“ Resistible,” Catherine lied. Her feelings toward William Fraser had mellowed considerably since their first quarrel. He had told her the truth when he said he was a perfectionist. Whenever she made a mistake, she was reprimanded for it, but she had found him to be fair and understanding. She had watched him take time out from his own problems to help other people, people who could do nothing for him, and he always arranged it so that he never took credit for it. Yes, she liked William Fraser very much indeed, but that was no one’ s business but her own.
Once when they had had a great deal of work to catch up on, Fraser had asked Catherine to have dinner with him at his home so that they could work late. Talmadge, Fraser’ s chauffeur, was waiting with the limousine in front of the building. Several secretaries coming out of the building watched with knowing eyes as Fraser ushered Catherine into the back seat of the car and slid in next to her. The limousine glided smoothly into the late afternoon traffic.
“ I’ m going to ruin your reputation,” Catherine said.
Fraser laughed.“ I’ ll give you some advice. If you ever want to have an affair with a public figure, do it out in the open.”
“ What about catching cold?”
He grinned.“ I meant, take your paramour— if they still use that word— out to public places, well-known restaurants, theaters.”
“ Shakespearean plays?” Catherine asked innocently.
Fraser ignored it.“ People are always looking for devious motives. They’ ll say to themselves,‘ Uh-huh, he’ s taking so-and-so out in public. I wonder who he’ s seeing secretly.’ People never believe the obvious.”
“ It’ s an interesting theory.”
“ Arthur Conan Doyle wrote a story based on deceiving people with the obvious,” Fraser said.“ I don’ t recall the name of it.”
“ It was Edgar Allen Poe.‘ The Purloined Letter.’” The moment Catherine said it, she wished she hadn’ t. Men did not like smart girls. But then what did it matter? She was not his girl, she was his secretary.
They rode the rest of the way in silence.
Fraser’ s home in Georgetown was something out of a picture book. It was a fourstory Georgian house that must have been over two hundred years old. The door was opened by a butler in a white jacket. Fraser said,“ Frank, this is Miss Alexander.”
“ Hello, Frank. We’ ve talked on the phone,” Catherine said.“ Yes, ma’ am. It’ s nice to meet you, Miss Alexander.”
Catherine looked at the reception hall. It had a beautiful old staircase leading to the second floor, its oak wood burnished to a sheen. The floor was marble, and overhead was a dazzling chandelier.