Rules of Engagement

As he stood, Marcia rushed in, frazzled-looking. “I’m sorry. My car wouldn’t start.” She glanced at Tess. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

“No. Just got here.”

“I called the auto club, but it always takes forever. I’m lucky to have such an understanding boss.” Marcia glanced at Tess. “Did Mr. Harrington take care of you?”

When she heard his name, Tess stood and addressed him. “Actually, I want to talk to you.”

Just what he needed. But the woman had been waiting patiently. He gestured to a chair in the reception area.

“I’d prefer to speak with you in private.”

He didn’t really have time for this, but he shrugged and quickly escorted her down the long hall into his office. He pointed to a pair of comfortable leather chairs.

“I’m afraid you have the advantage,” he began. “I don’t know who you are.”

“Tess Spencer.”

“And you’re with…?”

“I work in my family’s business. But that’s not why I’m here. Well, in a roundabout way it is.” She paused. “I’m just making my explanation more confusing.” She held up a laptop computer, then placed it on the table that separated them. “I’m here because of this computer.”

He barely glanced at it. He didn’t need to hear another sales pitch. “Our office manager takes care of all our purchasing needs.” He reached for the phone. “I can call her, pass along your—”

“You misunderstand. This laptop… It belongs to Cole Harrington.”

He tensed, his amiable smile disappearing. He picked up the computer, recognizing the distinctive gouges. “The one with my schematics,” he muttered beneath his breath. “How did you get it? Who are you with? Alton?”

“No. Last night, I went to an auction. I bid on a lot and this computer was in it.”

“You’re telling me you bought my computer at an auction?”

“I hope this isn’t difficult for you,” she said gently.

“Difficult?”

“I don’t know… I mean…did Cole survive the war?”

He cleared his throat. “Live and in person.”

“So you’re…”

“Cole. What makes you think I didn’t survive? And how did you know I was in the war?”

“I opened your letters.”

“You read my letters?”

“Well, I didn’t mean to—”

“Reading isn’t an involuntary response.”

Tess turned to face him directly. “No, but—”

“Okay. How much do you want for the computer?”

“Money?”

“Yes. Why else would you be here? You know my designs are on the hard drive.”

Shocked, Tess stared at him. “I thought if you hadn’t survived, your family would want these letters in case you hadn’t gotten to a land line to send them. I would’ve wanted my brother’s. But I’m sorry if reading them was an invasion of your privacy. And I’m sorry you thought I’d sell them to the highest bidder.” Not waiting for his reply, she left his office. She marched down the hall and through the reception area.

Back in her Lexus, she ignored the shrill response of her SUV as she put it in gear and sped out of the parking lot.

Jerk! She should have kept the damn computer. And here she thought she’d read the letters of the last sensitive man on the planet.

“MARCIA!” COLE BARKED into the intercom an hour later.

“I’m not deaf,” she reminded him.

“Did that woman leave a card?”

“I’m guessing your meeting didn’t go well?”

“The card?”

“I’ll be right there.”

He continued to pore over the computer until Marcia appeared a few minutes later, waving the card at him. “Tess Spencer of the Spencers Restaurants.”

The well-known name registered with him as he took the card.

“Was she here to see if we want to participate in one of their fund-raisers? They’re always for really good causes.”

Cole didn’t bother telling her that Tess’s intentions were his business. Marcia had cheerfully meddled since her first day at Harrington Engineering. And because she was wise and kind, not to mention old enough to be his mother, he accepted her small intrusions.

“Not about fund-raisers.”

Marcia frowned. “Wasn’t there something in the papers about their family a while ago?”

He hadn’t been back in the country long enough to catch up on the news, local or national. “Marcia, check with the auction house and see what we’ve sent over in the past few weeks.”

“Sure, boss.”

Cole continued combing through the directories of the notebook computer he’d used to write letters to the families of his slain and wounded men.

Even though tactical headquarters housed government-issue computers, he, like a lot of officers, had packed a small PC when he was deployed. Rotations were longer than they used to be and this had sometimes been his only connection to home. And when his unit was able to link up with a land line, he’d let his men use it for e-mail.

The letters all seemed to be there. But the designs were gone. Wiped so clean they weren’t recoverable. He knew how to look for their prints. But they’d been thoroughly, professionally erased.