Twin Piques

by Tracie Banister

  “A known associate?” I snort derisively. “Give me a break. He’s her gardener! Sorry, Brody,” I toss him an apologetic glance because I remember Willa saying he finds that term offensive, “rosarian. I probably share an endodontist or car repairman with Mr. Bainbridge. That doesn’t mean I’m on his side any more than I’m on his wife’s.”

  “It’s your personal connection to Mrs. Bainbridge’s partner-in-crime that suggests your professional judgment was impaired.”

  She’s talking about my judgment being impaired when she’s the one who’s let personal feelings guide her actions since she first stepped into my firm’s conference room? Thea doesn’t give a flying crap about James Bainbridge or protecting his interests; she just wants to stick it to me. If maintaining my professional cool wasn’t so important to me and my continued success at ATM, I would rip off the gloves right now and tell this bitch that Gav and I just slept together and he confessed he’d loved me since we were kids. Me, not her. She was just the booby prize he settled for when he thought I wasn’t an option. Then, I could stand back and watch her head explode all over this shiny white police station. I smile with grim satisfaction at the thought.

  “Prove it,” I challenge her. “Because I’d really like to see you try. All you’ve got is supposition, and not a single piece of evidence or a witness to back it up. I believe that’s what they call a ‘frivolous lawsuit,’ and from what I’ve heard judges aren’t too keen on their time being wasted with those. I doubt a smart businessman like Mr. Bainbridge will want to pay your inflated legal fees with no hope of a return either.”

  Renee’s lawyer nods his head approvingly to let me know that I just did an effective job of shutting Thea down, and I’m feeling pretty good about myself until Bainbridge barks, “Forget the lawsuit! I don’t need any more money. I just want my pound of flesh from everyone involved in this. Renee, agree to give me a divorce on my terms right now, in front of our lawyers, or I’ll have the cops charge you and the gardener with trespassing and burglary. And you’d better not have anything else buried in that precious rose maze of yours, because I’m going to have it burned to the ground. Madison hates it anyway.”

  “Yeah, I keep getting lost in the stupid thing, and it’s full of bees and mosquitoes.” She crinkles her nose with distaste because, you know, nature’s so yucky.

  “Sir, please,” Brody appeals to the CEO, “destroying those beautiful roses isn’t necessary. The climbing varieties probably wouldn’t survive being transplanted, but I can relocate the bushes to a park or a school–”

  “They’re mine! Why should someone else get to enjoy what I paid for?”

  “You don’t have to punish Mr. Wyatt, or the flowers, James. He and I did not have an affair; he’s just a kind man who did me a favor. He was only with me tonight because I misplaced the map to the lockbox’s location.”

  “Well, then he’s a chump, because look where his niceness got him. As for you . . .” He directs the full force of his glower toward me, and the intensity of it almost knocks me back. No wonder this man is so formidable in the corporate world; he’s intimidating as hell. “I don’t know what part you played in this ring farce, but you’re no longer trustworthy as far as I’m concerned, and I make it a strict policy not to work with people whose loyalty I can’t depend on. So, Finley, you can tell Ashby, Terhune, and McAllister that as long as this woman is on their payroll, they won’t be getting any more of my very valuable business and I’ll be sure to tell every Bay Area CEO I know how unsatisfied I was with the services provided by ATM.”

  I open my mouth to protest, to plead my case, to beg for mercy, but the words don’t come, because I know there’s nothing I can say to change Bainbridge’s mind. He wants me gone, and I am sunk.

  Chapter 37

  (Sloane)

  I shift miserably in my seat as another witness for the prosecution is sworn in. Three hours sitting on this hard, wooden courtroom bench has done a number on my not very well-padded butt – one cheek has gone completely numb while the other has this weird, grinding pain shooting through it. Since this is the third day in a row I’ve attended the Blythe Summers vs. Kittredge Management, Inc. trial, you’d think I would have wised up and brought one of those portable foam cushions sports fans take to stadiums, but I guess my mind’s been occupied by things a little more important than the comfort of my rear end, like the fact that I just got fired.

  Oh, I’m sorry, not fired, “asked to leave for the sake of the firm.” The subtle distinction being that I won’t have a termination on my permanent employment record. I’m pragmatic enough to understand why the partners at ATM were so quick to throw me under the bus. It was a business decision, plain and simple. One employee, no matter how smart, efficient, and revenue-generating she is, can never compete with a client who has incalculable power and influence. What pisses me off is that after all my hard work and service to ATM over the last four years, no one fought for me or seemed sincerely regretful about having to show me the door. Even Josh, who knows better than anyone what an asset I am . . . was to that company, just shrugged and said, “You’ll have to take one for the team, Tiger.” Of course, he wasn’t going to oppose a decision made by his future father-in-law, and he’s probably secretly thrilled to be rid of me so that there’s no chance of his fiancée ever finding out that he was banging me while dating her.

  It’s just so galling that I lost my job through no fault of my own. If Brody hadn’t been such a nice guy and helped Renee Bainbridge retrieve that ring . . . If my sister hadn’t shown up at the police station to collect her boyfriend . . . If Thea hadn’t been there to fan the flames of her client’s rage. . . If James Bainbridge wasn’t such a spiteful, controlling sonofamotherbleepin–

  I stop my internal rant, reminding myself that none of this is worth me bursting a blood vessel. I’ll bounce back. I’ll come up with an awesome, multi-tiered plan of action that will net me an even better job than the one at ATM. Maybe I’ll go work at a competitor’s. Or start my own firm. Or . . . hell, I don’t know. I’m not excited by any of those prospects at the moment. I do have a job offer on the table from Blythe Summers. She’s willing to pay me a very generous sum to take over managing her finances. It would be a cushy job, with plenty of time for long lunches and in-depth discussions with my boss about which color of polish would look best on Jackie Collins’ toenails and whether Nora Roberts should wear a tutu or tiara for her next portrait. In other words, snoooooooooze. As much as I like Blythe (I wouldn’t be coming to her trial every day to show my support if I didn’t.), I need a job that’s a bit more challenging than the one she’s offering. I will, of course, be looking over the shoulder of whomever she does hire because I don’t want to see her taken advantage of again.

  The judge announces a recess for lunch . . . thank goodness! I can stand up and get some blood flowing to the lower half of my body again. Before leaving the courtroom, I go up to the plaintiff’s table and say a few reassuring words to Blythe. She’s been such a nervous wreck about facing off against her former lover/business manager at this trial, but I think things are going really well for her. Her lawyer is burying Grant Kittredge under a pile of so much damning evidence that I can’t imagine the defense being able to dig him out.

  Once I’m out in the courthouse corridor, I pull my cell phone from my purse and power it up. Going most of the morning without being able to check texts, voice mail, or e-mail was kind of torturous. Not that I’m expecting an important call or message since I’m no longer employed and haven’t started putting out feelers for a new job yet. Still, I like to stay connected, and it’s possible that a certain someone has gotten over hating my guts and decided to reach out. I know, I know, fat chance, Sloane. The only texts or messages I’m likely to have are from my mother, who keeps sending me updates on her romance with Nico, the bricklayer (Or is it tile he lays? Guess I’d better get that straight in case he becomes my stepfather.), or Willa, who doesn’t seem to understand the meaning of, “I’m
upset. I don’t want to talk to you right now. Leave me alone.”

  I haven’t disowned her or anything; I just need a sisterly time-out after everything that’s gone down this last week. I can’t easily forget that Willa was partially responsible . . . scratch that . . . almost totally responsible for my blow-up with Gav. If she’d respected my wishes and stayed the hell out of it, Gav and I might still be friends. And even though it’s technically not her fault I got the sack, it wouldn’t have happened if she weren’t dating Brody. Figures she’d find a guy who’s as big a bleeding heart as she is. The two of them should just join the Peace Corps and go spread their love of puppies and flowers to children in third-world countries already.

  Speaking of puppies, I have an e-mail from Cicero. Yes, he has his own account and an adorable user name – K9QT@gmail.com. There’s no text in the e-mail, which is no surprise since dogs can’t type, but there’s an attachment, which I open out of curiosity. It’s a picture of Cicero, wearing a sign around his neck that says, “We miss you, Auntie Sloane. Please forgive us.”

  Nice try, Willa. If the “I So Sorry” cupcakes you had messengered over to me yesterday didn’t do the trick, do you really think an apology from your dog will? I delete Cicero’s picture and start daydreaming about those strawberry red velvet cupcakes. They were pretty incredible with that cream cheese frosting and fresh berry slices on top; I had three of them for dinner last night and another two for breakfast this morning. At this rate of consumption, I’ll soon be fat, as well as jobless, and I’ll have something else to blame on my sister.

  I’m scrolling through all the spam in my inbox when I hear my name being called. I glance up to see Josh approaching. GROAN

  “What are you doing here?” I already know what he’s doing here. I just want to make him say it, so he’ll feel like a schmuck, which he is.

  “I’m testifying at the Summers/Kittredge trial this afternoon.” He has the decency to look a little embarrassed about it.

  “So, you’ll be presenting all the evidence I collected?”

  “Um, yeah.” Josh looks down at his pricey wingtips. “Someone has to do it, and I was the one who supervised your work on the case.”

  A petty, little part of me hopes that the defense attorney lobs a question at Josh he doesn’t know the answer to since he’s not the person who lived and breathed this case for over a month. It would be so much fun to see him squirming on the witness stand. Of course, if he effs up his testimony, it would hurt Blythe and I don’t want that. SIGH

  “Good luck with that then. I need to get some lunch.”

  I turn away from my former boss/bed buddy, but he stays me by grabbing at the sleeve of my blouse and asking me to, “Hold on.”

  “Yes?” I look down at his hand and purse my lips with disgust as if the appendage is covered with rotting flesh. And yes, that’s a gross analogy, but I’ve been binge-watching eps of Walking Dead since I lost my job and now I’ve got zombies on the brain, which is appropriate since that’s what they like to eat.

  Taking the hint, Josh retracts his hand. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry about the way things went down at ATM. You didn’t deserve that. Bainbridge is a jerk. Everyone knows it. I think he knows it. Consider yourself lucky you won’t ever have to work with him again.”

  “That’s cold comfort. I’d rather I still had the job where I worked my ass off for the last four years.”

  “Yeah, me too. Not having you around is making my job a lot more difficult,” he admits.

  “What? You can’t just give Parker a promotion and slide him right into my old spot?” I smirk at the thought of that perpetual screw-up taking the lead on anything more complicated than ordering office supplies.

  Josh chortles. “Hardly. The poor guy would have a nervous breakdown. I’ve got Samson and Montgomery splitting up your workload right now, and you should hear the two of them bellyache. ‘Waahhh, waahh, I don’t know how Sloane did all this. She must not have slept. I’m so tired. I’m so stressed.’”

  “Wusses,” I say, with another smirk. I’m starting to enjoy this conversation with Josh.

  “No one could ever replace you, you know.”

  “Yes, I do, but thank you for saying it.” Okay, so maybe Josh isn’t such a douchebag, after all. At least he appreciated my contributions at ATM and that means a lot.

  “If you need a reference, you can count on me.”

  That’s decent of him and will certainly help in my job se– My phone buzzes, signaling that I have a text. I look down at the display screen.

  “Think we should discuss your future. Can you drop by my office at two today?”

  Holy crap, a text from J.B. Stanfield! I didn’t even know he had my cell phone number. He must have heard about me getting the heave-ho from ATM. He’s offered me a position at Stanfield Hotel Group before (more than once, actually), so maybe he wants to reiterate that. I suppose it’s something to consider. SHG is a huge, multi-billion dollar, international concern. I could certainly do worse as far as employers go. It would mean taking my career in a different direction, though . . .

  “Sloane?”

  “Huh?” I glance up at Josh who’s got an expectant look on his face. Oh, right, I didn’t acknowledge his reference offer. “Thanks. I may take you up on that.” Checking the clock on my phone, I see that it’s 1:08 P.M. I’ve got just enough time to grab a sandwich and make it over to SHG’s corporate offices by the time Stanfield requested.

  “Gotta run. Important appointment.” I hold up my phone as if that will explain things, then start to back away.

  “Sure, yeah. See ya ‘round,” he says to me in parting.

  Or never again. Either way, I really don’t care. Josh has got his new life with Princess Ombre, and I’ve got mine doing . . .

  “On my way,” I respond to Mr. Stanfield’s message as I hurry out of the courthouse.

  * * *

  “Sloane, good to see you, as always.” Mr. Stanfield greets me with a handshake and a friendly smile.

  “Good to be here. Thanks for inviting me. Wow . . .,” I trail off in amazement as I glance around his spacious office, with its floor-to-ceiling windows that offer an amazing view of the bay. Of course, you have to expect a spectacular view when you’re this high up (the top floor of an Embarcadero Center skyscraper that’s one of the tallest in San Francisco).

  Mr. Stanfield chuckles. “I know. The view’s pretty awe-inspiring the first time you see it. Hope that heights don’t bother you.”

  “Not at all.” In fact, I could get very used to being this close to the clouds. Makes a person feel powerful, important, and in control, three things I’ve always aspired to. I don’t want to get ahead of myself, though. If Mr. Stanfield does hire me on here at SHG, chances are my office will be a good fifteen floors below this one, down with all the other drones. It’ll be many years before I can work my way up to an executive suite. Ooooo, I wonder if he has a private bath with a shower in here? I’ve heard about big CEOs having amenities like that in their offices. Man, if I had an office with a full bathroom, I would never leave work. Think of how efficient I’d be then!

  “Have a seat.” Mr. Stanfield indicates the luxurious-looking leather club chairs situated in front of his desk.

  “Thank you.” Not wanting to appear too casual, I perch on the edge of the chair, which is about a thousand times more comfortable than that horrible courthouse bench I had to sit on earlier. My still-aching butt is grateful.

  After settling into the chair on the other side of his modern, L-shaped desk, Mr. Stanfield fixes me with a serious look and says, “No point in beating around the bush. I heard about what happened to you over at ATM.”

  “Unpleasant news travels fast.”

  “I told McAllister he was a fool to give into Bainbridge’s demands and let a valuable employee like you slip through his fingers. You deserved more respect from a company you worked for so tirelessly. Just so you know, ATM may have gained the business of Bainbridge Development
Companies, but they lost my business, which is just as lucrative to the firm. I made that very clear to McAllister.” He gives me a conspiratorial wink, and I can’t help but smile. It warms the cockles of my heart to know that my former employer is suffering some fallout for their shoddy treatment of me.

  “I appreciate that.”

  “As sorry as I am about the way things played out for you over there, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t pleased that you’re a free agent now. Tell me, Sloane, what is your ultimate goal with your career?”

  Good question. I don’t think anyone’s ever asked me that before. Even if they had, I wouldn’t have been able to answer honestly. Interviewers don’t want to hear that you’re gunning for a position way above theirs. But Mr. Stanfield is the big cheese here, so he doesn’t have to worry about me taking his job and he strikes me as the type of man who would admire ambition in a potential employee, so I don’t think I have to censor myself. “My goal at ATM was to become partner one day. Whatever I do next, it will be with an eye toward an executive position. I think I have what it takes to be a very effective leader.”

  His blue eyes twinkle. “Just what I wanted to hear, and I agree that you’d be well-suited to a position of leadership. This information hasn’t been announced publicly yet, but my CFO, Charles Friar, will be retiring next year. He wants to spend his twilight years traveling around the Caribbean on his sailboat with his wife.”

  I make a face. “Sounds horrible. I plan to keep working until I keel over on my nanocomputer fifty or sixty years from now.”

  He chuckles. “I’ll probably do the same. Several decades before you, of course. In the meantime, I will need a new CFO and I can’t think of a better person for the job than you. If you come on board now, you’ll have a year to learn everything you need to know about SHG and the various divisions of our Finance Department. Charles will show you the ropes, and you’ll be ready to take over when he leaves next June.”