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According to the thumbnail sketch Bayliss had provided, A.H. Gordon had spent the last fifteen years of her life in New England. She was a teacher at some fancy girls’ school.
Lord. It was a prescription for disaster. Cade could imagine what she was like, a fortyish spinster in tweed, wearing sensible oxfords and wire-rimmed glasses, dishing out orders in a snooty boarding-school accent to a bunch of men who were probably still trying to figure out if old A.H. was male, female or something uncomfortably in between.
Cade hunched over the report again. The more he read, the more he felt like groaning.
It wasn’t bad enough she’d lived and taught back East. She’d also taken her degree there, at a college for women. Cade almost laughed. An Eastern college for women was definitely the place to get your education, if you wanted to find out how to deal with a Texas oil crew.
As for what she’d studied—he did laugh, this time.
A.H. Gordon had not one but two degrees, one in business administration and one in psychology.
Either was about as useful in the oil business as teats on a bull.
The business degree might sound good, but Cade had taken a few business courses back in the days when he’d been studying petroleum geology. He could still remember the serious, bearded profs in their tweed jackets with the leather elbow patches, spouting facts and figures to prove that the way to get the most out of your workers was to make them feel a part of the process.
Maybe it worked in a Toyota factory, or on Madison Avenue. But out in an oil field, the way to get the most out of your men was to prove that you were one of them, that you could sweat and strain and wrestle heavy, dangerous equipment the same way they could.
That left A.H. Gordon out.
As for psychology—Cade had taken some of those courses, too, not out of choice, God knew, but because they’d been part of the university’s degree requirements.
If A.H. Gordon believed in her subject, then she believed, too, that it was important to worry about everybody’s childhood traumas, egos and self-worth.
It was a technique that might work with kids. But if you had to ride herd on a bunch of tough-talking roughnecks, it was doomed to failure.
Cade sighed and settled back in the chair. He stretched out his legs, crossed them at the ankles and scanned the report again, just to make sure he’d gotten the salient facts. Then he slapped it down on the table beside him and laced his fingers together, steepling them below his chin, tapping the tips of his index fingers against his mouth.
A.H., he mused, A.H. Was A for Anne? Alice? Agnes? Cade grinned. Oh, yes, he thought, Agnes. Definitely.
And the H. What was that for? Helen? No, he didn’t think so. Harriet? Hannah? Henrietta? Yeah, that was it. Hank Gordon’s daughter had been named for her father.
Agnes Henrietta Gordon. That was the woman’s name. He could feel it in his bones.
To think he’d expected to spend two whole days sorting things out in Dallas. An hour right here had done the job. All he needed to do was remove A.H. Gordon from the top spot at Gordon Oil and replace her with someone who could handle the job.
He would do it tactfully, if he could. But if he couldn’t…
He reached for the telephone, ran his finger down the list of numbers programmed into it, found the one he wanted and hit the button. Minutes later, he was ticketed on the next flight to Dallas. Then he trotted up the stairs to his room and tugged his leather carryon from the wardrobe closet.
He felt a twinge of regret for A.H. Gordon. The job heading up Gordon Oil must have fallen on her shoulders after her father’s death. By now, she was probably close to panic, lost and alone in a man’s world. In fact, she was probably eager to step aside. She just didn’t know how to do it gracefully—but he’d show her.
Cade pulled open the bureau drawers and began tossing shirts and undershorts into the carryon. And if, by some remote possibility, she wasn’t quite ready to relinquish control of the company, he’d just have to be brutally frank.
“A.H.,” he’d say, clapping her on her overstuffed, tweedy back, “you’re not helping Gordon Oil reach its full potential.”
Cade grinned as he strode into the connecting bathroom and gathered his toiletries. A psych major ought to appreciate that approach. Then he’d appoint someone to take her place—one of his own men, perhaps, or someone whose ability caught his eye at Gordon’s—and climb on the first plane leaving Dallas for London.
Or maybe he’d go to England the long way, with a stopover in Dumai first, where that beautiful, giftwrapped package still waited for him. He smiled as he conjured up an image of heavily lashed eyes, a soft mouth and a lush body.
What had her name been? Leilia. A sexy name for a sexy woman, one who was as lovely as she was eager to come to sweet, exciting life in a man’s arms.
He wondered what such a woman would make of an A.H. Gordon.
It might be simpler to convince a poodle and a fox terrier that they were related, he thought, and chuckled.
Whistling softly between his teeth, he zipped the carryon shut, stepped briskly into the hall and shut the bedroom door after him.
CHAPTER TWO
ANGELICA Gordon was not a happy woman.
She had creditors breathing down her neck, a drilling crew threatening to strike and so many bills to pay that she’d given up looking at her morning mail.
Even worse, she had a meeting in two hours with a hatchet man for Landon Enterprises.
No, she thought as she yanked a black linen dress from her wardrobe closet and eyed it critically, no, she was not happy at all.
Angelica frowned, held the dress under her chin and glared at herself in the mirror.
The idea was to look like an executive, not the chief mourner at a funeral. She tossed the dress on the bed, where it joined a small but growing pile of discards.
Why hadn’t they given her more warning? It was unconscionable, announcing a visit only hours in advance. Suppose she’d had a conflicting appointment that couldn’t be canceled?
Angelica blew an errant copper curl off her forehead. That was probably the whole point of doing it this way, she thought grimly. The fax Emily had read her over the phone spoke of “urgent business,” but anyone who knew anything about business strategy would realize that the only business that was urgent was reminding her that Landon Enterprises could make her jump through hoops any time it wanted.
Not that she needed reminding. Landon owned her, lock, stock and barrel. They had the right to do virtually anything they chose—and she suspected that what they chose was to remove her as head of Gordon Oil.
Well, she wasn’t going to make it easy for them. She’d tried her hardest to make this work. Surely, they’d understand….
Angelica groaned softly and sat down on the edge of the bed. The only thing Landon would understand was Gordon’s downward spiral.
Maybe her friends back east had been right all along.
Jack Brenner, who taught mathematics at Miss Palmer’s and with whom she’d shared an occasional meal or movie, had been blunt.
“You’re not superwoman! Just because your father left you a run-down business doesn’t mean you have to give up your life to go save it.”
Angelica had tried to explain that Gordon Oil would be a challenge.
“It’s a chance to really use my skills,” she’d said.
“You’re using them,” Jack had insisted, “as careers adviser at the academy. You’re good at your job, and you like it.”
“I do like it—but this field wasn’t my first choice. I have a degree in business, too, remember? I always wanted a career at Gordon Oil. I’ve got ideas for its growth, and plans—”
“What about living in Texas? How are you going to handle that?”
Angelica had smiled. “Texas is part of the United States, Jack.”
“But you’ve lived here most of your life.”
“Yes, almost fifteen years. I moved here with my mother after my parents divo
rced—but where I’ve lived isn’t the point! Don’t you see? My father left me his company—”
“Right,” Jack had said grimly. “He left it to you. He didn’t say anything about wanting you to run it.”
That was true, but it only made the need to prove herself as director of Gordon Oil more appealing. Angelica had quit Miss Palmer’s, packed her things and moved back to the city where she’d been born.
Within weeks, she suspected she’d made a mistake.
The oil business seemed to be run by Hank Gordon clones. Men were men, women were second-class citizens—and old Hank had been an asshole to have left his company to his daughter.
Except it turned out Hank hadn’t really done that at all. Her father’s will had been as disorganized as his books. Within weeks of arriving in Dallas, Angelica had learned he’d actually sold the company to the enormous Landon conglomerate a couple of months before his death.
But Landon’s hadn’t so much as contacted her. After a while, Angelica started to feel as if the company really was hers. She’d settled in at the tiny office, traveled out to the scattered drilling sites…
And found disaster. Hank Gordon had known how to find oil but not how to run a business. He’d still been using management policies that dated to the days when Texas was part of the wild West!
With a weary sigh, Angelica got to her feet, made her way to the bathroom and stepped into the shower. A few weeks ago, she’d dutifully mailed a quarterly report to Landon’s main office. It showed that Gordon’s debts had grown larger, its income smaller, its work crews less productive, and all since she’d taken over.
