Do-Over

by Dorien Kelly

  It was one thing to have Morgan land at her firm and mess with her life. It was another to have him immediately afforded more seniority. The slot she’d taken six years to earn had been given to him in a day. And no one had even thought to mention it to her.

  “What’s that about?” she demanded, pointing at the new plaque.

  Annabeth didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Hey, don’t yell at me. I was just following orders.”

  Cara grabbed her mug and headed to Stewart’s office. Mark was his new boy; he’d have the answers.

  Stewart’s secretary was walking out as Cara walked in.

  “Is Stewart available?” Cara asked, fulfilling ever-important protocol, but blowing by without an answer.

  He was just hanging up the phone as she deposited herself in one of his guest chairs. He didn’t look especially annoyed—or surprised—by the intrusion.

  She cut to the chase. “Is there any reason you didn’t bother to tell me that Mark Morgan was being brought in above me?”

  Stewart met her eyes, no fuss, no deception, no B.S. “I should have said something. It was an oversight, Cara, and I’m sorry.”

  She relaxed her grip on the silly mug she still held in her right hand. “I appreciate the apology.”

  He nodded, then as was his habit, checked out his reflection in the glass covering the print on the wall directly behind her. It had taken Cara a few of these primping sessions to figure out what he was doing. Now that she knew, she scarcely noticed. For all his vanity, Stewart was a good person.

  “You had to have expected this, Cara. It’s difficult to lure a person of Mark’s credentials from New York without certain accommodations.”

  “I know.”

  “And I think you also know that our finance practice group is in need of some fresh business. This isn’t like the litigation department, where one big case can feed us indefinitely.”

  “I know,” she said once again.

  Cara also knew that she didn’t have the connections to bring in that sort of work. In law, you were either a finder or a grinder: you found new clients, or you ground out so many billable hours that you became indispensable to your firm. She led the harried life of a grinder.

  “Since the day you arrived, you’ve been a wonderful asset to the firm. But you know, you’ve never really been put to the test. Maybe that’s what Morgan’s arrival is meant to be—your chance to prove your mettle to us. Back when—”

  “Is this going to be one of those ‘I walked five miles through the snow to get to my classes at Harvard Law’ speeches?” Cara interrupted.

  She imagined that but for his Botox injections, Stewart’s brows would have flown upward to match the start of surprise in his eyes. Then he relaxed and favored her with a smile.

  “Everything happens for a reason, Cara.”

  She should have opted for the poor, suffering attorney talk. “Everything? You don’t think that random, stupid events are visited on us? That’s what I believe, Stewart, and I’m fresh out of words to explain how utterly sucky this past week has been.”

  The phone rang.

  Stewart muttered “damn,” glanced at his watch and said, “Suzy’s on her way in. I was supposed to take her out to lunch, but something’s come up. This is going to be a long call.”

  Suzy was Stewart’s twenty-two-year-old bride, acquired soon after his face-work had failed to fend off depression over the approaching Big 5-0. Cara really liked Suzy, who at least was less bitchy than Stewart’s last wife.

  “I don’t suppose you could keep her company for me, could you?”

  She hesitated.

  “Just this once…”

  He had that charming Peter Pan act down pat. “Okay.”

  It wasn’t until she was out the door that it occurred to her that she’d just taken on an assignment for which law school hadn’t prepared her. She, Cara Adams, was now a wife-sitter.

  DECIDING TO MOVE HOME turned out to be a boatload easier than actually doing it. Since returning to New York on Monday, Mark had packed his office, packed his apartment, arranged for a sublet and reassured friend after friend that contrary to the Manhattan mind-set, Detroit was not located somewhere north of Siberia. He knew that most of his buddies would agree to his face, and then after he was gone, talk about the “poor, deluded bastard, stranded in the wilderness.”

  As for the women he’d dated, once he’d boarded that plane home, he was as good as dead to them. That, at least, covered his current state, since his friends had thrown him one hell of a going-away party last night.

  When, bleary-eyed and semi-hungover, he’d walked through the gate at Detroit Metro just past dawn today, there had been no marching band, no virgins throwing rose petals, not even Cara Adams in snug shorts and a skimpy white top, as he’d so vividly fantasized at thirty-thousand feet. There had been only Jerome, in one pisser of a mood over having to pick him up at such an early hour on a Friday.

  His faithful and totally nonservile servant had been equally unthrilled with the concept of Mark moving home, even temporarily. Apparently, in Jerome’s book, once someone had crossed out of their twenties, the front door to the family manse should be locked behind them.

  Mark agreed…in theory. As a practical matter, he was in no mood to go house-hunting. He’d had about all the stress a guy could stomach without either a therapist or tranquilizers. Listening to some real estate agent yap about neutral decor and booming real estate values just wasn’t going to happen.

  After ditching Jerome midlecture, Mark had closeted himself in the library and wrapped up the ends of what was, no doubt about it, the most important business deal of his life. When he emerged at around four o’clock, he headed to the kitchen for a late lunch.

  Jerome and his mother were seated at the antique pine table. It looked as though they were having a tea party, with those tiny useless cut-up sandwiches and all. He’d pass, thanks.

  After hauling some real food from the fridge, Mark pulled out a chair. “Mind if I join you?”

  “I don’t care how big this house is, you need a place of your own,” Jerome said, picking up the morning’s conversation as though time had stood still.

  He sat. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “It’s not healthy, thirty years old and back under mama’s roof.”

  “You’re the one who wanted me home,” Mark said between bites of a roast beef sandwich.

  “I meant within driving distance, kid, not messing up bedrooms and creating laundry.”

  “I’ll do my own laundry.”

  Jerome snorted. “Not in my washing machine. You think I’ve forgotten how you broke it—”

  “When I was ten, so just give it up,” Mark finished. He looked to his mother, who appeared to be enjoying the show. “You don’t have any problem with me moving in for a while, do you?”

  She shook her head.

  He’d been doing some reading about aphasia and knew to expect these sorts of evasions. He also knew she had to keep trying. “Words, Mom. I want it in words.”

  She shot him a good scowl instead, but then worked up a “no” with minimal struggle.

  She was dressed to the nines, as though she was about to leave for an opera society gathering, or to meet the queen. Still, something was not quite right about the picture. It took Mark a couple of seconds, but he figured it out. She was missing her jewelry, the hefty diamond ring and earrings to match, which she always wore in public, but never at home.

  “Besides doctors’ appointments, when was the last time you left the house?” he asked.

  She folded one hand over the other. “Ye—ye—”

  Jerome raised a gray brow. “Don’t lie, Frances, or you’ll be keeping me company in hell.”

  “Heaven,” she corrected, smiling with pleasure as the word came out in her regal voice of old.

  “I can barely get your mother to visit her doctors, let alone go any place else,” Jerome said.

  “Rat.”

  Jerome
ignored her. “And your father’s flat-out gone most of the time. He took off to the Palm Beach house just yesterday. Don’t know when he’s coming back.”

  His dad had always had a talent for absence—emotional and otherwise. Mark mentally adjusted an already packed schedule.

  “Here’s the deal, Mom. I have to go to the office until pretty late tonight, but tomorrow morning, we’re going out for apple pancakes, just like we used to. Make sure you’re up and ready because you’re not skipping out on this.”

  She rattled her teacup against her saucer, chiming her displeasure.

  “Look, I don’t care if you’re silent the whole time we’re out. I’ll even order for you, but I’m not going to let you roam this place like an overdressed ghost. Got it?”

  Her drama queen sigh worked a chuckle loose from Jerome. “That’s my Franny,” he said, patting her hand.

  Mark smiled. Except for the sexual preference issue, Jerome and his mom made a great couple.

  He stood, walked to his mom’s side and kissed her cheek.

  “Gotta go. I’ll see you in the morning,” he said.

  She squeezed his hand, then sent him on his way.

  JUST PAST FIVE, when anyone with half a brain—or half a life—was looking ahead to Memorial Day long weekend plans, Mark entered Howard Blenham’s office, where Cara, Howard and Stewart waited. Cara sat in one of the two guest chairs, her slender legs crossed, and foot bouncing in just the way he recalled. She wore a pained expression, as if they’d been sticking bamboo slivers under her fingernails before he arrived. He took the chair next to her.

  Mark hated seeing her apprehension. In his fantasy life—which was increasing exponentially when it came to her—he was entering this room a rescuer, ready to kick some bad-guy butt. The reality was, by the time this meeting was over, she’d be gunning for his ass.

  Or maybe he was being too sensitive. If so, that was a first.

  “Nice of you to join us,” she said. “And since you finally have, can someone now tell me why I’ve been sitting here for the past twenty minutes?”

  Howard cleared his throat. Mark looked to Stewart, who gave him an apologetic half smile. Since there was no rescue from pontificating on that front, Mark steeled himself for Howard-speak.

  “Mark has presented the firm with a spectacular opportunity. We will be representing Merchant Financial in their recapitalization of Newby Holdings.”

  Cara appeared to perk up. “Newby…the shopping mall family, right?”

  Howard nodded impatiently. “They own twenty-three malls in fourteen states, and I’m sure you’ve read in the papers that the downturn in the economy has hurt them. And I’d hope you’re aware that Merchant specializes in lending to troubled companies. This will be a complex transaction, and until it’s complete, we’re giving you to Mark.”

  “Giving me?” The low vibration in her voice was subtle but telling, if you were the sort of person who noticed these things. The curl of her upper lip was far more obvious, and should have been signal enough for even Howard.

  But he must have taken up residence on Planet Zoom because he was oblivious to the rising danger. “Yes, giving you. He’ll assign your tasks…supervise you—”

  “There are a dozen other associates in this group. Why don’t you toss him one of them?”

  “We have made our decision—”

  Cara uncrossed her legs and wrapped her hands over the chair’s arms. She looked ready to spring. Mark stood and edged between Cara and Howard. He leaned against the edge of Howard’s desk, blocking her line of sight. As he braced his palms behind himself on the desk’s surface, he thought maybe he heard Howard gasp, but Blenham didn’t concern him.

  “Cara, I specifically asked for you. I could really use your help…your talent. If we do this right—make it seamless—there’s going to be a lot more work coming from Merchant. Good stuff, too…sexy deals, the kind it’s tough to get your hands on outside New York and Chicago.”

  He could see anger, barely controlled, sizzling in her blue eyes.

  “Please,” he finished, willing her to be okay with this. He didn’t know exactly why, but her feelings mattered. Really mattered.

  He watched the rise and fall of her chest as she drew in a breath, then slowly released it. Mark could almost hear her mental count to ten.

  “Okay,” she said in a tight voice that let him know it wasn’t okay at all. She stood. “Now if you all would excuse me…”

  “Of course,” Stewart said, the first words he’d even bothered to add to this mess.

  Head high, Cara left the room.

  Mark heard an odd, choking noise from behind him. Stewart, who was now standing beside the chair that Cara had vacated, pointed over Mark’s shoulder. He looked back.

  “Get…off…my…desk,” Howard panted. A red flush covered his bald head, making him look like a radish.

  “Sorry,” Mark said, pushing away and then facing him. Hands fumbling, Howard pulled a paper bag from the desk drawer, stuck the bag’s opening over his mouth and began to wheeze into it.

  “We’d better go,” Stewart suggested.

  That didn’t seem very humane, even if it was Blenham they were talking about. “Shouldn’t we call someone?”

  “Nah, this happens all the time. He has problems with people touching his stuff.”

  Which appeared to be an understatement on the scale of saying that Cara Adams had a small issue with temper.

  “Get…out,” Howard breathed into the bag. Mark and Stewart complied.

  “When you say this happens all the time,” Mark asked, “do you mean the rotten way he treated Cara or the hyperventilating?”

  Harbedian straightened one French cuff, then the other. “He’s brilliant, you know.”

  “And?”

  Stewart gave him a blank look. “And what?”

  Mark had already noticed that firm members said, “Howard is brilliant” in the same way his mother always said, “Your father needs his rest.” Brilliance wasn’t license to be a pompous jerk, any more than being tired permitted a husband to belittle his wife’s accomplishments.

  “I need to talk to Cara,” he said to Stewart. “I’ll catch you later.”

  “HEY.”

  Cara didn’t have to look up from the well-worn loft condo brochure—hers was unit 612, two bedrooms, balcony and urban-chic exposed ceilings—to know who had entered her office. Even if Morgan hadn’t spoken, she would have sensed him. She’d been waiting for him, and somehow knew down to the second when he would arrive.

  This newfound awareness was creepy, like nothing she’d ever experienced. It seemed to have fully kicked in about the time he’d worked up that “please” in Howard’s office. There was something remarkably sexy about a begging guy, especially one with deep brown eyes a girl could get lost in. Not sexy enough to help her lose the feeling that her life was spinning out of control, however.

  “So I’ve been given to you,” she said, ignoring the shiver running down her spine.

  He settled his hands on the back of one of the chairs opposite her desk. Annabeth’s comment last week about “big hands” flitted through her mind.

  Yep, big hands. Long, elegant fingers that would glide across her skin…attached to the man who was stealing her life. God, she needed a vacation. Or sex. Or both…just not with Morgan.

  “Howard’s an ass,” he said.

  For the first time ever, Cara found herself wanting to defend the man. “Howard’s br—”

  “Don’t say brilliant.”

  She shrugged. “Okay, but he is. Besides, everyone here has been conditioned to accept his behavior.”

  “That must have been one hell of a brainwashing session.”

  Cara didn’t want to think about Howard. She glanced out the window. The landscape lady was down below, arranging colorful pots on either side of a stone bench on the narrow strip of lawn. She fussed with the leaves on a coral geranium, making sure it was perfect. Couldn’t she hurry up and go the h
ell away?

  Cara pushed from behind her desk, stood and turned her back to the window. Mark walked closer. It took the last of her waning willpower not to move away.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you before Howard did, but Cara, will you work this deal with me? I know you…trust you…and my career’s riding on this.”

  What about my career? she wanted to shout. Hasn’t it occurred to you that I’ll be helping you right into my partnership slot?

  Either he hadn’t thought of it, or he didn’t care. It didn’t matter, and she wouldn’t bring it up, because in doing so, she’d be showing weakness. In any case, only one truth mattered: If she refused this assignment, it would be considered an act of open rebellion, and she wouldn’t last past her semiannual review.

  “I’ll help you,” she said, bowing gracelessly to the inevitable.

  He held out his hand.

  Had she ever touched him before? Not sober. Not willingly. Now she would, but not of an entirely free will.

  His hand closed over hers. The clasp of his palm against hers was firm. Warm. Perfect.

  Somewhere deep inside, her libido purred a sexy ahhhh, then stretched and roused itself from what had been a very long nap.

  Not now. Not him, she counseled herself. She’d been shark bait once, and twice would make her a fool.

  She didn’t want to let go, though. She imagined those fingers slipping beneath the silk of her blouse, tracing a pattern on skin that was becoming dewy at the thought.

  Oh, for God’s sake, he’s just shaking your hand, her intellect lectured.

  A lot you know, brainiac, her libido hummed.

  Reminding herself that she was a firm believer in intellect, Cara let go and stepped back.

  When she was composed enough to look Mark in the face, she thought maybe she saw her own startled confusion mirrored there. His expression slid into its usual confident and composed lines so quickly that she decided she’d imagined it.

  “So…” He hesitated, looked away, then back and started again. “So, let’s get together for a few hours tomorrow morning and pound out a commitment letter on the deal. I’ve got the terms in my office.”