by Dorien Kelly
In a show of ultimate dominance, Gail Eberhardt had to go down.
Cara stopped in Morgan’s doorway. “Do you have a second?”
“Sure.” He sat at his desk. His tie was draped over the brass banker’s lamp in front of him, and his shirtsleeves were rolled midway up his forearms.
Morgan had always possessed this aura of calm and relaxation when everyone around him was wired to the max. Like, say…her.
“Why don’t you have a seat?” he asked.
Too tense to take him up on his offer, Cara walked around the office. He’d begun to really settle in. There were a few sailing photos on the walls and one of him with a very elegant-looking older woman she guessed was his mother.
“Don’t let Gail Eberhardt work on this deal,” she said while looking away from him. If she met his eyes, she’d have to admit that she was begging a favor, and she’d been close enough to begging in Gail’s office.
“Why no Eberhardt?”
“She requires too much watching,” Cara replied, pleased that she’d come up with such a diplomatically ambiguous turn of phrase.
“I’ll take it under advisement.” He watched her as she paced. “Are you okay?”
“Fine.”
His gaze was loaded with skepticism, but like most guys faced with a “fine” response, he didn’t look as if he planned to push it. “So, who do you have lined up to help on your end?”
“I’m still working on it,” she said as she adjusted a small bronze sculpture of a sloop so that it was properly centered on his credenza. “I was thinking I’d check with Vic and see if he could pitch in. I know he’s pretty loaded down right now, but I’d rather have ten hours from someone I trust than twenty from someone I don’t.”
“It’s your baby. Staff it any way you see fit.”
Some of the tension eased from the back of her neck. “Thanks.” She hesitated, then went for it. “Do you want me to have a look at the draft of the Loan Agreement when you have it done?”
He stood, strolled over to the sculpture, and put it back where it had been. “That would be great. Are you going to have the time?”
“Sure.” Okay, so maybe she didn’t, really, but she’d make it. Especially if it meant she was sure Gail was going to get a smack-down in the bargain. At that uncharitable thought, Cara promised herself she’d say five self-affirmations and donate money to the poor as soon as she left Morgan’s office.
Morgan’s office…
It dawned on her that she’d been in here at least two minutes, and the resentment over what should have been hers hadn’t begun to brew. Not even the slightest simmer… How weird was that?
Morgan cut into her thoughts. “That was an interesting smile.”
Cara refocused. He stood just feet away from her now—too temptingly close. “I was smiling?”
“For lack of a better word. It was more like someone had hit you upside the head.”
“Odd,” she said, mostly to herself, then shook off the moment. Losing the temptation to touch Morgan was tougher. She drifted back a step and thought of something businesslike to ask him. “When can we expect the Newby files to get here?”
“Their counsel says everything should arrive on Friday, which should give us just about enough time to get our act together. Nicole Harris is dropping in late next week.”
“For a meeting?”
Morgan nodded.
“It will be great to talk to her in person.”
He smiled. “I figured you’d say that. Nic’s been saying the same.”
“Nic, is it? That’s pretty casual. I take it you’ve known her for a while?”
His jaw tensed as though he was steeling himself for a blow. “Actually, we were engaged a few years back.”
“Oh,” Cara replied in her breeziest voice.
“Just, ‘oh’?”
It tapped her self-discipline dry, but she managed to leave it at that. “Yes, just ‘oh.”’
“I can’t wait for the follow-up, and we both know there will be one.”
Cara rolled her eyes at his utter smugness. He’d be hearing that absurd you-were-right-and-I-was-wrong speech long before she’d indulge her curiosity about his almost-marriage.
Just business, that was the rule.
He reached out and touched a lock of her hair, where it curved against her jaw. “You still in there, Adams?”
His fingertips lingered, briefly brushing the corner of her mouth. Cara forgot to breathe. She forgot everything but the overwhelming need to turn her head just the smallest fraction and draw that finger into her mouth. He’d taste like salt and sex and sun and…damn but her defenses were down!
Just then, Gail marched in the door. “Mark, I—”
Heart pounding, knees wobbly, Cara stepped away.
Gail’s waxed-nigh-unto-invisibility brows drew together. “I’ll come back.”
“Now’s good.” Morgan had jammed his hands into his pockets.
As far as Cara was concerned it would be better for both of them if he’d just keep them there from now on.
“All right,” Gail said with a “whatever” kind of shrug. “I have a block of open time and was wondering if I could pitch in on the Newby transaction?”
What was this? Gail hadn’t even bothered to sneak behind her back. Cara’s temper began to gnash and snarl, working hard to escape the muzzle she’d clamped on it. Instead of leaping for Gail’s throat, she turned and looked out the window.
I am in control of my life, she reminded herself. And killing co-workers is bad. She searched for some distraction outside. Hell, where was that landscaping lady when you needed her?
“I have a lot I could offer you,” Gail practically purred.
Cara allowed herself one good gag-me face before she turned back to watch the world-class suck-up scene taking place before her.
Morgan didn’t appear to be buying in, bless his sharklike heart. He gave Gail an easy smile. “Thanks for asking, but we have it under control.”
A wash of crimson appeared on Gail’s cheekbones. She shot Cara a speculative look tinged with venom, then said in dulcet tones, “I’m sure you do.”
Gail left, and Cara’s stomach clenched. Years before she’d joined the firm, S.U. had been embroiled in a sexual harassment suit. As a result, they had a strictly worded policy forbidding employee fraternization.
What Gail had witnessed when she walked into the office wasn’t exactly the horizontal mambo on Morgan’s desk, but it did give her leverage. Not much, of course, but with Gail’s type, it never took much. Before you knew it, she’d be coiled around you and dragging you to the bottom of the bayou for a death roll.
Cara wondered if Morgan had any idea the direction in which Gail’s mind slithered. Or if he was even aware of the firm’s rules.
“While they were busy wining and dining you, did any of the partners happen to mention that we have a policy against intraoffice relationships?”
A slow smile stretched across Morgan’s face as he eased into his chair, leaned back and stretched out his long legs. “Are you telling me this for any reason in particular?”
Cara focused on a fleck of lint on the carpet. “It, ah, seemed kind of appropriate based on what was happening when Gail walked in.”
“Really? So does this mean you’re ready? You remember what it takes, right? ‘Mark, you were—”’
“Totally full of yourself,” she said instead, but couldn’t quite fight down her smile. “Seriously, be careful about what you say or do around Gail. She—”
“I know, she requires watching,” Morgan finished for her. “Not to mention defanging.” His expression grew serious. “You know that I’d never do anything to intentionally harm your career, don’t you?”
“That’s good to hear, because I gotta tell you, the collateral damage has been a bitch.” The smart-ass remark—her verbal armor—was out before she even knew she’d said it.
He absently rubbed at his temples, “Do you think maybe we could get p
ast this garbage? I’m here, you’re here, and with the exception of a few lapses, I think we’re doing a pretty professional job of dealing with it. And stupid as it sounds given our circumstances, I really want you to be okay with me.”
It didn’t sound at all stupid to her. In fact, she couldn’t recall the last time she’d heard anything quite that nice, and she felt crummy for having snapped at him.
Her frustration was better directed at the events than the man. Besides, it seemed that he’d changed since those brutally competitive law-school days. He wasn’t soft, exactly. It was more as if he’d been down that yellow brick road and had come back with a heart. She, on the other hand, was still in the market for a few missing pieces of her soul.
“You’re right,” she said. “It’s time for me to get over it. If the partners didn’t bring you in, it would have been someone else. In a really weird, close-the-circle, woo-woo kind of way, I’m lucky it was you.”
“Thanks. I think.”
Just in case he thought she was going all mushy, she added, “This doesn’t mean I’m giving up on being the next partner, you know.”
“And you know that’s what I’m gunning for, too, right?”
“Yes.”
There, it was out in the open, no less a barrier in their relationship, but somehow healthier for all that. His smile returned, and it was hot enough to make Cara think it was a damn good thing that a wall remained between them.
“And as for the firm’s no-nooky policy,” he said, “I’ll cut you a deal. I’ll honor it in front of every other member of Saperstein, Underwood…but you. My obligation to my job stops at my bedroom door. You, on the other hand, are free to cross over that threshold whenever you say—”
She loved the way he teased her. This was decidedly a post-law-school Morgan trait. “Yeah, yeah, I know the drill. ‘You were right and I was wrong…”’
His eyes danced with laughter and something even more tempting, too. “Just a few more words, Adams, and paradise will be yours.”
She worked up what she thought was a pretty convincing hoot. “Righty-o, Morgan. And on that note, I’m going to get to work on kicking your legal butt.” She sashayed out of Morgan’s office after one good sexy swing of her hips.
Who knew that a little healthy competition could warm a girl’s blood like this?
“Hot today, isn’t it?” she commented to Howard’s secretary, Jan. Cara strolled on, languidly fanning her hand through the cool climate-controlled air. “Just the way I like it.”
AT LUNCHTIME, MARK stood outside the door of Retreads, about to take a step into the great unknown. He’d never bought a woman a dress before, at least, not without her dragging him to some ritzy sales counter and wheedling, “Mark, honey?” which really meant “Mark’s money.”
On the other hand, he knew that Cara wouldn’t even ask him for parking meter change. He respected her independence, but still had managed to rationalize today’s purchase by deciding it was far more to his benefit than hers.
Mind made up, Mark pushed through the front door. Retreads held a few other customers, but not many. He took a quick look around, trying to take in the mind-blowing array of clothing and just plain stuff.
“Hey, shark man,” Bri O’Brien said with such casual good humor it was almost as if she expected him.
“You can call me Mark.” If a friendly face didn’t, and soon, he was in peril of forgetting that he had a real first name.
“Okay, Mark. What can I do for you?”
“I walked by your shop a few weeks ago, and Cara was dancing about right here,” he said, with a glance at the now inactive disco ball above him. “She was wearing this black dress that, ah…” Maybe discussing the precise physical effect the dress had had on him wasn’t the best approach.
Gathering his thoughts, he glanced at the shop’s two other customers—a pair of incredibly tall women currently holding red lamé formal dresses up to each other and squealing. Wait, one of those women had a big-time case of five o’clock shadow….
“You were saying?” Bri prompted.
“The dress.” Mark tried to drag his mind away from the thoughts of how much plucking, shaving and tweezing guys with those particular preferences had to endure. Not to mention panty hose… “Yeah, the dress. I was wondering if you still have it?”
“It just so happens that I do. It’s too small for my queen-sized customers,” she said with a nod to the guys who had now moved on to silk robelike things.
“Good. I’d like to buy it.”
“Really? It won’t fit you, either,” she said in a deadpan voice.
He smiled. “But it will fit Cara.”
“True.” Cara’s friend walked to a rack and began to search through it. She was practically swallowed whole by the array of sequins, prints and bold color. Finally, she emerged with the dress in question.
Yeah, this gift was definitely for him. Just looking at the black dress, he could feel himself rise to the memory.
He pulled out his wallet, but Bri said, “Not so fast.”
“What do you mean?”
“One of the perks of being my own boss is that I get to decide whether I want to make a sale. Usually, it’s a no-brainer. But this time, the dress is going to come with a few extra strings.”
“Such as?”
She looped the garment’s hanger over a vicious, medieval-looking pike that was sticking straight out of the wall behind her sales counter. “Along with paying me seventy-two dollars plus tax, you’re about to get the mess-with-my-friend-and-I-rip-your-privates-out-through-your-nose speech.”
Mark winced. “You know, for such a fluffy-looking girl, you’ve sure got guts.”
“Thanks,” she said, obviously cheered by the thought. “And you’re a pretty perceptive guy, which means you already know that as together as Cara appears, her heart is one big marshmallow. Here’s the deal, shark-man… If you’re chasing her just for kicks, stop now. It’s bad enough that her work life is shot to hell. Leave her something to hang on to.”
Was he chasing Cara for kicks?
It didn’t feel that way. In fact, it felt like some sort of weird compulsion. Almost as if someone “up there” was controlling him. And he was one happy fool, dancing to their tune.
“I never thought I’d be saying this, but I’m not that kind of guy. At least not anymore.”
She snorted as she wrote out a receipt for the dress.
“Really. When I came back to Detroit, women weren’t on the agenda. Cara’s changed that, and the exception is just for her, okay?”
She shoved the receipt across the counter to him. Mark counted out bills from his wallet. After she’d made change, Bri folded the dress and dropped it into a bag.
“I’ll buy that ‘agenda’ routine for now, shark-man, but I’m watching you. One wrong move and…” her eyes narrowed and the curve of her mouth grew bloodthirsty. “…you’ll be singing soprano.”
One of the queen-sized crew applauded. “You go, girlfriend,” he cried in a voice that fell octaves below Bri’s threatened soprano.
Mark took his volcano goddess’s dress and got the hell out. Manhattan clearly hadn’t cornered the market on nuts, and he wasn’t talking about the shopping queens.
CARA’S FRIDAY MORNING had dawned much the same as the prior two days had: hazy with a ninety-percent chance of life-sucking overwork. She had stayed late every night to check in with the various out-of-state lawyers she’d retained. Then she’d read her way through the title work and land surveys for most of Newby’s malls. Merchant wasn’t messing around on this deal. They’d taken everything but the employees’ first-born children.
To deal with the flood of paper, Cara had even taken over the empty secretary’s cubicle outside her office, which might explain why the two proposed replacements for gone-and-nearly-forgotten Leigh had taken one look at their future workplace and declined the offer.
The sole benefit of this trial-by-glut-of-paperwork was being in the office late at
night with Morgan, when no one else was around. He was working a slow, subtle magic on her. Over the past few days, she had discovered that he could be witty, funny and subtly romantic. She suspected she was being wooed, and she loved it.
Morgan was a man of his word. He never crossed that line from flirtation to something hotter…something that might lead to sweaty moaning and shrieking on the conference room couch. Not that she’d shriek, of course. But if she could keep pulling off this subtle sex goddess vibe that had channeled itself into her from God knew where, if the opportunity arose, he just might.
But prior to ten in the morning wasn’t the time to be considering noisy sex. Cara headed to the office’s small kitchen area for another mug of coffee.
She had just resettled the pot when Annabeth joined her.
“Carpet glue,” the receptionist said.
Cara picked up her mug. “Come again?”
“Did you check out Stewart Harbedian this morning? He’s pierced his ear.”
Botox…pierced ear. Next came the tattoo, no doubt. “And this relates to carpet glue, how?”
Annabeth poured herself some coffee and then added nearly an equal amount of sugar. Cara’s mouth went gummy at the thought.
“I’ll admit the burial mound thing is unlikely,” the receptionist said. “But think about it…we move to a brand-new building and everyone wigs. I say it’s fumes from the carpet.”
“So what’s your solution?”
Her smile was positively blissful. “Who needs one? Let’s just surf the high.” The phone next to the doorway rang. Annabeth picked it up and answered with her standard apathetic, “Yeah?”
Annabeth had an issue with whatever the speaker was saying. She made a pouty face that might have been marginally more appealing were she a toddler. After she hung up, she said, “There’s a delivery at the front desk, and they actually expect me to help sort it out. You’d think I was hired help or something.”
Cara refrained from pointing out the obvious, opting to escape before she was enlisted. As it turned out, she was snagged, anyway. Twenty minutes later, she was lamenting the smudges and grime on her pale ivory trousers, which had fallen victim to more shipping boxes than she’d ever seen before. Each of the boxes indicated that the sender was Newby Holdings.
