Part 1 (2/2)

Annoyed, exhausted, Natalie stepped into her penthouse apartment. The dinner meeting with her marketing executives had run beyond midnight. She could have come home then, she reminded herself as she stepped out of her shoes. But no. Her office was en route from the restaurant to her apartment. She simply hadn't been able to resist stopping in for one more look at the new designs, one last check on the ads heralding the grand opening.

Both had needed work. And really, she'd only intended to make a few notes. Draft one or two memos.

So why was she stumbling toward the bedroom at 2:00 a.m.? she asked herself. The answer was easy. She was compulsive, obsessive. She was, Natalie thought, an idiot. Particularly since she had an eight-o'clock breakfast meeting with several of her East Coast sales reps. No problem, she a.s.sured herself. No problem at all. Who needed sleep? Certainly not Natalie Fletcher, the thirty- two-year-old dynamo who was currently expanding Fletcher Industries into one more avenue of profit.

And therewould be profit. She'd put all her skill and experience and creativity into building Lady's Choice from the ground up.

Before profit, there would be the excitement of conception, birth, growth, those first pangs and pleasures of an infant company its own way.

Her infant company, she thought with tired satisfaction. Her baby.

She would tend and teach and nurture-and, yes, when necessary, walk the floor at 2:00 a.m.

A glance in the mirror over the bureau told her that even a dynamo needed rest. Her cheeks had lost both their natural color as well as their cosmetic blush and her face looked entirely too fragile and pale. The simple twist that scooped her hair back and had started the evening looking sophisticated and chic now only seemed to emphasize the shadows that smudged her dark green eyes.

Because she was a woman who prided herself on her energy and stamina, she turned away from the reflection, blowing her honey- toned bangs out of her eyes and rotating her shoulders to ease the stiffness. In any case, sharks didn't sleep, she reminded herself.

Even business sharks. But this one was very tempted to fall on the bed fully dressed.

That wouldn't do, she thought, and shrugged out of her coat.

Organization and control were every bit as important in business as a good head for figures. Ingrained habit had her walking to the closet, and she was draping the velvet wrap on a padded hanger when the phone rang.

Let the machine get it, she ordered herself, but by the second ring she was s.n.a.t.c.hing up the receiver.

”h.e.l.lo?”

”Ms. Fletcher?”

”Yes?” The receiver clanged against the emeralds at her ear. She was reaching up to remove the earring when the panic in the voice stopped her.

”It's Jim Banks, Ms. Fletcher. The night watchman over at the south side warehouse. We've got trouble here.”

”Trouble? Did someone break in?”

”It's fire. Holy G.o.d, Ms. Fletcher, the whole place is going up.”

”Fire?'' She brought her other hand to the receiver, as if it might leap from her ear. ”At the warehouse? Was anyone in the building?

Is anyone in there?”

”No, ma'am, there was just me.” His voice shook, cracked. ”I was downstairs in the coffee room when I heard an explosion. Must've been a bomb or something, I don't know. I called the fire department.”

She could hear other sounds now, sirens, shouts. ”Are you hurt?”

”No, I got out. I got out. Mother of G.o.d, Ms. Fletcher, it's terrible.

It's just terrible.”

”I'm on my way.”

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