A Fine Mess

Chapter 4

"I thought you were deliberately ignoring me." Brian pulled Miriam a little closer and stepped lithely past an approaching duo of horribly inept tango dancers.

"I can't work and play at the same time, Brian." She opened a slight space between them for emphasis.

"And what work would that be, Miriam?"

"Mapping out my future."

"And how is that going?" He asked sardonically.

"I'm optimistic." Her expression declared any more questions out of bounds. "Speaking of work, how is yours going?"

"I'd like to say I'm optimistic too, but pressure from across the pond is building. Our competition is clumping like kitty litter. If we don't watch ourselves we could be under attack."

"You mean... merger?"

"Hush, Miriam! That's blasphemy at a WesCat function."

"But a possibly considered option, no?"

He changed the step and guided her between the other dancers to a more remote part of the floor. "With Mister and Mrs. Weston holding the majority of the shares, I would say no."

"Ah yes, fifty-five percent, I believe."

"Yup. Forty and fifteen."

"Oh really!"

Brian drew his head back and looked at her. "You say that with a hint of more than just curiosity."

Miriam gazed back into his dark eyes, trying to penetrate the glib façade that was Brian Cathcart. "So Barton's not as bullet as proof it might seem." He held her gaze with his own. Two wary survivors stepping carefully around one another. "Is there a message of some kind in there, Miriam?" They turned gracefully and threaded their way back across the end of the dance floor.

"I don't know, is there? Of course, it's all hypothetical shop talk on a shop night, right? A bit of a game."

"This is more than just a game, Miriam. This is a very dangerous game."

"And you would do well to remember the players." She captured his eyes with a cold glare then softened the moment with a demure pout.

"Consider me reprimanded," he smiled timidly, spinning her back into the middle of the dance floor, their bodies crushed together to avoid any collisions.

"Speaking of games, shouldn't you be playing right now?"

"Playing what?"

"What you seem to be neglecting, priming pumps for WesCat."

"Have you actually taken a good look at some of the pumps I'm supposed to prime?" His eyes crinkled in amusement.

"Young and single and so fussy. What a shame."

"Fussy enough to select one of the prettier partners for this dance." They executed another twirl past the bunching couples.

•••

"Thank you for rescuing me, Myles, but could we just sit for now, my feet are killing me." Disappointed, but ever gallant, Myles led Moira to a window seat beside the screen of a giant fern that spread magnanimously from a white plaster urn and affording them some privacy. "And would you be upset if I asked you to bring me a strong gin and vermouth?" Myles stopped mid sit and rose, inclining his head politely and sliding off toward the bar. She watched him go, amused at the ease with which the boss's wife could manipulate the lesser ranks.

Moira slipped off her shoes and massaged her feet, sharing sympathetic smiles with other wives dancing past wearing toe crushers and ankle breakers. Myles returned, smoothly sitting beside her and holding the glass at the ready until she replaced one shoe and sat up. He picked up the subtle scent of her perfume and inhaled, holding his breath.