The Trouble with Twins Read online

  Irritation spurted along with the gastric juices that were torturing his gut. “I think they’re tired, trite and unimaginative.”

  A grunt of exasperation escaped from Mitzi Youngall, the bank’s marketing director. “Seth, these ads went over great with the focus groups.”

  “You asked for my opinion. I’m giving it.” He felt churlish, miserable and sick. He poured more coffee.

  Mitzi tossed her newly platinum ringlets as she swung to gesture at the ads. “They’re realistic.”

  “You want realism?” He poked his index finger toward the first ad layout. “There’s a fifty-percent chance that family’s going to break up, and the biggest argument will be over who pays for the kids’ braces.”

  He pointed at the second ad. “That woman won’t be smiling when she finds out she’s sick of her car in a year and she’s stuck paying for it for five. And as for those kids—” he jabbed his finger toward the spiky-haired, black-clad twentysomethings in front of the café “—in real life they’re opening a goddamn hemp shop, not a coffee shop.”

  “With a smoking room in the back,” Carl Fletcher, VP of customer services, added. “And I don’t mean cigars.”

  A couple of wary chuckles erupted.

  “Well, we can hardly show illegal activities in our ads,” Mitzi snapped.

  “Do you have anything else we—” Before he could finish his question, the door to the boardroom flew open, hitting the mahogany-paneled wall with a resounding thump. In charged a startlingly beautiful woman clutching a chubby toddler in her arms.

  Everyone turned to stare at the woman, whose eyes snapped fire. Eyes so dark blue they looked purple, above lips so luscious they could advertise…anything at all, and he’d buy it. He blinked, wondering if he’d conjured this woman out of his boredom. But a second glance told him she was no fantasy; she was a flesh and blood woman—and she was rigid with anger. The dark blond hair pulled back off her face exposed the taut jawline. Her breathing was short and shallow, her creamy cheeks flushed, and she faced the room square on. He didn’t need to be an expert on body language to see this woman was humming with fury.

  Seth’s masculine eye noted the tall, slender length of her body; his banker’s eye noted that she wore an expensive coat and accessories that had seen better days. She also wore that attitude—and it crackled. Almost before he realized what he was doing, Seth found himself rising from his seat.

  Her gaze snapped to his face. “Mr. O’Reilly?”

  Yep, the voice was exactly what he would have expected. Crisp and ladylike. She was clearly furious, but she didn’t raise her voice. He admired that kind of control.

  He tried for a neutral expression as he answered calmly. “Yes, I’m Seth O’Reilly.” Fifteen years in banking had taught him that irate customers were always easier to deal with if he could defuse their anger first.

  Stella, the executive receptionist, and a uniformed security guard piled in behind the woman. “Sorry,” she gasped, glaring at the woman. “I told her she couldn’t come in here, but she barged past me.”

  “I’m a customer of this bank, and I’d like a moment of your time, please. Now.” The words were delivered in the same softly determined voice, but Seth heard the quaver underneath and recognized the naked desperation in her eyes. Every chivalrous instinct surged within him. Maybe he couldn’t cure cancer, but he could certainly help a mother who was having a problem with his bank.

  He’d opened his mouth to speak when Carl Fletcher beat him to it. “As you can see, Mr. O’Reilly is busy now. I’m in charge of customer services. If you’d like to make an appointment, I’ll try to see you next week.”

  “That’s not good enough.”

  “Ow, Mama, you’re squeezing me.”

  “It’s all right, darling.” That voice was definitely shaking now.

  Seth surveyed the faces around the table. The expressions ranged from embarrassment to boredom. No wonder those customer ads were all crap.

  Bert, the security guard, looked as though he wished the woman carried an Uzi instead of a child. He’d have a better idea of what to do with a gun-toting intruder.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Seth began. When he had the attention of his executives, he gestured to the woman inside the doorway. “This is the new face of banking. Stella, please seat this customer in my office.” Then to the woman he said, “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  She was still steaming. He could see it in the line of her body, the way she held her chin up. For a second, he thought she might refuse to budge, but then, after glaring at him for another moment, she nodded stiffly and stalked out behind Stella.

  The security guard wiped his forehead as he closed the door.

  “Really, Seth, I would have thought this meeting was more imp—”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Carl. That woman is the reason we’re in business. Never forget it.”

  He glanced coldly at each person in turn. “Excuse me, I have to see a customer.”

  Then he smiled for the first time that day.

  CHAPTER TWO

  MELISSA HAD EXPECTED THE bank manager to be old. Fatherly. Someone who might be won over by the thought of homeless children. She didn’t want Seth O’Reilly to be close to her own age and good looking.

  After Stephen, she no longer trusted handsome men.

  With shaking hands, she settled Alice on the floor near a rack of glossy brochures advertising the bank’s services, and perched at the edge of a gray upholstered visitor’s chair.

  After icily showing them into the office, Stella had marched off, leaving Melissa and Alice alone, and Melissa realized she needed a minute or two to calm herself. She’d never felt such anger—and never in her memory had she acted so brazenly.

  Now that she had the attention of the man at the top, all she had to figure out was how to make the most of it. She took deep calming breaths while she tried to collect her thoughts. How would she convince the bank president that he had to let her keep her house?

  A quick glance around the office revealed little in the way of inspiration. It was an executive office like a million others. Neat, professional, impersonal—except for the bag of crisply laundered shirts hanging from the door handle with the dry cleaner’s tag still attached.

  The dozen or so shirts themselves had about as much personality as the bag, spanning an entire spectrum from white to pale blue. Dull, corporate and respectable. She bet all his suits were navy or charcoal and all his ties had burgundy in them. He was probably a guy who always followed the rules; somehow, she would have to make him bend them in her case.

  Apart from his dry cleaning, the only signs of the man’s personal life were a squash racquet propped against one wall and a single picture on the rosewood desk in front of her. Leaning forward she turned the frame around and peered at two identical faces grinning back at her. The twin girls looked about ten years old. And, if a picture could tell a thousand words, this one told of pranks and mischief.

  It wasn’t the Raggedy Ann hair and freckles; it was the eyes—they were too round and innocent to be believed. And Melissa didn’t fall for the “oh, what a sweet pair of angels” expression for a moment.

  In her earlier career as a pediatric nurse—before being Mrs. Stephen Theisen had taken up all of her time—she’d treated all kinds of children. A lot of her patients had orchestrated their own hospital visits, falling out of trees or lighting themselves on fire—any number of disasters that poorly supervised brats could fall into.

  The twins looked like high-spirited mischief makers through and through. And vaguely familiar.

  “Their names are Laura and Jessica.”

  With a start, Melissa replaced the photo and stood to face Seth O’Reilly. “Thanks for seeing me. I thought I was going to be handcuffed and arrested like a bank robber.”

  He winced like a man in pain. He must take his job at the bank pretty seriously. “I’m sorry about that.” It seemed as if he wanted to say more, but thought bett
er of it. He squatted down to Alice’s level and asked, “Would you like some juice?”

  Alice was absorbed in assessing the various merits of a glossy new mortgage, a financial plan that made sense in today’s volatile economy and a retirement package that promised she’d spend her golden years golfing and fishing. She glanced up from the fan of colorful brochures on the floor and, after sizing up the man for several unsmiling seconds, handed him a brochure with a crumpled corner.

  He glanced at it. “You’d rather have an on-demand line of credit? Very sensible, especially if you’re taking your mom toy shopping.” He smiled at the little girl and, obviously deciding she’d found a friend, she smiled back.

  Melissa hoped he’d be as nice to her.

  Straightening, he turned and extended his hand. “Seth O’Reilly.”

  “Melissa Theisen.” She shook his hand, glad he didn’t seem worried about Alice mauling bank property. He had a nice, warm handshake, no he-man wrestler’s grip, just a pleasant squeeze. He looked to be a pleasant, no-nonsense man as well, although the nurse in Melissa detected that his skin was unnaturally pale and his eyes had a dull glow she’d long ago learned to associate with pain. She hoped whatever he had wasn’t contagious. The last thing she had time for now was a flu epidemic on top of eviction from their home.

  “Would you like some coffee, Ms. Theisen?”

  She’d like a reprieve from her mortgage and worries. She’d like to sleep at night. She wanted her old life back.

  But a cup of coffee would be a start. “Thanks, cream and sugar. And Alice would love some juice.”

  The banker didn’t push a button to summon an underling. He said, “I’ll be right back,” and turned toward the doorway only to pause when he spotted the dry cleaning.

  “Sorry about this stuff,” he said as he picked up the hanging bag and moved to open a closet door. Inside hung three jackets—one navy, one navy pinstripe and one charcoal. Half a dozen burgundy ties hung on a tie rack.

  Melissa didn’t realize she was smirking until he caught her at it.

  “I don’t really live here. I keep some things at the office because I don’t have a lot of time in the mornings.”

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking you live here, only…um…all your clothes look alike.” Oh, great. How to win friends and influence people—start by insulting the bank manager.

  The corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. For a second Melissa forgot why she was there and basked in the warmth of that smile. “It’s the conservative look. They teach it in banking school.”

  A chuckle was surprised out of her. His sense of humor definitely didn’t go with his boring wardrobe.

  “Mornings are hectic enough. I don’t have time to worry about putting the right shirt with the right tie. Everything I own matches everything else. Simple.”

  Now she understood. She’d felt the same way when, as a new mother, she’d cut her waist-length hair and tossed out her hot rollers.

  “I’ll get that coffee.”

  By the time he returned with a plastic tray containing two mugs and a glass of orange juice, Melissa had worked herself back to nervous. She took refuge in fussing around arranging Alice in a position where she’d be least likely to knock over her drink. Then she sat down and took a sip of coffee.

  Glancing up, she saw Seth O’Reilly, now seated at his desk, do the same, and couldn’t miss the grimace that crossed his face after he swallowed. Gastric trouble, she diagnosed mentally.

  “You should try to avoid coffee,” she said without thinking. Then gasped at her tactlessness. First she’d critiqued his wardrobe, now his health habits. Must be nerves.

  “Great, now my doctor’s sending out spies.” He rolled his eyes in an expression of comical horror.

  Melissa couldn’t help but smile. “I used to be a pediatric nurse. Sorry.”

  “I didn’t know caffeine addiction was rampant among children.” He was teasing her, and the half smile on his face creased his cheeks into deeply attractive lines.

  “You can get gastric troubles at any age,” she said in her best nurse voice.

  “Hmm. I’d drink Maalox instead, but I hate that thick milk mustache it gives me.”

  A typical stubborn man. She was glad he wasn’t her patient. “Ulcer?”

  He shook his head. “Acid reflux.”

  “Try herbal tea.”

  His disgusted expression told her what he thought of that idea. “If Dr. Ling didn’t send you to check up on me, what can I do for you?”

  Licking her lips, she glanced up into gray blue eyes fringed with black lashes. If he still felt discomfort, he wasn’t showing it. He had a nice face. Not magnetically handsome like Stephen’s, but nice. A face that grew more appealing each time she looked at it.

  “You can let me keep my house,” she blurted.

  A crease formed between his eyebrows, and the look of pain flashed again in his eyes. He reached for the computer keyboard on his desk, then, without so much as touching a key, paused and dropped his hands. His gaze shifted back to Melissa. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

  “My husband—ex-husband—is supposed to pay the mortgage. It was part of our divorce agreement. But he seems to have disappeared.” She stopped to swallow hard. She’d cried enough tears over Stephen; she wouldn’t embarrass herself in front of a stranger.

  “What do you mean he’s disappeared?” He passed a box of tissues as casually as if most of his meetings were conducted in tears.

  “He’s g-gone. He’s missed two of his weekends with the children.” She yanked out a tissue and blew her nose. “I had no idea he’d stopped paying the mortgage…until I got this letter.” She pulled the now wrinkled document out of her purse and waved it.

  “You have a copy of the divorce agreement?”

  She nodded.

  “Where does he work?”

  “He’s self-employed. I tried calling yesterday, when I got the letter, but his office phone’s been disconnected.”

  His focus on her sharpened and the crease between his eyes deepened.

  “His home phone? Cell?”

  She shook her head and sniffed. “Disconnected.”

  “Does he own his home or rent?”

  “He rented an apartment downtown. I drove over there yesterday, after I got this letter.” She swallowed. “He’s gone.”

  Now he did drag the keyboard closer and started typing.

  “Would you spell your last name for me, please?”

  She’d already been through all this with Mr. Cheney, but she didn’t bother telling him that. Maybe his computer would give better news. Hah. And maybe this was all a bad dream.

  Mr. O’Reilly took a longer time to scan the screen in front of him than Mr. Cheney had. He also pushed a few more buttons, clearly taking more of an interest in her case. Melissa began to feel hopeful.

  Then she saw him glance at Alice, who was happily playing on the floor. There was pity in his eyes. “The mortgage hasn’t been paid in more than sixty days. We’ve sent several letters to Mr. Theisen’s current address and received no response. The last one went to the mortgaged property.”

  She nodded. “I got the letter yesterday. I didn’t know anything about it.” She felt her anger returning.

  “I’m sorry, it’s bank policy to call in a loan after ninety days of nonpayment, Ms. Theisen.” He looked truly sad. They must teach that in banking school, too—the Stanislavsky method of customer relations. Act like you care.

  “But I’ve got young children. I’m sure I can catch up with the payments now that I know about the problem. I need time. You can’t throw us out on the street.”

  A glimmer of humor crossed his features. “In spite of the way you’ve been treated today, we do try to look after our customers. Under the circumstances, I can give you an extra thirty days to put a plan in place.”

  “Thirty days. I was supposed to get the house.” She was speechless with shock and anger but at least the urge to cry had dried up
. “This is not my problem.”

  “I’m afraid it is. The house is in your name all right, so whatever equity you’ve built up is yours, but the bank holds the property as collateral against the outstanding mortgage balance.”

  “You mean my house belongs to you?”

  “We don’t want it. The last thing a bank wants is a foreclosure. We’ll help you any way we can.”

  “For thirty days.” She pictured the trailer where her father still lived and shuddered.

  Still watching her, O’Reilly heaved a sigh. “Do you have any idea where your husband is?”

  “Ex-husband.” Melissa glanced down at Alice, glad to see she was busy finger painting orange juice on one of the brochures, seemingly too caught up in her activity to listen to the grown-ups. “He hasn’t been in touch with the kids in almost a month. And he hasn’t paid child support in several months.” She paused, knowing she’d been played for a sucker. “He said he was going through a cash crunch and promised to pay me everything he owed as soon as things got better.”

  “I take it things didn’t get better.”

  “He’s an entrepreneur. All our married life he had ups and downs financially. He used to be in car parts, then he moved to airplane parts.” She shrugged. “And the airline business hasn’t been so great in the last few years, but we always ended up fine. I trusted him to take care of his children. I assumed he was a better man than he’s turned out to be.”

  “Have you contacted your lawyer?”

  Melissa felt a flush heating her face. “We used the same lawyer. Stephen said it would be cheaper, and the agreement they worked out seemed fair.”

  Mr. O’Reilly scanned the computer screen. “You received your fair share of his pension and investments?”

  She shook her head. “There’s no pension or investments. It was all tied up in the company. All I wanted was the house and the children.” Her voice trembled again. “I can’t believe he cheated us.”

  “You mean—”

  “I know it was stupid of me. Believe me, I’m not as naive as I was. I called the lawyer, but he said there’s nothing he can do. Stephen owes him money, too. Now I’m too broke to get another lawyer. To sue him, I have to find him.”