan were ready for another beer. But before Travis could get up and squeeze out of the aisle, a man walked up holding a tray of drinks.

"Sir," the man called to Travis, who turned to see a fan that Travis vaguely remembered seeing seated nearby.

"On me, sir," the man said, presenting Travis with the tray containing two beers and two sodas.

Travis looked down at the offering, somewhat taken aback but smiling graciously.

"Thank you," Travis said.

"No," corrected the man. "Thank you for your service."

By this time, Morgan and the kids had turned and were watching the unusual exchange. Travis fisted two of the drinks, handing one to each of the kids. He then pulled out the beers, offering one to Morgan and raising the other to his mouth and drinking.

He nodded and smiled at the man.

"Mighty nice of you, sir," Travis said.

The man smiled warmly and nodded back. He looked down at Morgan and her family. He must have noticed the confusion on Samantha's face. Perhaps, that was why he addressed her, specifically.

"You got a brave dad right there, young lady," the rather large man said as he leaned down to address Samantha conspiratorially. He smiled and nodded again as if to emphasize his point.

"Do you know him?" Samantha asked, not bothering to correct the man's assumption of genealogy, but rather more interested in getting to the bottom of this strange gesture.

"Not personally," the man said good-naturedly. "Haven't had that pleasure. But I know that tattoo there on his shoulder. I know what men like him have done for our country. It's why you and I can sit here and enjoy this game."

The man laid a gentle hand on Samantha's shoulder, and then raised himself to Travis.

"Navy SEALs, if I'm right," the man said, nodding at Travis's left arm. "You guys are one hell of a weapon, if you'll excuse my enthusiasm."

But instead of offering more information, Travis seemed to close off then. Suddenly, his face held a flat, neutral expression that betrayed nothing.

"Thanks again for the drinks," Travis firmly said. "We do appreciate it."

The man nodded and smiled knowingly.

"Yep," he said. "That's a SEAL, all right. The real heroes never talk about it. I understand, and I thank you again for your service. I'll leave you fine folks to enjoy the game."

"Thanks!" Geoff called, raising the sugary soda that normally was disallowed.

Travis turned and sat down as if nothing had happened. But Morgan, and particularly, Samantha, were studying him.

"Well, that was nice," Morgan said, fishing for further explanation.

"Yeah," Travis said mildly. "Nice guy."

"What did he mean?" Samantha pressed. "About you being a hero and stuff?"

Travis turned and looked at Samantha. Her face was so eager, so expectant. He didn't want to disappoint her. But the fact was, Travis Walker didn't talk about himself.

Ever.

"I can tell you this, honey," he gently said. "I'm no hero. I served my country. But the only heroes I ever met were the ones who didn't come back."

"That man says you're a hero," Samantha countered. "He says you were a SEAL. Were you a SEAL?"

"SEALs are the biggest, boldest badasses," Geoff chimed in. "Anyone who plays videogames knows that. They're the ones to send when the mission is impossible, the odds are against us and the enemy needs killing. Works every time."

"So were you?" Samantha pressed. "A SEAL?"

"I guess I was too thick-headed and stubborn to quit the training," Travis allowed. "Lots of people served, honey. What people call them doesn't matter that much in the end."

"I want to see your tattoo," Samantha insisted. "The one the man was talking about."

Reflexively, Travis reached a hand to his shoulder, as if covering up the ink that snaked around his upper bicep.

"It's an ugly, ol' thing, really," he said, almost embarrassed.

"I wanna see it," the girl pleaded. "Can I?"

Watching all this, Morgan wanted to see it, too. And she wasn't about to correct her daughter for being nosey, not while Samantha was sweating this blank page of a man for firm facts and precious bits of biographical information.

Travis just couldn't resist the searching and longing in the pretty little girl's face. Samantha had been blessed and cursed with a high-achieving but absentee father. And an empty space inside of her has been longing to be filled ever since. Samantha needed a hero. Travis knew he did not fit the bill. No one could measure up to the man that little girls like Samantha truly need and deserve. But he was the one right there. He was the one who had to face her heart-breaking eyes, brimming as they were with so much need and want and uncertainty.

Travis turned his shoulder toward Morgan and the kids. Then, he rolled up his sleeve.

Underneath, riding high his on his arm, was the elaborate image of a skull wearing a floppy brimmed hat, scuba goggles and a respirator. Two rifles were crossed behind its head. And these words were scrawled underneath: "God will judge our enemies. We arrange the meeting."

"Cooool!" Geoff sang delightedly. "That is too cool, Travis."

Samantha, by contrast, was struck silent as her eyes scrutinized the tattoo. Wordlessly and semi-consciously, she reached out a hand. Her fingers gently touched the image, as if needing to confirm that it was real. Samantha's kind and gentle fingers lightly traced the inked lines that so coldly and harshly represented death and vengeance.

Morgan could only watch as her daughter literally reached out for something her very soul had been craving since the divorce had become final.

"You are a hero," Samantha finally said, her fingers still running over the lines of Travis's tattoo.

Just then, there was a loud crack that snapped everyone's attention toward the field. The crowd gasped in anticipation as the ball rocketed toward left field. Geoff instinctively jumped up and raised his glove. But this was no fly ball. This sucker was on a mission. It zoomed on a rope over the left field wall for a homerun. The crowd cheered the two-run knock that put the home team ahead.

The four of them were on their feet with the rest of the crowd. Suddenly, the once-sullen Samantha was cheering and clapping right along with everyone else. And as the excitement was waning, she reached up for her mother. Morgan leaned down to her daughter.

"Can I sit by Travis?" Samantha asked meekly.

Morgan smiled as something inside her heart let loose.

"Yes, dear," Morgan whispered.

"Good try," Morgan said, changing places with her daughter and addressing her son. "I want to sit by my left fielder over here," she announced by way of explanation for the sudden change in the seating chart.

Having switched places with her daughter, Morgan watched as Samantha nuzzled close to Travis for the rest of the game. She saw the way her daughter looked at this man, and Morgan couldn't help but look at him in the same way.

He was special. He was unique. He was mysterious.

But right now, and best of all, Travis Walker was theirs.

And when Travis caught Morgan looking so admiringly at him, she didn't turn away. She wanted him to know. And to see her daughter with this fine man, Morgan would look and watch and admire -- all day long.

Chapter 19

They got back after dark again. The day, the game, the sun and yet another filling dinner -- this one of steak and fries at a Steelers-themed restaurant near the stadium \-- left them all blissfully fulfilled, happy and fatigued.

Morgan marched the children upstairs after each received hugs and hair tousles from Travis. But there were no goodbyes between him and Morgan. Not yet.

She made a point of telling him to stay.

"We need to finalize those kitchen plans," Morgan said while herding her two children toward the stairs. "You mind waiting around?"

Travis shook his head.

And later, when Morgan returned after putting the kids to bed, she went for the fridge and removed two beers. She popped the tops and handed one to Travis. He rose from the table and took it.

"About those plans," he began to say.

"Plans are overrated," Morgan cut him off playfully. She swigged her beer and stepped closer to him.

"Sometimes you need to act on instinct," she said.

Morgan stepped into him.

Travis Walker's chest was rigid and strong. His entire body was compact, solid and utilitarian, not overly muscled and showy. He smelled of sunlight and the outdoors. And he didn't back away a single inch. After all, Travis Walker had never backed away from anything in his life.

Morgan took another drink, and then slid her arms around his waist. She rested her beer on the countertop behind them. Travis' body was hot, as if it had absorbed the day's worth of sunlight.

Travis swung back his head, slugged his own beer, and then looked down at Morgan.

"What are we doing?" he said.

"Acting," Morgan said. Her eyes smoldered at a sultry half-mast. "On instinct."

She pulled him tighter. His waist was compact. His hips, tight. The bulge in his jeans, full and pronounced.

The day of watching this fine man had been foreplay for Morgan. She was primed and ready to swing for the fences now.

Morgan grinded into him harder.

Her hands ran up his muscled, sinewy back. It was so strong and solid under his thin, soft T-shirt.

She pressed her own ample chest into his. Yet she felt him standing rigid, holding back.

"Don't you like me?" Morgan asked, pulling back and showing him a pout.

He smiled down at her, even as he shook his head.

"No," he said. "I do like you. That's just it. I like you and your children very much. But things that begin like this never seem to last."

"You admit, there's something here?" she lawyered him. "Between us?"

"Yes," he said.

"Then let's explore it," she said breathlessly, pressing into him again.

"We are," he said. "We've done a lot of exploring for just two days. And it's only made me want more."

"Then take it," she offered. "Have more."

"I will," he nodded. "We will. But not now. Not like this. Not this soon."

Morgan pulled back and studied the ugly linoleum floor.

"You think I'm some kind of slut," she said into his chest. "I was out all night the morning we met, and here I am throwing myself at you after a ballgame and a beer."

"And it's taking everything I have to hold myself back," Travis said. "The thing is, I want a whole lot more than just tonight."

She looked up at him then. The more Morgan knew about this wonderful, mysterious man, the more she wanted to know. Travis had a way of making her want more and more and more.

"Who are you?" she asked, shaking her head in bewilderment. "You show up in my life, and everything turns upside down. Just who in the hell are you?"

"I'm here," he said kindly. "I'm right where I want to be and nowhere else. I'm present. I'm real. I'm ready. And I'm not going anywhere."

He leaned down and kissed her mouth.

The breath through his nose was hot and heavy. His lips were soft, but the firmness of his kiss pressed hard into Morgan's mouth. She could feel the brittles of his beard stubble scratching her cheeks. She opened her mouth and accepted his tongue.

Their mouths and tongues explored each other. In their hunger, it was as if they meant to devour each other. The passions in their bodies ignited blazes in their already stimulated erogenous zones. The fullness of his package became rigid and hard in his jeans. Hers became aching and wet.

But as they pulled hard and close into each other, both of them realized that their nerve-quivering desire to discover each other would only deepen and build with time. Indeed, if they could play each other's bodies like symphonies with mere kisses, just think what soaring music they could create together if they permitted their feelings and passions to crescendo in equal measure.

So even as her hungry mouth and aching body yearned and beckoned for his throbbing manhood deep inside of her, Morgan knew Travis was right.

The act, while so immediate and instinctual, would only siphon away the intensity from what was quickly becoming the most wonderfully romantic experience of her life.

The journey she and Travis were on now stood the chance of blossoming into something so monumental, not even the pimply-faced sophomore left to yearn and dream and masturbate alone in her dorm room could have dared imagine it.

"I guess I should go," Travis managed, breaking off their oxygen-depriving deep kisses.

Both of them were panting. The heat and electricity between them had manifested itself in the form of their steam-like breath, the sheen of sweat on their faces and chests and, of course, in their swollen, aching genitals.

Morgan licked her nearly numb lips, as she struggled to catch her breath.

"As much as I hate to admit it, yeah," she exhaled. "But I need to see you. Every minute with you makes me want another day, week, month, year. Do not leave me like this."

"I'm not leaving," Travis said. "Just pausing for intermission. See you tomorrow?"

"Count on it," Morgan said, her hands falling away from him as the stepped toward the door. "If not, I'll hunt you down, sailor. SEAL or no SEAL, you never faced Morgan Chase on a mission."

"Could be fun," he said, opening the kitchen door.

"You have no idea," Morgan said, raising a sly, slanted, sexy grin that told of all the pleasures yet to come.

Chapter 20

The optimistic, expectant grin written large on Morgan's attractive face was never erased that entire night.

She awoke with the thrill and longing of a schoolgirl. The new day only made her want Travis Walker all the more. And with the morning sunlight beaming into her bedroom and the excitement of last night still coursing through her body, Morgan thought she smelled coffee.

Clad in a robe, she stepped into the hallway, where the pleasing aroma grew even stronger. Padding down the steps only confirmed its source. There in the kitchen, clad in work clothes and with a tool belt strapped about his waist, Travis Walker, her handyman in all things, was fixing breakfast.

"Who'll break the eggs?" Morgan teased from the entryway.

"Oh, we already cracked the shells," Travis grinned. "That's what last night was all about. All we have to do now is scramble them."

"Some peppers and onion might be nice," Morgan offered, stepping toward him.

"Sure would," he agreed. "Some cheese, too."

"Quite the recipe," she said, taking a knife to a green pepper.

"Guess we both like mixing things up."

"Wouldn't have it any other way," Morgan said.

In the kitchen, with the wonderful morning scent of freshly brewing coffee permeating the outdated but sunlit space, Morgan watched as her bleary eyed children stumbled down for breakfast without being summoned.

The two sleepy faces wore puzzled expressions as they stared at their mother, working over the stove. The iron skillet in Morgan's hand sizzled with frying butter. A nearby ceramic bowl held a mix of scrambled eggs, sliced green peppers, diced onion and grated feta cheese.

Morgan glanced at her bemused children and smiled.

"Mom?" Samantha asked, as if she were bearing witness to a mad woman.

"Looks like your mom's doing some cooking," Travis offered, by way of explanation. "Mind if I join you guys for breakfast before I get to work?"

"Sure," Geoff answered. "But my mom doesn't really cook. I'm not sure you'd want to eat it."

"She looks like she knows what she's doing," Travis said, glancing at Morgan. "But what do you say we give her a hand?"

The three of them -- Samantha, Geoff and Travis -- gathered around Morgan near the old, soon-to-be-replaced kitchen island.

And unlike so many past manic mornings, she wasn't hurrying for work. She wasn't leaving breakfast for Ramona to fix. She wasn't whizzing by her own children as if they were strangers. And she wasn't wanting for a man's attention.

Right then, in that shambles of a kitchen, Morgan Chase had it all.

All, except for a cup of coffee.

Morgan was no longer in overdrive, but she still needed her caffeine.

"Okay, you guys take over for a minute," Morgan announced. "I'm going to get that coffee. Travis, you want a cup?"

"Read my mind."

"How do you take it?"

"Black. Like my soul." Travis affected a gravelly, ghoulish voice, and both of the kids laughed. Morgan cracked a crooked grin. This guy was something else, she thought.

She plucked two large mugs from the fluorescent green cupboards, and reached for the decanter from the coffee machine.

That's when Morgan noticed the latest surprise to rock her world.

Morgan wasn't sure what made her glance at it. Habit, perhaps. But whatever the impulse, she happened to catch a glimpse of her smartphone. It was there on the countertop, next to her keys. And a message was waiting.

She poured the coffee, and walked the first mug over to Travis.

"Thanks," he said, while pouring the omelet mix into the sizzling skillet.

On her way back, Morgan discretely palmed her phone from the counter and slipped it into the pouch pocket of her robe. She fixed her own cup of coffee with a touch of cream and a pouch of Equal. When she finished, she took a careful sip, then turned her back to the otherwise-occupied chefs over by the stove and slyly checked the phone message.

The identification widened her eyes and quickened her pulse.

Darren Spencer had placed the call.

Indeed, her one-time lover and former administrative assistant owed her much more than a single voicemail. He owed her a full-on, detailed explanation of everything that occurred since their steamy one-night stand at the Sheraton.

And that was just for starters.

The fierce competitor and no-bullshit businesswoman inside Morgan wanted to pounce on this immediately. Those parts of her surged with the Darwinian impulse to immediately begin to get to the bottom of Darren's mind-blowing betrayal. Indeed, the lure compelling Morgan to bolt from the kitchen and hole up in her bedroom making and taking calls was strong. The old Morgan wouldn't have thought twice.

Yet, she did none of these things on this morning.

Instead, Morgan slipped the smartphone back into the pocket of her robe, with Darren's mysterious message unchecked. She took another sip of coffee and padded back over to the stove, where the omelets were almost ready.

"So you managed to get out of cooking, after all," Travis accused.

"See, I told you my mom doesn't cook," Geoff called in gotcha fashion.

Morgan shrugged a 'no contest' to the charges and her well-earned reputation among her children.

"What can I say? I need coffee to function."

Morgan took another sip, as if to confirm this fact, and then set down her mug.

She passed plates that soon would be filled with homemade, secret-recipe omelets. The four of them would sit and talk and eat. And the lazy, still-awakening Saturday would be theirs to plan.

Oh, she would get around to listening to Darren's message.

Morgan's never-ending chase would inevitably continue.

But right then, on this perfect morning, the pendulum had swung and the tables had turned, if only for the moment.

Morgan's personal life was, at this moment, a Norman Rockwell painting. It was her career that had disintegrated and descended into the heinous-looking _Hieronymus Bosch_.

And Morgan had yet to found the balance.

Perhaps, her ongoing quest for the professional woman's Holy Grail of symmetry would be advanced by Darren Spencer's unheard message. Perhaps not.

Morgan Chase would discover all of this. And more.

But not until after breakfast.

Perhaps, not until the end of what she hoped would be another long, wonderful day with Samantha, Geoff and Travis.

A day so perfect that every detail would be etched like engraved crystal into Morgan's memory.

"Hey, wake up over there," Travis snapped his fingers like a hypnotist bringing a patient out of a trance. "Do I have to cook, serve -- and remodel this kitchen? Or are you going to help us plate these omelets?"

For a second, Morgan was caught dumbfounded holding her stack of plates. Then, just as suddenly, she plunged back into the present. With her family. Alongside Travis.

In other words, right where she was meant to be.

"Yes, chef," she barked. "Whatever you say, chef."

And for one blessed day, that was as hurried and harried as it would get for Morgan Chase.

To Be Continued...

Dear Reader,

I hope you've enjoyed this special 30,000-word free preview of my exciting Morgan's Chase series. The succeeding eight installments in the romantic and suspenseful Chase series await your discovery. Future books range in length from 33,000 words to 55,000 words, and are priced accordingly, between $1.99 and $3.49. I do hope you continue the Chase.

You have no idea where it goes next. And believe me, you ain't seen nothing yet!

So start now. Don't miss the shocking second chapter in Morgan's Chase with Book #2 Tied Up & Twisted.

Love,

Lucy St. John

