priced at the two stores, people preferred to buy from Lyon’s.
This naturally drove Joe Bayer up the wall. He even went so far as to scatter pictures of his smiling face around the store to promote goodwill. In fact, he wasn’t nearly as nice a man as Pop Lyon. His employees did not love him the way Pop’s did, and weren’t as happy in their work as Lyon’s employees. Customer relations suffered.
The situation didn’t improve upon Joe’s death when his son Nathan took over operation of Bayer’s. While Pop Lyon continued to refine his homespun method of internal management, Nathan dragged Bayer’s into the world of incorporation and expansion, stock offerings and board meetings. He demanded obedient efficiency from his employees. And, like his father before him, Nathan was not a very nice man.
Such a man deserved a wife like Angela. Shrill, shrewish and unabashedly materialistic, Angela had the body of a goddess and the morals of an alley cat. She would use any and all of those attributes to get what she wanted. And what Angela Bayer wanted, every minute of every hour, was nothing less than her own way. She usually got it, because if she didn’t, everyone knew there would be hell to pay.
At the moment, Nathan was making an installment.
“Can’t?” Angela glowered at her husband of three years and repeated the word, emphasizing it as if she didn’t know its meaning. “ Can’t? I don’t want to hear that, Nathan!”
Nathan hadn’t wanted to say it, either. He tried not to wince at her tone of voice. Like a wild animal, she would take any sign of weakness and turn it to her own advantage.
“There’s nothing I can do, my love,” he said calmly. “I don’t have a magic lamp.”
She narrowed her pale gray eyes to thin slits. “Is that supposed to be funny, Nathan?”
“No.” He sighed. “I simply meant that what you’re asking me to do is impossible. There are no Arnies to be had, at any price.”
As slick as an eel, Angela changed tactics. She sat on the edge of his desk and leaned over, her oval, expertly made-up face in a pretty pout, her ample bosom displayed at the V of her yellow mohair sweater.
“But what shall I tell Chelsea and Todd?” she asked.
Nathan stared at her breasts; she was perched so close to him that he hardly had any choice. But it wasn’t a hardship. The view was marvelous. Angela was a very beautiful woman.
From her rich mane of natural, honey-blond hair to her delicately painted toenails, she was one ripe, luscious curve after another. Sensuality smoldered in her eyes, was painted on her full mouth and tempted any man that watched the gentle sway of her hips as she walked. After three years, Nathan still couldn’t quite believe his eyes when he woke up beside her every morning.
But such a luxury came with a steep price. Besides her demanding, self-indulgent ways and expensive tastes, there was her temper, which could be quick and unbelievably vile. She was also a flirt and a tease, leading on any man who looked at her, and the way she flaunted herself, there were many of those.
On the other hand, she could also be charming, a treat to have on his arm at a social gathering and a valuable asset to his career. It was a trade-off.
Nathan had no illusions. That she had married him for his money and position was obvious. That he had allowed her into his world—and his will—in return for the pleasures of her young body was just as obvious. She had given him a son, too, an heir to the Bayer empire—though she left that heir with a nanny most of the time, especially the nearer he got to the terrible twos. Everything else was as negotiable as next year’s labor contracts.
“At his age, Angela,” he said at last, “I don’t think Todd is going to much care if he gets an Arnie for Christmas, or not. And all Chelsea wants is the same thing she asks for every year. A horse. Since she’s getting the stupid thing this year—thanks to you—I’m sure she’ll be