by Margaret
Rachel loved the excitement in the pits, where the traders were crammed in shoulder to shoulder, belly to buttocks, pushing and shoving, waving their arms, and screaming to be heard. Her body would sway with the bodies of rest of the traders in waves of frenzy. She yelled out her orders so loud that often she would come home with no voice left. Every day when the opening buzzer rang, a surge of adrenaline pumped into Rachel’s veins, and she was a warrior, going to do battle, fierce and aggressive on the floor.
Rachel was unstoppable and she was attractive and she knew it. She used her looks to her advantage, always arriving at the Merc looking as if she’d just stepped off the pages of Vogue. Some women faulted her for that, but Rachel paid no attention. She never understood how looking and smelling like an unmade bed was some sort of statement of feminine equality. Men who were tall used their height to gain attention. Men with broad shoulders and muscle-bound arms elbowed their way through the crowd in the pits. Why should Rachel not use the beauty God and her genes had given her to gain the same advantages? Besides, she had the brains to back it up and she knew it and so did the other traders.
If, as sometimes happened, a man mistook her for a fragile, weak-willed and weak-minded woman, and tried to push her out of her spot, she’d smash the high heel of her shoe into his instep. When she heard the interloper’s yelp of pain, she’d bat her eyelashes and smile sweetly at him and say, “I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you? I thought you were trying to muscle in on my territory.”
If he tried again, she’d kick him in the shins. Eventually, he’d get the idea. She’d go to battle again and again until she had all the space she needed.
Rachel looked down at her watch and realized she’d been in the batting cages for over two hours. Her hands were starting to blister and her arms were sore. She decided to head home.
She parked her car in the garage and walked to the lobby of her building that was located near Chicago’s north side. Her condo had the coveted lake view, and she loved it. And it wasn’t just the status. She liked looking out over the lake at night, seeing the lights of the buildings reflected in the water, like mirror images of the stars. She liked the luxury of living in a nice part of the city, and she loved all the amenities that came with a five hundred thousand dollar condo.
Rachel walked up the stairs of the building. The doorman, Alex, was there to open the door for her. He was a sweet man, been married for years.
“Hello, Miss Rachel. How’d we do on the market today?” Alex asked.
“Not good Alex. Not good at all.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, but I can smell a big rally coming soon y’know. I have a sense about these things.”
“I hope you’re right. By the way, Alex, when is your new baby girl due? Soon I thought,” Rachel asked, changing the subject. She didn’t want to discuss or even think about work.
“The doctor says any day now. My wife says if it doesn’t happen soon, she’s going to pull the baby out herself.”
“Hopefully it won’t come to that,” Rachel said, laughing and heading toward the elevator.
“You have a good evening now, Miss Rachel. G’night.”
“Good night, Alex.”
“Oh, by the way, Miss Rachel, I’m starting my vacation. There’ll be a new guy here tomorrow.”
Rachel paused. “I didn’t know you were planning to take your vacation now.”
“To tell you the truth, I didn’t either,” said Alex. “Mr. Fraym, the building manager, discovered that I had lots of paid vacation time built up and I should take it or I’d lose it. Works out fine, because I’ll be home to help my wife with the baby.”
“Sounds wonderful. Have fun.” Rachel waved at him. “Tell Marie I’ll be thinking of her.”
She punched the elevator button for her floor, then leaned on her bat and yawned as she ascended. Did she have anything to eat in the fridge? She couldn’t remember. She thought there might be some Lean Cuisine dinners. She hoped so. She didn’t want to cook and she didn’t want to go out again.
She unlocked the door to her apartment and turned on the light, dropped her car keys and purse on the dining room table, and headed toward the kitchen. She pushed Play on her answering machine to listen to her messages while she searched the refrigerator.
Beep.
“Ratchet Girl, where are you? We’re all at Mario’s. You haven’t been out for a drink after work in ages. It’s Thursday. Didn’t anyone tell you that Thursday night is the new Friday night? It’s all the rage. You should be here. Call me.”
Rachel knew the voice. One of the guys from the office.
“Ugh, please. Never,” Rachel muttered.
No Lean Cuisine meals left. She grabbed a plastic container of leftover taco dip from the fridge.
Second beep.
“Rachel, it’s Tom, I wanted to compliment you on those hot shoes you were wearing today. Do you have any idea how distracting you are while I’m trying to think about Pork Bellies? I think I screwed up three orders today. Call my cell.”
“Try getting a divorce first, jackass,” Rachel told the machine. She went to the pantry, looking for corn chips.
Third beep.
“Um, hi, Rachel; it’s, um, Matt. You left so quickly after the close today we didn’t get a chance to um, chat. You seemed pissed. Is everything okay? Um, call me if you want to talk. Bye.”
“How old are you, Matt? Jeez, what like, sixteen maybe? What on earth would we talk about? What you’re planning to wear to the prom?”
Fourth beep.
“Rachel, it’s Zanus. Just wondering how your day went. Give me a call when you have time.”
Rachel smiled at the last message. She left it on the machine and erased all the others. She stood at the sink, eating stale chips and dip, washing them down with an open Diet Coke she’d left on the counter that morning. She tossed the plastic dishes into the sink. She wasn’t much for cooking or cleaning.
Andreas Zanus, or Zanus, as he liked to be called. She’d been dating him for a few months now and things were going well. In fact he’d swept her off her feet from the beginning. He was the man every woman dreams about—handsome, attentive, and rich.
When he found out that she liked champagne, he’d flown her to France in his private jet for a long weekend to taste the best from the Champagne region. They’d traveled the beautiful countryside in a limo, drinking chilled champagne and eating strawberries dipped in chocolate.
Only last week, they had eaten at a Thai restaurant, and she’d raved about the food. He’d offered to take her to Bangkok for real Thai food. She had laughed at that and accused him of teasing her. He told her he wasn’t kidding and, the next day, he’d handed her two first-class tickets for Bangkok. She couldn’t afford to take the time off work, but it was the thought that counted.
Zanus was just the right age for her—old enough to have ditched all the immaturity younger men carried, yet not old enough to start collecting Social Security. He was tall with a good build. He had black hair, with enough gray frost to make it interesting. His eyes were dark and melting, his skin bronze. He dressed impeccably; the finest suits, the best tailors, the most expensive shoes. Even his blue jeans, when he wore blue jeans, came from Neiman Marcus. He was thoughtful, brought her little presents, nothing embarrassing or extravagant, but everything suited to her taste.
So far there were only two drawbacks to Andreas Zanus. The first was that she didn’t love him. She knew she should be in love with him, because he was the sort of man any woman would fall in love with, but she wasn’t there yet.
The second was that he was a client. He’d been assigned to her by her manager, Mr. Freeman. Zanus had actually requested her, in fact. He had told Mr. Freeman he’d been talking to some of her other clients and he liked what he’d heard about her. She’d already made a hefty bonus off her work for Zanus, and she’d been silently thanking Freeman for this for weeks. If Freeman knew she was dating her client, it wouldn’t look good. But there were lots of in
appropriate relationships going on at work. As long as hers didn’t become gossip or do anything to interrupt her earnings, she would be fine.
That was the part that scared her and maybe that was why she hadn’t let herself fall in love with him. If this affair went sour and she lost him as both a lover and a client, she might lose her job. All Zanus had to do was make a complaint about her, maybe claim she was trading sex for business or some such thing. Her ethics would be questioned. She would be finished. Her reputation on the floor would be compromised and the other traders would make it unbearable for her to work.
There was no such thing as privacy at the Merc, where men outnumbered the women one hundred to two. The guys all knew Rachel was single, and they all firmly believed the sole reason she worked at the Merc was to meet and marry a wealthy trader. She couldn’t blame them for thinking that way, since some of the women who worked there were looking for rich husbands.
Not Rachel. She had her own money, good friends, a great job, and her family. Rachel had grown up in Evanston, north of the city. Her family was well off, and had been for generations. Her parents were retired now and rarely home. They were currently cruising around the world on the Queen Elizabeth 2. Her mother sent postcards to Rachel from all of their exotic ports of call.
The last one had been Curacao. Mom had written that it was the place to be if you liked to drink different flavors of the liquor made from bitter oranges for which the island was famous, but other than that, there wasn’t much to say for it. Though they’d gone to the Caribbean to bask in the sun, the sun in Curacao was too hot. The shop keepers were too friendly, she didn’t trust them. All of which meant her mother was having a great time. Mom loved to complain. And the person she complained about most and loved the most and understood the least was her daughter.
Rachel loved her parents, even if they didn’t understand her fascination with trading or finance. Rachel had an MBA from the University of Chicago, and they had never understood her reasoning behind her chosen major, economics. Why did she want to work in someplace called the pit? Why did she have to work in a place where fat, smelly brokers stepped on you or pinched your butt to try to distract you or yelled obscenities at you? Why couldn’t she be a real estate agent like Paul and Irma’s daughter, Mitzy? No one ever stepped on Mitzy.
They also didn’t understand why she wasn’t married yet. Rachel was an only child, and her mother was desperate to see Rachel wed and pregnant. (Mitzy was married with two darling little girls and another on the way.) Of course the unspoken understanding was that Rachel would give up trading once she found a husband to take care of her and settle down. Rachel had nothing against getting married or children. She did have something against getting married and having babies this very minute and she certainly had a problem with giving up her career and letting a man take care of her—i.e., control her.
Rachel planned to do it all—have her career, have a husband, and have kids. There were no boundaries for women anymore. But she didn’t want to rush into anything with anyone. She valued clarity and what was clear for her right now was work. Rachel concentrated on her work, concentrated on being the fastest, most accurate, most sought-after broker on the floor.
Some of the men in the pit made the scathing comment that Rachel Duncan had ice water running through her veins. They meant it as an insult, but Rachel considered that a compliment. Now all she had to do was get out from under her boss’s thumb, find money enough to become an in de pen dent trader.
Mr. Freeman was a fair enough guy to work for, but as long as she was tethered to company rules and guidelines, Rachel didn’t believe she could realize her true potential. Sometimes big trades, huge trades, came down the line, and Rachel didn’t have enough authority to snatch them up when the timing was right. It was all very frustrating.
She finished off the dip and picked up the phone.
“Hi, there,” she said when Zanus answered. “My day went fine. How was yours?”
They talked business. She hoped he would ask her out for this weekend, but, though he was very charming and paid her several compliments, he hung up without making a date.
Probably for the best, Rachel thought, trying to shrug off her disappointment. He is a client. She wondered if there was anything good on television. Glancing through the guide, she decided there wasn’t. She stripped off her clothes, tossed them in the general direction of the laundry hamper, and slipped into a Cosabella nightgown. It had cost too damn much for a nightgown, but she loved the feel of silk against her skin.
Lying in bed, she closed her eyes and mentally prepared for her day tomorrow, reviewing in her head the orders she’d need to have filled. The numbers flew like birds through her mind as she drifted off to sleep.
She was still dreaming of numbers when her alarm went off. She had dreamed that the numbers were white birds flying away from her and she couldn’t catch one of them, no matter how hard she tried. The dream made her feel uncomfortable and she was glad the alarm had ended it.
Rachel headed for the shower. Her normal routine consisted of tying her long blond hair back neatly into a bun, applying minimal makeup—concealer for the dark smudges beneath her eyes, some blush, a hint of eye shadow, lip gloss—and a quick leap through a spritzed cloud of Annick Goutal perfume. The perfume was not designed to attract men, but to help her survive the stink of the trading floor when the going got hot. Finally, she put on a man-tailored blouse, no-nonsense-looking suit coat, matching pants, and, today, Stuart Weitzman pumps. Rachel looked at herself in the mirror.
She was tall, blond, slim with a good figure. Her eyes were green-gray, large, and she had what her dad termed “The Look”—a cold, intense stare that could freeze a man in his tracks at twenty paces. Rachel used The Look to get her way sometimes, but she had to walk a fine line, and so she always wore pantsuits to work. No short skirts. She didn’t mind if the men were distracted by her. She didn’t want to be distracted by them!
It was all about the numbers, baby.
Rachel left her apartment and rode the elevator down to the lobby. A car usually picked her up for work. She owned her own car—a Volkswagen Passat—but she drove that around town. The parking fees at the Merc were insanely high so it was cheaper for her to hire a car service. Only the car wasn’t there yet.
She looked at her watch. She was on time. Mildly irritated that the car was late, Rachel stood tapping her foot impatiently inside the entrance, keeping out of the wind that came roaring off Lake Michigan. She suddenly felt the hair on the back of her neck prickle, like she was standing beneath an air conditioner blowing cold air on her. Only there was no air conditioner. Someone was staring at her.
Rachel turned to say, “Good morning, Alex—”
She stopped midsentence. The man wearing the livery of the doorman was definitely not Alex. This man was handsome; really, really handsome—devastatingly handsome. He was maybe thirty with a body that went to the gym, yet didn’t brag about it. He had blond hair and crystal blue eyes and a strong, take-it-on-the-chin jaw. And this handsome man was scowling at her like she’d done something to offend him.
“Oh, I’m sorry. You’re obviously not Alex,” said Rachel, taken aback. “You must be new. I’m not quite awake yet, I guess…I’m Rachel Duncan. I’m in unit twenty-two-fifteen. I guess maybe Alex’s wife had the baby…” She realized she was babbling like a schoolgirl and she made herself shut up.
The new guy didn’t say anything. He stood there glaring at her in complete and utter silence. Was he mad that she’d mistaken him for someone else? If so, he could let it go, for heaven’s sake! Rachel felt her neck prickle again, this time in hot embarrassment. She was suddenly annoyed that he wouldn’t say a word to ease her obvious discomfort.
What a jerk!
Fortunately her car pulled up in front of the building. She turned and gave the doorman The Look. Then she shifted her gaze to the door and stood there, waiting. He didn’t seem to get it at first. He just stood there like a bump o
n a log.
She looked back at him. “You’re a doorman,” she said coldly. “You’re paid to open doors. Right?”
He grudgingly walked over to the glass door and held it open. She breezed past him without a glance. She hoped he froze to death in the backlash of the artic chill she sent his direction as she walked by.
The nerve of some people. She’d at least tried to apologize for calling him by the wrong name. But what was his right name? Damn, she hadn’t thought to look at his name tag. And why was he giving her that awful look, like he resented her for something she’d done to him, and she’d never even seen him before. She was sure of that much at least. She would have remembered him.
Damn! Was he ever good-looking, she thought as she settled back into the black leather seat of the car. Six foot three, she guessed. Sandy blond hair that just kissed the collar of his uniform at the back. And icy blue eyes. Cold and hard on the surface, though. They weren’t the eyes of a nice man. No, that look and those eyes weren’t nice at all. But there was something underneath the ice, something smoldering. Fire and ice…
And, he had to be one of the best-looking men Rachel Duncan had ever seen in her life.
Derek’s first day on the job did not start out well, and it went from bad to worse.
“We were able to get you a job as doorman at the building where Rachel Duncan lives,” William explained the night before. “This way you can see who comes to visit her, who takes her out, that sort of thing. And you’ll have time off in the evenings in case you need to run down some leads. She spends her days at work and she’s safe there, though you wouldn’t know it to look at the place. From what I hear, the pits of hell are less chaotic.”
