Stormy Vows - Iris Johansen [15]
“Money?” Brenna asked. This car must have cost a small fortune. Though Michael Donovan was reputed to pay his employees very well, she found it unlikely that even the most generous salary would provide a luxury of this magnitude.
“In a manner of speaking.” He gave her a sheepish grin. “You see I'm stinking rich.”
Her mouth quirked at the boyish awkwardness of this revelation. “I'm afraid I don't see your problem,” she said solemnly. “Why couldn't you have a car like this, if you could afford it?”
“I didn't want to remind Donovan that I was wealthy, so I've been driving a '75 Volkswagon for the past two years,” he said simply. “It's only lately that I've felt confident enough to risk the Lincoln.”
Brenna stared at him in amazement. “Do you mean Michael Donovan would have objected to you buying the car of your choice with your own money?” she asked indignantly. That an aggressive, confident man like Monty could be so intimidated was truly incredible.
“Hell, no!” he said explosively. “But after working like the devil to get this job, I thought I'd better play it low key. He knew my background when he hired me and he was dubious, to say the least, about my willingness to stick to the kind of work schedule he demanded of his employees.” His mouth twisted wryly. “I soon understood why. Simon Legree has nothing on Michael Donovan.”
“Yet, you're still with him,” Brenna observed.
“I guess I'm just a masochist,” Walters said lightly. Reaching out he touched a button, and taped music flooded the car with the mellow strains of a Barry Manilow hit. Brenna leaned back and relaxed on the plush velvet seats, letting the strain of the last few hours flow out of her.
In the next several hours Brenna found Monty Walters to be amazingly companionable. He was quick-witted and energetic, with a wry sense of humor that was almost puckish. By the time they had shared lunch, dinner, and almost eight hours of desultory conversation, she felt as if they were old friends.
It was nearing twilight when they crossed the Oregon border, and a brief twenty minutes later they reached Twin Pines.
She didn't know what she had expected of Donovan's Twin Pines complex. Perhaps in the back of her mind had been the idea that it would be the usual movie studio lot like Paramount or Universal. She should have known better.
Twin Pines was as unique as the man who had created it. Located at the edge of a small Oregon lumber town, it looked more like a country club than a movie studio, with low modernistic buildings in redwood and glass, wide streets, and several tree-shaded park areas furnished with picnic tables and benches.
“Impressed?” Walters asked, arching his eyebrows quizzically, as she turned back to him from her eager perusal of the passing scene.
“Who wouldn't be?” she asked dryly. “It's perfectly charming, but not exactly what you'd expect of Michael Donovan.”
“On the contrary, it's exactly what you'd expect of him,” Walters said briskly. “He's gathered the most gifted and skilled people in the industry here at Twin Pines. People that usually work freelance have been formed into a sort of repertory group. When they're working, he drives them unmercifully. It's just good sense to provide them with the most pleasant surroundings possible to enjoy in their free time.”
“You admire him very much, don't you?” Brenna asked curiously.
“You're damn right I do,” he replied unequivocally. “There are a few men in every generation who combine creative genius with irresistible drive. When you find one, if you're smart, you grab hold of his coattails and let him carry you to the top.”
“I wouldn't have thought you'd be interested in a free ride,” Brenna said thoughtfully.
Walters snorted derisively. “There's nothing free about it. Donovan extracts the last ounce of effort from the people around him. You give until you have nothing else to give. Then, somehow, you find he has expanded your limits, so that there is a whole new reservoir for him to tap.” His dark eyes