LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

was available. Not because I don’t worship the sun; I do. I was simply trying to avoid unwanted tan lines from forming during my ten-minute walk.

      As soon as I turned the corner to the six-story building occupied entirely by the firm, my stomach clenched. Ellen Lieberman’s beige Volvo was in the parking lot. Normally, I’d simply dismiss that since she had no life outside the office and often spent her dateless weekends writing and reviewing mind-numbing contracts. I almost envied Ellen—somehow she’d managed to put her hormones on hibernate. Either that or she had the estrogen level of a postmenopausal corpse.

      No, the Volvo wasn’t the reason acid was burning through the lining of my stomach. It was spotting the H3 Hummer taking up two spaces across from the sensible silver Neon.

      The banana-colored H3 Hummer was the newer, smaller model Vain Dane claimed he purchased as some sort of concession to gas prices. Right, like the sixteen miles per gallon it gets is a huge savings over the thirteen miles per gallon he was getting in the black urban assault vehicle the banana had replaced. Who needs a Hummer in South Florida anyway? The closest thing we have to a hill is Mount Dora, which isn’t a mountain or hill so much as a tourist haven just north of Orlando. There are some cute shops there, and most visitors walk away with a sticker that reads I CLIMBED MOUNT DORA firmly affixed to their bumper.

      The silver Neon belonged to Margaret.

      Shit, shit, and triple shit. Any hope I had of making a covert trip to my office was history. Fleetingly, I considered shimmying up the drain spout to my second-floor office. But I’m not a great shimmier. My last attempt at climbing an obstacle had resulted in a nasty bite courtesy of Boo-Boo the guard dog. So I had no option other than to waltz in the front door, head held high, palms sweating profusely. Margaret was an annoyance but having two of the active senior partners in the building bordered on terrifying. It made me long for the days when sweet old Thomas Zarnowski ran the firm. Not only did he hire me right out of college, he actually liked me. He was semiretired now, and sorely missed. At least by me. Especially after he’d crowned Vain Dane as his successor.

      I knew even before I reached for the double doors with the firm’s name etched in posh gold lettering that Margaret would be at her post like some freaking God-Country-Corps Marine. The only difference being, Margaret didn’t have an M16. At least I didn’t think she did.

      As expected, she was seated behind the freshly polished, crescent-shaped reception desk. In one of her frumpy suits, no less. Margaret obviously maintained her rigid if god-awful standards regarding workplace attire, even on a Sunday. The only difference between workweek Margaret and weekend Margaret was the ever-present Bluetooth absent from its usual place plugged into her right ear.

      Her dull brown eyes followed me like hate-filled tractor beams as I crossed the lobby. To her credit, she made a weak attempt at a compassionate smile. “On instruction of the partners, I’ve been calling your home and your cell for hours.”

      Then you must know I’ve been dodging those calls. “Sorry, it’s been a…crazy morning and I must have forgotten to turn on my cell.” I reached into my purse and switched the phone to vibrate. The last thing I needed was for it to ring while I was lying like a rug. “Yep. Turned off.”

      Margaret went for the elaborate intercom panel as she lifted the receiver. “I’ll let them know you’ve arrived.”

      I bet you will. “Could you give me five minutes?” I asked.

      Margaret was about to refuse when I did an exaggerated little foot-to-foot dance and lifted my coffee higher in the air.

      “I really need to hit the powder room first.”

      “Five minutes,” she grudgingly agreed.

      I felt her light-saber eyes shredding me all the way to the elevator. Tucking one earpiece of my can’t-tell-the-difference-unless-you’re-up-close faux Gucci sunglasses in the front of my layered T, I pressed the button and listened to the slight buzz as the compartment climbed the two floors. The arrival ding of the elevator echoed loudly in the deserted space. The scent of furniture polish, deodorizer, and industrial cleaner greeted me as I exited to the left.

      The layout of my floor is a lot like a rat’s maze. The center area is a complicated labyrinth of open cubicles. The twenty or so workstations are for interns and other support staff. When the office is in full swing, the vast area is a noisy, distracting place to work. I know. My first desk at Dane-Lieberman was a postage-stamp, single-drawered built-in desk in the third cubby to the right. No privacy, no personal adornments, and absolutely no opportunities to linger over long lunches.

      Eventually, I’d earned a private office. After solving the Hall case, I’d gotten a decent upgrade. Not only did I have a shiny new nameplate mounted next to my door, but I had a bigger window and a better view. Okay, so it overlooked the parking lot, but hey, it was a step up from the air conditioners outside my old office.

      Out of habit, I turned on the coffeepot I kept on the credenza behind my veneered desk as soon as I sat down. My notary stamp and seal were in the top drawer. I got them and retrieved the power of attorney from my purse. It took just a few strokes of a pen, a little pressure on the stamp, and a pinch of the metal seal-embossing tool and the document was ready for Liv to present it at the bank.

      I’d used four and a half of my allotted five minutes. I considered taking a roady of coffee but thought better of it. I didn’t want anything in my slightly shaky hands. Especially not coffee when I was wearing a white skirt.

      I breathed deeply and evenly, something I’d learned in the only yoga class I’d managed to attend even though I’d paid for a full year of sessions. Apparently a single class wasn’t enough to convince your heart to stop pounding against your rib cage when summoned to meet with your bosses in the executive offices on the top floor.

      Crap, I should have brought a pad. Vain Dane got off on people taking notes. It must have made him feel powerful.

      Which he was since his ultraconservative butt had the power to fire me.

      Walking past the pin-neat, unoccupied desk of Dane’s executive secretary, I slowly went down the corridor toward the impressively carved mahogany door to Dane’s office. Catching a whiff of Burberry cologne was slightly soothing. The signature scent reminded me of Jonathan Tanner. Even though he’d been gone for more than a decade, I missed him every time I smelled that cologne.

      The door was ajar, but I knocked and waited to be granted entrance.

      “Come,” Dane’s voice boomed from inside.

      Victor Dane’s office was very posh, very masculine, and very, very self-congratulatory. The walls were lined with various diplomas, awards, and community service acknowledgments. The custom shelving held professionally framed photographs of Vain Dane with various celebrities, politicians, and dignitaries, including a nearly twenty-year-old photo of Dane dancing with the Princess of Wales at the Palm Beach Polo Club.

      Dane was seated at the edge of his desk, arms folded, expression hard. Ellen Lieberman was seated in one of the leather chairs opposite Dane. She seemed more relaxed and while she wasn’t overtly friendly, I didn’t get the angry vibe from her that was practically dripping from Dane’s body language.

      The wall behind Dane’s desk wasn’t a wall. It was a floor-to-ceiling window with breathtaking views of the intracoastal Palm Beach proper and the Atlantic Ocean in the distance.

      The silence dragged on so long that I contemplated throwing myself through said window. Not a good plan since Jane needed my help and I knew the glass was impact-resistant and hurricane-proof, so my 107-pound body would just bounce off.

      Dane reached behind him, grabbed the phone, and pressed the button. “Margaret, thank you. You can go.”

      To hell, I added mentally.

      If Dane was the picture of coiffed and polished, Ellen was his exact opposite. He was dressed in casual but expertly tailored navy blue slacks, a gunmetal-gray golf shirt, and navy blue Bruno Magli loafers.

      Conversely,

Скачать книгу