by Dorien Kelly
“Your former secretary, Leigh, and her boyfriend,” she explained impatiently. “They were going at it like otters between the L and the M rows when she was supposed to be working overtime to purge old files. Howard stopped by to pick something up. Now he’s having the area sterilized.”
Cara smiled at a vision of Howard in a haz-mat suit, spraying down files. Then another thought distracted her. “Otters?”
“Yeah, otters,” Annabeth snapped. “Got a better word?”
“You’re a little testy this morning. What’s up?”
“He’s here.”
“Who’s here?”
“Mark Morgan. I heard you screamed at him in the parking lot on Saturday, but to refresh your memory—big hands…bigger ego.”
That sounded about right. “Where is he?”
“Moving into Rory’s old office.”
“No stinking way!”
“Ah, I feel better already,” Annabeth sighed.
Cara didn’t hear because she’d already hung up and headed for battle.
She found Mark Morgan behind the desk that was to be hers, looking like the king of all he surveyed. Which left her, once again, in the role of a groveling subject. The skin on the back of Cara’s neck crawled with a nauseating sense of déjà vu. Years melted away and she was watching Morgan move into the editor-in-chief’s spacious office, while she tucked her tin cup of stumpy red pencils into the grungy, gray cubicle she’d been allotted outside His Highness’s door.
Some of what she felt must have telegraphed itself because she was sure she saw a flash of pity cross his face.
Screw pity.
“Hi,” he said.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking around. I’ll be moving in here.”
“Is that so?” she said in the same tone she’d use to say, “Drink some strychnine.”
He glanced over her shoulder and out the door as though seeking backup. “I figure they stuck me in here because it was convenient.”
“As opposed to the two open associate offices just down the hall?”
“Cara—”
Oh God, now she could hear the pity.
Screw him.
“Do you recall me being particularly stupid back in law school?”
He didn’t answer. In fact, as she watched him sitting there saying bloody nothing, it was as though he had forgotten that she was in the room. The beginnings of a smile played about his mouth. He had these cool crinkles at the corners of his eyes she couldn’t recall seeing before. And the hot expression in those eyes sent a primal shiver through her, which, of course, ticked her off all the more.
“Morgan?” She leaned across the desk and waved a hand in front of his face. “Anybody home?”
“Huh?”
This was her competition? Just now, the NYC-minimalist suit and tie had more life than their wearer. “I don’t know how you remember me, but I don’t remember you being this dumb. First, pay attention when I talk. It gets on my nerves the way you wander off as if I’m too complicated to follow.
“And second, don’t humor me. I know the score. They stuck you in this office because they figure it will be easier than having you move again when you make partner. My advice to you is not to get too comfortable. I’ve put in six long years of work to get that chair,” she said, pointing at the high-end leather model he so happily occupied. “No way are you weaseling ahead of me.”
He watched her with the kind of calm she’d kill to really possess, instead of fake. Seconds slipped by, the two of them locked in a battle Cara chose only to half understand. Then that smile—the one promising wonders that would spoil a woman for all other men—appeared. “You know, we could always share. Wanna sit on my lap?”
“Jerk,” she snapped. “This isn’t funny.” She turned heel and retreated to the low-rent district. His laugher drifted through the wall.
Damn, damn, damn! Feeling totally impotent, Cara paced between the desk and the credenza. They’d given him Rory’s office. Smoke from the Vatican chimney would be no clearer a signal of who was next to ascend to partnership.
Cara briefly considered calling Rory and nudging him along to find her a new home. She knew he’d do it if she kissed up enough. Two things stood in her way: loyalty and honor. Regardless of the lawyer jokes she heard daily, loyalty and honor were tenets she never abandoned.
Rory, on the other hand, had shown her no loyalty. And as for honor… The guy was sleeping with at least three women that Cara knew of, each of whom believed she was in an exclusive relationship. It had been none of Cara’s business, so, even though it had made her crazy, she’d kept her mouth shut. In time, she had come to realize that her answering silence when girl number one, two or three would mine for info on Rory, made her no better than he. She’d ignored these thoughts while Rory was here, for he’d been her best advocate among the partners. Now that he was gone, she could admit to the truth.
She was far safer battling Morgan than moving on. She couldn’t risk falling into Rory’s deceitfully charming ways, and she suspected that in his continued company, it was a distinct possibility.
Cara checked her watch. In fifteen minutes, the finance practice group would assemble in the conference room to be officially introduced to their shining new hero. She knew she shouldn’t be so cynical about him. After all, he wasn’t as inherently oily as Rory, and he couldn’t help it if he was too handsome for her own good. But dammit, for once, couldn’t life go the way she planned?
MARK SCOWLED AT HIS office windows. There wasn’t even a vent he could open on the things. He didn’t know much about Rory McLohne, except that he’d poached clients and had been too damn fond of his aftershave. Over the weekend, this space had been cleaned from top to bottom and it still bore the cloying scent of “Guy with something to prove.” Maybe by the time Mark returned from New York at the end of the week, the smell would have dissipated, as would have Cara’s anger. He knew the odds on losing the Rory-stink were better.
Cara had asked what he remembered of her from law school. He could recall a great many things, like the way on warm spring days, she’d wear blue shorts that had probably been a more conservative fit back in high school. Then she’d cross her legs and swing one foot, its sandal dangling, drawing attention to crimson-painted toenails and a gold toe-ring. He could recall wanting to touch her skin, to trace the dusting of freckles across her shins, and he could recall the one time he’d been lucky enough to taste her.
Of course, the pitcher of margaritas she’d singlehandedly downed had created both her salty taste and the opportunity to experience it. He wondered if she still drank margaritas. Somehow, he doubted it. In fact, he doubted if she even remembered that hot, endless kiss. Or throwing up on his shoes about fifteen minutes later. At least, if God was kind, that would be the case.
“Are you ready?”
Mark set aside thoughts of margaritas and their aftereffects and focused on Stewart Harbedian, who stood in the doorway. Mark’s instant assessment of Stewart had been that the guy was gregarious and smart, and that his favorite sight was his reflection in a mirror. Nothing since that first meeting in New York weeks ago had changed Mark’s mind.
Mark stood. “Ready.” He walked around his desk.
Stewart grasped his hand and gave him a hearty handshake. “You’re looking good. Custom suit?”
“Off the rack,” Mark corrected.
“Damn,” Stewart murmured. “Great fit.” Mark could see him mentally penciling-in two more weekly sessions with his personal trainer.
It hadn’t escaped Mark that Harbedian appeared to consider him an extension of himself. He’d recruited Mark, thus whatever good Mark brought accrued to Stewart. For all that, Mark actually appreciated the pep talk Stewart gave while they walked to the conference room.
Inside, five partners and eleven associates sat at a large oval table. Two spots were open at the head of the table, one for Stewart and one for Mark. As Harbedian led him into the room, Mark notic
ed that Vic Mancini was swiveling around in his chair. The sight reminded him of a dog chasing its tail. Hard worker, but lacking in direction.
To Vic’s left sat Cara. Her face was composed in a serene smile, one that brought visions of madonnas and saints and other impossibly ideal sorts. Her eyes, however, weren’t as perfectly under her control. There, he could see her flash and fire. There, he could see the woman who’d danced with abandon, making him hard and scaring the hell out of him, all at the same time.
Now, however, was not the time to think about being hard. Or having the hell scared out of him. Now was the time to start as he planned to continue. He sat, keeping his expression friendly, yet not ingratiating.
Stewart introduced him, right down to a recitation of his law school accomplishments, which Mark considered ancient and somewhat embarrassing history. Then he motioned to Mark, as though he was supposed to say something wise and enthralling. But like every other associate in that room, he just wanted the hell out.
“I don’t have much to say at this point, except thanks for the warm welcome. I look forward to getting to know everyone in a little more casual setting. And I’m sure you all have work to do, so…”
Howard Blenham stepped into the breech. “Each of you, tell Mark your specific areas of specialty,” he ordered the associates.
Mark was hammered with catchphrases like “syndications” and “participations” plus a few mumbled “dunnos” from those so new to practice that specialization would have been an absurdity. Then Cara spoke.
“As Stewart mentioned, Mark and I attended law school together. In fact, he was editor-in-chief of our law review when I was case notes editor. I want all of you to know that it was an absolute pleasure working with him then, as it will be now.”
Mark smiled while thinking, you incredible fraud.
Her voice was as rich and sweet as honey, enough to persuade everyone that she was a dear old friend. Hell, she almost had him convinced that she liked him, and he knew better. His respect for her burgeoned, as did his caution. He wondered why no one here had urged her toward litigation; she was wasted outside the courtroom.
She had risen and moved until she was standing behind him. “As the most senior associate, I want to set the tenor for the practice group by promising here and now to do all I can to make Mark’s transition into the firm a smooth one.”
Most senior associate?
He was thankful that she was behind him and couldn’t see the startled expression he couldn’t quite mask. Obviously, none of the partners had given her the news that he was being brought in above her in seniority. He wasn’t sure if it was a lack of courage or newfound diplomacy on their parts, but whatever the reason, he didn’t plan to be the one to break the news. At least, not when she was standing behind him where she could neatly plunge a dagger between his shoulder blades, all the while purring, “This won’t hurt a bit.”
He angled his chair until he could meet her eyes and give her a thank-you as sincere as her own words. Her gaze traveled marginally downward. He imagined that she was pinpointing his jugular vein.
Stewart stood. “Well, then, as Mark said, let’s get to work.”
The meeting broke up. Some people, like Cara, slipped from the room without a backward glance. Others lingered, cornering Mark for some chat. By the time he escaped, Cara was long gone.
Mark had never felt so much an intruder as he did stepping into her office for the first time. He didn’t let that twinge of unaccustomed emotion slow him.
She stood at the windows with her back to him, apparently watching the landscaping crew below. He’d forgotten how she gave the illusion of being tall, when she wasn’t, really. For a while, he’d dated a dancer from the American Ballet Theatre who’d had the same sort of willowy poise. Without those shoes so high that they had to hurt, he’d guess Cara stood several inches beneath his six feet.
He’d also forgotten the way her hair shone in the sunlight. He couldn’t begin to count the shades of red.
Without turning, she spoke to his reflection in the glass. “The view’s the same from your windows.”
There, she was wrong. The view in his office wasn’t even close.
“Did you want something?” she prompted when he kept silent.
“Thanks for putting up a polite front in the conference room.”
She turned. “That wasn’t for your benefit.”
He laughed. “No kidding. I haven’t grown stupid over the past six years, either. But whatever our personal deal is, I’m glad you’re not going to let it stand in the way of the clients’ needs.”
“I’m a professional.”
“I know.”
She smiled. He definitely recalled that from six years earlier. Her smiles were luminescent, incredible, as if they started at the tips of her toes and worked their way up. They had almost never been directed at him, though.
“Well, thank you for that, at least,” she said.
It was becoming too intense, watching her, without being able to drop the polite demeanor and ask the questions he was biting back, like, “Do you remember that night after the Michigan bar exam?” and, “Someday, could we try it again without the margaritas?”
He looked away, his gaze jogging from desk to walls to credenza, then fixing on a sight that was like a fist to the gut.
“Are these your children?” he asked, gesturing at a framed photo of a boy and girl. The boy’s hair matched hers exactly.
She picked up the picture, cradling it in slender hands. “They’re my sister’s. I don’t know about you, but I can hardly find the time to date, let alone marry and have kids.”
Mark didn’t give a name to the feeling passing through him, because if he did, he’d have to admit it bore a certain similarity to relief.
“I’m leaving for New York tonight,” he said. “When I come back, I’d like to settle things between us. Would you meet me for dinner on Friday?”
She looked at him as though he’d suggested they strip naked and conduct a little mutual discovery. Which, of course, on a purely academic level, he wasn’t opposed to, either.
“Why?” she asked, returning the photo to its spot on the credenza.
“To talk?”
“You can talk to me just fine here in the office.” She retreated behind her desk and flipped open a folder. “Now if you don’t mind…”
He did, but knew it would make no difference. “I’ll bring dinner in.”
“Whatever makes you happy,” she replied.
And that, Mark concluded, continued to be the essence of their relationship. Whatever made him happy was guaranteed to piss Cara Adams right off.
5
Cara’s Rule for Success 5
(with apologies to Sun-tzu and Don Corleone):
Hold your friends close,
and your enemies closer…
preferably with your hands locked
in a death-grip about their throats.
MARK MORGAN was as conspicuous in his absence as he had been in his presence. He slipped into Cara’s thoughts at the oddest times, like when she was waking, or at her weekly kick-boxing class.
On Wednesday night, she’d joined Bri and Seth for a quick dinner and a wedding invitation addressing session. Bri had brought up Morgan once, then immediately let the subject slide when Cara’s upper lip had locked into a sneer at the sound of the hated name.
Making matters worse, by Friday midmorning, Cara found herself in a condition she hadn’t experienced since her first days as a lawyer. She was out of work to do, a terrifying state for someone who justified her existence in terms of hours billed. Rory’s defection had cut deep, and since her clients had actually been his, she was bleeding the most.
Earlier in the day, she’d dropped in on each of the finance group’s partners and asked if there was something—anything—she could do for them. Howard had hissed that he didn’t have time to watch over her. Most of the other partners had told her they’d call her if they found somethi
ng.
Finally, Stewart had passed her some mercy work, a stack of security agreements and financing statements to double-check, which was a task usually done by a paralegal at a far more reasonable billable rate. Now that she’d finished those off, she was in search of a diversion, her totally lame “Lawyers do it with Appeal” coffee mug in hand.
Cara walked to the front of the offices and settled her mug on Annabeth’s desk. What better person to visit when feeling aimless than the girl who’d majored in it at college?
“Have you noticed how people are acting weirder than usual around here?” Annabeth asked.
Cara knew she could count herself among those ranks. “Yeah.”
“Ancient burial ground.”
“What?”
“That’s my theory of what’s going on. Didn’t you ever wonder why this building sits higher than the ones on either side?”
Cara took a swallow of coffee before answering, “Actually, no.”
“Well, there’s something beneath here,” Annabeth asserted. “And I think it’s remains from an indigenous population.”
“Took an anthropology course in college, did you?”
“For about a week,” she said while slipping a finger under the coiled wire necklace that was today’s statement. “I dropped it to pick up Astronomy.”
It appeared that their receptionist had taken the alphabetic approach to course selection.
“Anyway,” she was saying, “we’ve unsettled the spirits. We need a ceremony to appease them.”
Cara pushed aside thoughts of her very own gods on Olympus, who could probably use an appeasement ceremony or two, themselves. “Did you have anything in mind?”
“Now that you mention it, yeah. We need to have a party. Lots of booze. Free booze.”
“Sounds to me more like we’re appeasing you,” Cara said.
“That, too.”
Cara was about to speak when she was distracted by the wall of names. Something looked different…and very, very wrong. A name had slipped in above hers. It was, naturally, Mark S. Morgan. S stood for not only shark, but also for slime bucket, scumbag, and stupid, stupid gods for jerking with her this way.
