Robin Hardy Online

Book One of the Streiker Saga

From the back cover:
He had a lot to offer, but his terms were high. What would you do if you received the offer of a lifetime—marriage to a billionaire—with one catch: you had to make up your mind without ever seeing him? When lowly bank teller Adair Weiss receives such an offer from reclusive philanthropist Fletcher Streiker, she is dumbfounded and disbelieving: Why me? What does he know about me? What does he want?

Rejecting his offer would mean the end of her dream of dancing. But accepting it would change her life in ways she never guessed. . . .

Read the story and see if you can discover the hidden meaning.

Chapter One

Adair had to get into that building without being noticed. So she rose from the car seat, brushed dog hairs from her suit, and nonchalantly strode into the bank lobby at forty minutes past eight o'clock.

It was not to be. Adair could hardly go anywhere without being noticed for her tall, slender frame and neon blue eyes, but especially for the grace that a twenty-year devotion to ballet had brought her. "Adair! Look at the clock! You're forty minutes late!" She winced at the reprimand and humbly turned to her boss.

"I'm sorry, Duane; I really was going to be on time today, but there was this dog that fell out of a pickup right in front of me and got hit by a car. You can understand that I had to stop and take him to the vet's, can't you?" she implored.

"Sure, if it weren't the third time this month you've been late. And today's only the eleventh!" he fumed, adjusting his glasses like a schoolmaster who had caught a student cheating. He was Adair's age, 24, but looked younger with his freckles and tousled hair. Unlike her, he was degreed, ambitious, and focused on banking as his career of choice. "Now get to the drive-through!"

"Sure, Duane," Adair said appeasingly, slipping her purse under the counter. (She never could bring herself to call him "Mr. Minshew"—that would be like addressing her little brother with an honorific.) With his hovering behind her, Adair sat at the window and smiled, "Good morning," to the waiting customer as she took his check and deposit slip in through the mechanical drawer. When Duane finally turned his attention elsewhere, Adair let down with a sigh. "I hate this job."

"If you keep coming in late, you won't have to worry over it anymore," a voice at her side teased a little too loudly.

Adair glanced around for Duane, then grinned guiltily at her friend Courtney. "The part about the dog was true, but I didn't tell him it only took ten minutes. I overslept 'cause I was up late studying my accounting," Adair whispered.

"Oh? How's the class going?" Courtney asked, sliding onto a nearby stool. The cuff of her silk blouse caught on a drawer edge. "Drat!" she exclaimed, examining it for snags.

Adair anxiously glanced around again. Courtney, with her long auburn hair and perfect skin, embodied Adair's idea of true beauty, but—she was so loud. "Terrible. It's so hard, and we cover the material so quickly. I don't know if I'm going to pass," Adair muttered.

"Why bother?" asked Courtney. "What about your ballet?"

"Madame Prochaska lets me practice with her pointe class several nights a week for half price now, but . . . that won't last forever. At least an accounting degree will help me earn enough to pay tuition—if I get it," Adair replied.

"I know what you mean. I gave up on drafting and got this great home-study course on interior decorating. I'm going to start on it this weekend." Courtney tapped her long red fingernails on the counter, then studied them for chips.

"Drafting? What happened to the art class?" Adair asked, making a point to smile at the customer as she cashed his check. He smiled back.

Courtney pouted, "All the men in it were either poor or gay. It was a total waste of time."

"Courtney!" Adair breathed, exasperated. "Why don't you work toward a degree that will pay you?"

"I am! I'm going to marry rich. That's why I like working here; you know who has the biggest bank accounts. Let them work their tails off for money. You make them happy by letting them give it to you," Courtney explained.

Adair shook her head. "With an attitude like that, you're going to start getting hate mail from NOW." Sending a receipt to the last customer at the window, Adair added, "Thank you. Have a nice day." Charlotte, the head teller, was looking toward her, so she turned her back to shuffle paper.

"So?" said Courtney, glancing at Charlotte and turning her back as well. "I don't want to sacrifice my personal life to make money. Do you? Do you want to be like 'Sergeant' Charlotte?"

"She makes a lot more than I do," Adair whispered.

"She hasn't had a date in three years," Courtney whispered loudly. A coworker looked at them and over at Charlotte.

"I won't look for anyone to buy my dreams for me," Adair said stubbornly.

"Then you'll never be a dancer," Courtney said. Adair's eyes began watering as the next customer drove up and Charlotte marched toward her two loitering tellers. Courtney passed her, explaining earnestly, "Excuse me; I've got a pile of checks to process."

"Good morning. How are you today?" Adair smiled in determination at the customer as she extended the drawer.

Monday mornings were always busy enough so that Adair did not have to create work. This bank was somewhat retro, housed in a comparatively old building with drive-through lanes to teller windows instead of the impersonal tubes. She didn't know why it wasn't upgraded— maybe the owner wanted to retain the personal touch. The cars paraded past her window: mothers with their kids fighting over the seats of the minivans; society mavens in their Cadillacs en route to the country club; business people in their status cars. One man rode up to her window on a motorcycle and placed in the drawer a draft for $25,000 made out to Fletcher Streiker and endorsed by the same.

Adair knew the name. He was the Dallas-based billionaire philanthropist whom no one had ever seen. He owned this bank, The Rivers Bank, which had branches in Plano, Carrollton, Mesquite, and here, Richardson. And just the mention of his name never failed to raise her hackles. Deep down, she couldn't understand why some people had so much while others (such as herself) could barely scrape by.

She glanced out at the courier. "A deposit, sir?"

"Yes." His voice was muffled by his motorcycle helmet. He wore a black leather jacket and faded jeans.

She turned to her computer, suppressing her irritation at people who would not use deposit slips. "Personal or corporate?"

"What?" he said, leaning toward the window.

"Do you wish to deposit this in the personal or corporate account?" she asked slowly through the intercom.

"Corporate," he said.

"Okay," she said, watching her screen. "The Streiker Corporation has checking, Money Market, CDs—"

"In the checking account," the courier said.

As Adair made the deposit, a woman in an SUV drove up behind the motorcyclist. "Here's your receipt. Have a nice day."

"I will," he said, taking the receipt from the drawer. As he started to fold it, the wind caught it out of his hand. "Oops," he said calmly. "How about another receipt?"

"Sure." Adair made out a duplicate receipt while the lady behind him edged up to the motorcycle's rear tire. "Here you go."

"Thanks." He took the second receipt and started to stuff it in his jacket pocket. Adair watched incredulously as somehow it too fluttered away. "Oh no. Can you get me one more?" he asked without expression.

Adair stared at the courier, but could not see his face behind the tinted shield of his helmet. "Only if you promise to hold on to it," she attempted to laugh. The lady behind him honked.

Adair quickly filled out a third receipt, but when she placed it in the drawer this time, she threw in as a paperweight a polished rock with a goofy expression painted on it. "Will you use that, please?"

He took out the receipt with the rock and laughed. "Yeah, thanks." The woman behind him honked again.

"You're welcome," Adair said warmly. She suddenly liked him, for some reason. Anyone who could sit calmly on a motorcycle with a suburban assault vehicle looming behind him got points for self-control. He looked at Adair from behind his visor as he leisurely put the rock and receipt in his jacket. Then he commented, "I saw you pick up the dog from the street. What did you do with it?"

Adair was momentarily startled, then replied, "I took him to the vet across the street from the Atrium."

"How's he doing?" he asked.

"I don't know yet. The vet's supposed to call me after he's had a chance to look at him," she replied. The woman then leaned her head out the window to yell, but the motorcyclist ignored her.

"Is that right?" he said, turning that dark visor back toward her. "Well, I just wondered if you were as nice to people as you are to dogs. See you later, Adair." He started his motorcycle and roared away, leaving her dumbfounded.

The woman finally got to the window. "The nerve of some people, taking so long when others are in a hurry!" she exclaimed.

"Yes, some people are really rude," Adair quietly agreed, extending the drawer.

The rest of the morning was more of the same, with Adair's trying to be equally courteous to an uneven stream of customers: a few pleasant, most preoccupied, a few surly. Around eleven o'clock Pat tapped her on the shoulder: "Telephone, Adair."

She took it at Pat's desk: "Adair Weiss."

"Ms. Weiss, this is Dr. Hogan's office. I'm calling about the border collie you brought in this morning. He's going to be fine. Dr. Hogan set his leg and stitched up the gash on his rump, but he doesn't seem to have any internal injuries. You may pick him up tonight, if you like."

"Oh, that's great. Thank you so much. I can't keep him at my apartment, so I'll have to find a home for him," Adair thought out loud.

"That's fine, but we do have a boarding fee of five dollars per day," the receptionist said.

"I see. Umm, how much do I owe you to pick him up tonight?" Adair asked.

"His bill comes to one hundred twenty dollars."

One hundred twenty dollars! I don't even have that much in my checking account! Adair silently exclaimed. Slowly, she said, "Okay. Let me make arrangements. . . . I'll get back with you." She hung up, her head spinning over the cost of her altruism.

She went back to stacking twenties in the counting machine, and the temptation crossed her mind just to grab a handful. Shoving aside that thought caused her to pause stupidly over the machine when it had finished, which is what she was doing when Duane came up behind her. "Have you put in for a promotion, Adair?"

She turned with a start. "Not recently."

"Then you're in trou-ble," he sang. "Mr. Whinnet is in my office, waiting to see you."

"Mr. Whinnet?" she gasped. Why should the president of The Rivers Bank care that she was forty minutes late today?

"The same," Duane smirked. Sauntering away, he beckoned her with a forefinger.

After securing the cash, Adair inhaled and smoothed the skirt of her suit, trying to assume a professional air as she followed Duane. He opened the door of his small office as if it led to the gas chamber, and a gentleman of fifty rose from the edge of Duane's desk. Although she had never seen Charles Whinnet in person before, she pegged him at once as a tennis player. He had silver-gray hair that was combed straight back and a healthy complexion—a really handsome man. "You must be Adair Weiss," he said with some meaning.

"Yes. I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Whinnet." She wanted to add, Do you have a dog that you love?

"Ms. Weiss." As he shook her hand, he reached over to shut the door with Duane standing outside. "I really don't have time now for formalities or explanations," he began, settling back on the edge of the desk and crossing his arms. "This afternoon when you get off work, I would like for you to come by my office downtown and chat with me."

"Certainly," Adair said hesitantly. "Is there . . . anything I need to bring to this meeting?"

"No," said Whinnet, glancing at his watch.

"Could you tell me what it's about?" she asked nervously.

"It's of a personal nature," he replied. Adair began agonizing over a graceful way to discourage any advances from The Rivers' president, whom she knew to be married. He smiled perceptively. "Lest you get the wrong impression, Ms. Weiss, this does not personally concern me. I am only acting as an intermediary."

"An intermediary . . . ?" Adair repeated.

Whinnet opened the door. "I'll be expecting you then."

Duane caught him outside. "Mr. Whinnet, I have the statement of holdings ready—"

"Give it to Bob. Good day." He glanced back at Adair as he left.

Duane edged up to her. "What did he want?"

"I'm not sure," she said, making a quick exit before he could ask any more questions.

Adair went back to her window and Courtney came up to give her something. Adair sat at her computer. At least Mr. Whinnet isn't going to fire me for tardies, she reassured herself. But the fact that it was personal implied he knew something about her that she'd rather he didn't know. What had she done that would embarrass her the most? Thinking about this caused her to freeze over the computer keyboard until she looked down and wondered what she had been inputting. "Who is he an intermediary for?" she asked the keyboard.

"What?" Courtney asked. "Adair, don't you have that account's history yet? Where is your head today, girl?"

"I'm sorry. It's coming," Adair promised. Courtney watched her curiously as Adair finished entering the request.

Partly as penance for being late to work and partly to avoid Courtney's inquisitiveness, Adair worked through lunch that day. She also resolved not to look at the clock, except when it jumped in front of her face. At her two o'clock break, she realized that she would never make it through the day without eating something, so she stole half a ham sandwich she found in the lounge refrigerator, vowing to replace it tomorrow.

As the clock wound down toward five, Adair felt her insides coiling tighter. At 4:47 she was rapidly totaling receipts.

At 4:52 Duane said, "I want you to work drive-through tonight, Adair."

"I can't, Duane. Mr. Whinnet asked me to come directly downtown after work."

"What for?" he asked.

"I don't know." She carelessly furrowed her brow.

At 4:56 an angry customer came in and thrust a letter at Adair. "You people bounced three checks and assessed me a service charge when you recorded my deposit as a withdrawal!"

"I am so sorry," Adair purred, glancing at the clock. She steered him toward Duane's office. "I'll take you straight to our branch manager, Duane Minshew, to get it cleared up." Rapping quickly on Duane's door, she nudged the customer inside. "Mr. Minshew, this gentleman is having a problem with his checking account." Then she closed the door on them before Duane had a chance to open his mouth.

At 5:00, she sprang out the bank's doors and sprinted to her little Mazda RX-7. She peeled out of the parking lot onto the access road to the freeway, stopping for nothing so mundane as traffic on her way to this meeting.

In less than thirty minutes she was pulling into the parking garage of the Streiker Building. The Rivers Bank was one of the Streiker Corporation's holdings, and its offices were located in this sleek thirty-three-story building that served as corporate headquarters. Adair parked and boarded the elevator for the thirty-second floor. No one else was going up at this time, so the elevator quietly whisked her up all alone.

When the ding sounded and the doors slid open, Adair stared out apprehensively at dark paneling and lighted art, then trod delicately across an Oriental carpet to a mahogany receptionist's desk. No one was there.

"Here, Ms. Weiss." Whinnet stood in the doorway of a nearby office. Adair stepped inside and he closed the door. "Have a seat." He gestured to a leather chair opposite a huge desk. Adair crossed the office, sat and waited.

 Whinnet went around the desk and stretched wearily. "Excuse me. It's been a long day." As he was in his shirt sleeves, she saw perspiration stains forming under his arms. So he was mortal after all.

"For both of us, Mr. Whinnet. I can't imagine what you wanted to see me about," she said carefully.

He glanced at her before drawing his chair up to the desk. "I suppose that's true." Then he leisurely donned reading glasses and took up a file folder that had been lying open on his desk. It suddenly seemed to Adair that he was reluctant about this whole matter, whatever it was.

"Are you familiar with the name Fletcher Streiker?" he asked.

"Yes, he's the rich philanthropist who owns this building," she answered.

"Among other things," he said drily. "He asked me to give this to you." And he laid the file folder in front of her.

She opened her mouth in astonishment, then slowly began to leaf through the folder. It was full of newspaper clippings, brochures, letters, and scraps. "I don't understand."

"He would like for you to know more about him. The folder contains information that he has personally selected about himself and his priorities. That is, a lot of what you may read or hear about Mr. Streiker is preposterous, but all this here is accurate. Not complete, of course, but true."

Adair closed the folder in her hands. "I . . . still don't understand. Does he know me? Why does he want me to know about him?"

"Yes, he knows a good deal about you. And he wants you to know as much about him, in the event that . . . you may want to meet him someday."

"Well," she laughed, "I will be happy to meet him without reading his life history!" She thought, I've heard everything now. How vain.

"That's not the way he wants to do it," Whinnet said quietly. "Mr. Streiker is particular about keeping his privacy intact. If after reading this material you do want a meeting with him, there will be certain stipulations attached."

"Yes? What?" asked Adair.

Whinnet paused. "For you to meet him face to face, knowing who he is, will necessitate—er, an assurance of your loyalty, and confidentiality."

"What are you talking about?" asked Adair.

"You have to marry him."

Adair was stunned. "That is the most absurd thing I've ever heard. How can I decide to marry someone based on reading something about him? And how could he know he wants to marry me—? Wait a minute. Just how much does he know about me?"

"As I said, a good deal," he replied.

"Like what?" Adair asked angrily.

"Besides the superficial, he knows your background, your attitudes, and the fact that you're not doing too well in accounting right now," Whinnet added with a glimmer of humor.

"Has he been spying on me?" Adair asked, now frightened.

"No. That's hardly necessary. It's all public information, or what you yourself have made public."

"Oh." Adair still didn't like it, but she calmed down. She dubiously opened the folder again. "What if I decide I don't want to meet him?"

"Then you don't, and nothing further is said about it," he answered.

She looked up. "Is all this confidential?"

"All what? The information in the folder? No. But if anyone else asks me to verify this proposal, I'll deny it. You can imagine how it would look in print," he commented, and that seemed to be the source of his discomfort.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked.

"Fletcher is my friend. I've know him for fifteen years, and I would do whatever was in my power that he asked me to do." His manner added his unspoken opinion, Even if I don't like it. With an evening engagement impending, he stroked his five o'clock shadow and pulled an electric razor from his desk drawer.

"You wouldn't do something—illegal for him, would you?" she asked brazenly.

He let the razor down momentarily with an irritated look. "I'll let that question pass. Fletcher lives by a personal moral code that would leave most people in the dust. If you're asking me how many wives he has gotten this way, I'm free to tell you he's never been married."

"How old is he?"

Whinnet hesitated as he checked his reflection in a small mirror, then reapplied the razor to a missed spot. "If the folder doesn't say, I'll ask him what he wants me to tell you."

"Don't you know?" she laughed.

"Yes. But anything I tell you about him needs to be cleared first."

"So . . ." she mused skeptically, "I look through all this, and then . . . I tell you if I'm willing to marry him."

"Basically, that's it, though there's a little more involved. For now, read it, and call me if you have any questions. My office number and home phone number are in there."

"How long do I have to decide?" she asked.

"Take as long as you like; there is no deadline. Though, of course, Mr. Streiker will not consider himself bound to an offer you never respond to."

"I'll have to think this over," she said, standing.

"I would assume so," he replied, standing as well.

On her way out, he said, "Oh—Ms. Weiss." She turned. "Try to be on time to work tomorrow."

"Yes, Mr. Whinnet," she murmured.

Driving home, Adair kept glancing at the plain manila folder on the seat beside her. She did not know what to think of the faceless Mr. Streiker and his strange proposition. She was thinking of Charles Whinnet, whose part in this seemed incredible. She knew him by reputation as a conservative, respected banker. He had headed a few charity events. He was a lay reader at his church. He had been married to the same woman for some twenty-odd years. It seemed inconsistent for a man like that to play matchmaker.

"People are not always what they seem," she reminded herself as she pulled into her parking space. She checked her mail, flipping through bills as she trudged up the steps to her apartment. "A hundred and forty-three dollars for electricity!" she groaned. "How in the world . . . ?" She unlocked her apartment-door deadbolt and threw her purse and file on the kitchen table.

For dinner, she took out of the refrigerator a doggie bag from a restaurant date and tossed it in the microwave oven. As it warmed up, Adair kicked off her high heels, hung up her jacket, and removed her earrings—all the while supremely conscious of the file folder on the table. She stood over the folder, drumming her fingers, then decided, "Whew! It's warm in here." And it was, considering that it was October in Texas. So she had to go turn on the air conditioner and adjust the thermostat.

After taking steak and lobster leftovers from the microwave, she sat with the file folder in front of her. The first item was a newspaper clipping about the recent opening of the Fletcher Streiker Arboretum. Adair knew about that; she had remembered seeing the article. The man had built this fabulous arboretum in the middle of north Dallas and had opened it free to the public. So Adair bypassed that article for the next one. It was a magazine article about a clinic built and equipped by an anonymous donor for use by the Dallas County Health Department. Adair scanned the article, but it did not even mention his name. She paused to get some ketchup for her steak.

The next item was a brochure about a ski program, complete with lessons and equipment, specifically for handicapped children. Was Streiker handicapped, then? Again, there was no mention of him at all.

Adair scanned the rest of the papers, which included an article about a privately funded program to evaluate and launch new products; an envelope containing photographs of scenery (no people); an article about the rescue of an American diplomat from a Chilean prison; and a letter addressed to "Mr. Streiker, Streiker buildig, Dallas, Taxes." Adair stopped to read this letter, written in pencil:

June 18

Dear Mr. Streiker,

Thank you for sending the hellicopter to pick me up
and take me to Disneyland. It was great!!! The nice
pilot was funny he made me laugh. I have to go
back to the hospital tomorow. Mom says I can take Airshow Bear with me.

Love, your frend,

Jeremy Knox

A note in ink at the bottom of the letter read: "Jeremy died 6/27."

Adair held this letter a moment, then put it aside to flip through the remainder of the file—all disjointed bits of this and that, seemingly unrelated to each other or Mr. Streiker. Adair shut the folder in extreme dissatisfaction. There was not one picture of him nor one bit of real personal information. Where did he live? What did he look like? What were his bad habits? This file read more like a publicity portfolio for some company!

Adair finished her cold dinner in rising anger, sure that this was nothing more than a joke at her expense. She stood to drop the file into the trash can, then had a better idea. Mr. Whinnet had invited her to call with questions; well, suppose she did just that? It wouldn't take long to poke this little scam full of holes.

She called his home number from the file and asked for him politely when a woman (presumably his wife) answered. In a few seconds the man himself was on the line: "Yes, Ms. Weiss?"

Adair began contritely enough, "I'm sorry to disturb you at home, Mr. Whinnet, but this file is actually the biggest pile of nonsense I've ever seen. It tells me nothing about Streiker."

"I don't believe you've had time to read it very thoroughly. As I told you, all of these things have intimately involved Mr. Streiker," he said patiently.

"Okay," she said, flipping open the file at random. "Then this article about the ski program must mean he's handicapped."

"No; he helped design the equipment and sponsors four-day vacations each year for a hundred applicants and their families. It's all there in the brochure," he said.

"His name is not in the brochure," she pointed out.

"Perhaps I should mention that when an article says, 'an anonymous donor,' that means him."

"Then, this article about the rescue of the American diplomat—" began Adair.

"He did that. That was he," Whinnet reiterated.

"Well, at least this letter from Jeremy is clear enough," she conceded.

"Yes, but I wonder if you have completely understood it. Fletcher himself piloted the boy and his mother from their home in Fresno to Disneyland and spent the day with them there," he clarified.

"How could I tell that just from this letter?" she asked.

"I told you," he said in a tone that suggested his patience was being stretched, "everything there is something that has intimately involved Fletcher. Not something he just threw money at, but something he was personally involved in, sometimes at risk to himself."

That was enlightening, but Adair still protested, "It seems such a roundabout way of giving information. There's nothing specific about him."

"What do you want to know?" he asked.

"Well, something more personal and tangible . . . what does he look like? How old is he?"

"I'll relay the questions," he replied.

"Where does he live?" she asked.

"He travels extensively, but I suppose he considers the Streiker Corporation his home base."

"And what is he worth?" The question was out before Adair could take it back.

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line. "His public and private holdings are so diverse, I doubt Fletcher himself knows that. He is not only chairman of the board of The Rivers National Bank, but the sole owner. He owns real estate, oil leases, a restaurant chain, a software company, and stock in a hundred other ventures. His total assets amount to somewhere in the neighborhood of three billion dollars."

Adair was silent for so long that Whinnet said, "Ms. Weiss? Are you there?"

"Yes," she coughed. "That's very—interesting. I just wish I had something more personal about him," she finished meekly.

"I'll relay the request."

"Thank you, Mr. Whinnet. Good evening." She hung up and sat staring at the folder. Then she opened it up again and read for three solid hours.

Copyright 1994, 2003 Robin Hardy

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