by Nancy Warren
“I would like a champagne cocktail, please.”
Her companion ordered a glass of red wine and she’d have bet anything he was thinking of the health benefits to his heart as he drank it.
“First, if you don’t mind, I’d like to do a spot of market research. How did you hear about my company?”
“I found your business card in my partner’s office.”
She laughed aloud. “Are you sure she isn’t as eager to break up with you as you are with her? Why else would she have my card?” Damn, she was good. A few days of dropping off brochures and cards at salons and fitness clubs and she was already reaping the rewards.
“No. Not at all. One of her clients gave it to her. She showed me the card because she couldn’t believe anyone would go around breaking up relationships for money.”
“Well, that’s like the pot calling the kettle black, isn’t it?” She pointed at the book lying on the table. “She makes money convincing people they’re in love. All I do is fix the mess.”
He blinked pale blue eyes at her. “It’s not really that easy. I mean…”
She waved a hand imperiously. “All right. We won’t argue about the value of our respective professions.” She sent him a reassuring smile. “Let’s just say, I’ll particularly enjoy this job.”
“You won’t do anything terrible. I don’t want her hurt.”
“Of course not. We’ll come up with something that makes sense all round. So, what’s she like?”
“Deborah?”
Yes, boy genius. “Yes, Deborah.”
“Well, she’s kind of a neat freak. Nuts about order.” He straightened the coaster in front of him. “She grew up in a dysfunctional family, very confrontational and argumentative. Completely disorganized and chaotic, so Deborah craves order. She needs it to function.”
“Do you think that’s why she was drawn to you? Because you are quiet and orderly and nonconfrontational?”
He pondered her words. “It’s certainly a theory that could well prove sound.”
“So, you’ll have to turn yourself into a mess.”
“What?”
“It’s basic. Whatever she likes about you, you must change. Be the opposite. I used to… that is, I had a client who used to laze in bed in the morning drinking tea and reading the paper. This woman was always up late at night, which suited the man. When she wanted to get out of the relationship, she simply began to get up ridiculously early and bustle about in the kitchen making a great deal of noise.” She shuddered mentally, recalling how awful it had been to wake up at six and then pretend to be capable of bustling at that hour.
“And did it work?”
“Like a charm. He was sleep deprived and miserable in no time. I imagine that if she’s a neat freak, all you have to do is make sure to create disorder all over the place. She’ll be running for the hills in no time.”
“But I couldn’t live that way.” He touched the knot of his tie as though checking that it was still perfect. “I’m a neat freak too. It’s one of the things we have in common.”
At the end of ten minutes, Chloe thought that Jordan and Deborah were the most boring couple she’d ever heard of and they had far too much in common. “Are you sure you want to chuck her? You do seem perfect for each other.”
He sighed deeply. “I know. I think maybe we’re too much alike.”
“Whom have you fallen in love with?”
He blinked. “I never said—”
“Of course you didn’t. Call it my female intuition.” And the fact that he was so clearly the kind of man who wouldn’t upset the status quo without a reason.
He sighed like a teenager with his first crush. “Her name is Pia. She’s in fine arts at the university.”
“Fine arts?”
“Yes. She’s an artist.” He sounded pretty enthusiastic. She guessed he’d thrown himself full-on into this affair with a girl who was likely a fair bit younger. “She paints these huge murals, big bold splashes of paint, very abstract.”
“Is she the orderly type?”
“No. Not at all.”
She nodded her head, satisfied. How could a man who talked as though he had about seven advanced degrees be so dim about what was under his nose? “I have a theory about order and chaos.”
“Chaos theory? Like a physicist?”
Laughter trilled out of her. “No, silly. A theory about people. I think that order always looks for chaos and chaos responds to order. It’s a basic theory of opposites attracting. Of course!” She tapped her nails on the shiny mahogany table between them. “I had it all wrong. Deborah won’t be put off by your becoming disorderly. It will give her a purpose to try to fix you.” She shook her head. “It’s so simple. I’ll set up a man as a client who will be such a mess that she’ll be drawn to straighten him out.” She chuckled.
“But I’m neat and she fell in love with me.”
Chloe looked at him for a long moment. “Let me tell you another of my theories. Sometimes what we think we want and what we really want are two different things.”
His expression told her that he thought his degrees—and something about his scholarly demeanor suggested he had several—and his work gave him a superior knowledge of human relationships. But there was a ping! under her breastbone as she’d related her thought-up-on-the-spot theory that told her she was on to something.
Jordan had originally been attracted to Deborah’s neatness and order, but he’d been wooed away by a woman who lived in a world of paint splotches and drop cloths. She’d never known an artist—and she’d not only briefly been a painter herself, but she’d modeled for two of London’s hottest artists—who was a neatnik.
Perhaps Deborah also needed someone messy and chaotic to balance out her tidy tendencies and give her a purpose.
“If you can’t change, we’ll simply have to find someone else for Deborah to fall in love with.”
His eyes widened slightly. It was the most animated expression she’d yet seen on him. “You think that’s possible?”
Ah, yes, the male ego was no different here than at home. Instead of snorting and blurting, Are you joking? She was stupid enough to fall in love with you, wasn’t she? she reminded herself that she was a businesswoman and this man was obviously in a position to pay for her services. So, she gave him her best Top Texas Businesswoman smile and said, “It won’t be easy, of course, but try to remember that my team are professionals.”
“You have a team?”
“Of course.” She did, if she counted the receptionist she had yet to hire, and the operatives she could see she was going to need. She couldn’t break up all the relationships herself; she simply didn’t have the time or energy. Yet another job she’d have to add to her expanding to-do list. Hire more staff she couldn’t afford. Oh, well. You had to invest in your business if you believed in it. She’d read that in a business magazine she’d picked up along with the latest copy of Vogue.
“When do you think you could, um, get this done?”
“Do you want the breakup to happen before the television program or after?”
“Oh, gee. Before, I guess. It seems more fair.”
Personally, Chloe thought it was brutally unfair to break a woman’s heart right before she had her fifteen minutes of fame on telly. Who wanted to appear on millions of television screens with heavy eyes and a red nose? However, since she was quite happy to pocket her fee earlier rather than later, she let him decide on the timing.
“Right. The television appearance is in two weeks, so I’ll have to get started right away. Now, about my fees.”
He looked a bit shocked at the price, but Chloe had spent too many years shopping on Oxford and Bond Streets not to know that a marked-down item had no appeal. If you wanted top quality and hot fashion, you paid top price.
She fully intended this breakup to be both top quality and very fashionable.
She leaned forward and touched the tasteful blue cover of the book he’d brought along. “So,
this is the book you’ll be shilling?” she said, pointing to the cover of Perfect Communication, Perfect Love.
Perfect load of shit.
“That’s the book we’ll be talking about, yes.”
“Excellent. I’ll give it a read.” At his look of surprise she said, “It might give me some ideas about Deborah.”
“Right. Yes. Of course.” His forehead creased in concern. “You will run everything by me before you act.”
“Of course I will. Don’t worry.”
“All right.” He drew out a checkbook and wrote the check for half the amount she’d specified. She tucked it into the book as a bookmark, and held out her hand to say good-bye.
Now all she had to do was find an attractive, disorganized man for a woman she’d never met to fall in love with so she’d then dump her partner.
Within two weeks.
Chapter 8
Stephanie sat at her teller’s station feeling the minutes drag across eternity like snails across a parched highway. Surely the clock was stuck. It couldn’t be only two minutes since she’d last calculated that she had one hour and fifty-three minutes before her lunch break. Now she had one hour and fifty-one.
Her head was aching and her eyes felt dry. She hadn’t slept well; in fact, mostly she hadn’t slept at all.
Her pro and con list was folded neatly in her purse and she longed to leave her post to go and read it one more time, just to reassure herself that Derek was solidly winning the pro and con game.
“Next, please,” she said, as an older woman hovered uncertainly in the line. Waiting to be invited to visit the teller.
She manually deposited the pension check that could be electronically deposited into the woman’s account. However, like many older customers, Mrs. Arles didn’t trust the paperless system. She liked to receive her check, walk it down to the bank, and have her passbook updated. She withdrew one hundred dollars and Stephanie counted out five twenties by rote.
“Thank you, dear,” the older woman said.
“You’re welcome. Have a great day.”
One hour and forty-nine minutes.
“Next, plea—” She never finished the word, since her tongue seemed to swell big enough to strangle her when the motorcycle guy she’d never imagined seeing again strolled up to her with that cocky walk of his. The gleaming black helmet brushed his thigh.
She swallowed. Gave him her most blank stare. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, you can.” He let the words hang there for a moment, a moment that stretched. She noticed that his nose had a bump in it where it had obviously been broken. There was a scar bisecting one of his eyebrows, and another beside his mouth, narrow, like an extra smile line.
His mouth was tough-guy firm but his lips looked soft. Perfect for kissing. All that she noticed while he settled in on his side of the counter as though he planned to stay all day. “I’d like to take out some cash.” He handed over a bright blue debit card.
“You could use the banking machines over there,” she said, pointing to the bank of instant tellers.
“I know. Truth is, I kind of like the personal touch.” He emphasized the last two words so that they stroked her skin. Her gaze flew to his and she found herself once more lured by the darkness of his eyes, by the wildness she saw within them. His gaze dropped slowly and deliberately to her chest. “Stephanie,” he said, reading off her brass colored badge. In his mouth, her name sounded like an endearment.
Her breath jerked in once. “Fine. I’ll need to see some ID.”
“I don’t need ID when I use the banking machine.”
“That’s right. Because you have a PIN number. If you want to take cash out from a teller, we need photo ID.”
He seemed reluctant, and for a moment she thought he was going to turn away and quit harassing her, but then he dug into his pocket and pulled out a black leather folder. He flipped it open and a wave of heat flashed over her, quickly followed by its icy opposite.
“You’re a cop?” she said, her voice breathless and reedy.
“Yes, ma’am. I am.”
She thought of how he’d watched her the other day at the department store, how he’d taunted her as his eyes followed her everywhere she went, knowing she’d slipped that watch into her bag. She’d been so smug, felt so sure of herself. What if she’d walked out of that store? She’d have ruined everything. Everything.
She gave him a withdrawal slip to sign and found her hands were shaking. “What are you doing here?” she whispered urgently.
“Taking out some cash.”
“No. I mean at this branch.” She licked dry lips. “I mean… I’ve never seen you in here before.”
“Let’s just say I’m keeping an eye on the place. The way robbery is on the rise, you can’t be too careful.”
Her lips were rubber. No, too rigid for rubber. Molded plastic, as she tried to smile so it felt false and stuck and awful.
She counted out the money and then was so stressed that she lost track, something she never did, and had to start over.
When she passed him his cash, he pushed the wad into a worn-looking brown leather wallet. “Thanks. I’ll see you around.” The way he glanced at her felt menacing, as though he were planning to watch her like a hawk until she committed a crime.
By the time her lunch break arrived, she was ready to grab her bag, run for the nearest Greyhound, and head out of town. She wouldn’t even care where. She’d get on the first bus and ride it as far as it could take her. The burning itch in her stomach was acute, her skin felt hot and too tight for her body.
What if he reported her to the bank’s brass? What if he told them what he’d seen her do? Oh, God. He was a cop. Rafael Escobar. She’d read his name on his badge, knew his badge number since it was emblazoned on the backs of her eyelids when she closed her eyes.
Sure, he hadn’t seen her shoplift, because he’d stopped her in time. But one whiff of thievery in the bank—one hint of trouble—and she’d lose her job. All he had to do was snoop into her juvie record. It was supposed to be sealed but she had a feeling that this guy would know how to get whatever information he wanted. Derek knew nothing about her past troubles or her secrets. She’d let him believe she was exactly the person she tried to pretend she was.
She was meeting Derek for lunch today. Since he’d decided they needed to save for the wedding, he’d decreed they couldn’t waste money on things like lunch out, which she supposed was how they’d come to get re-engaged at a shopping mall food court. That was as close as she was going to get to four-star restaurants for a while.
They were meeting on the corner and walking down by the river to eat their lunch. It was all very romantic, she supposed, unless you were the one making the sandwiches at six thirty in the morning.
She walked quickly, her heels tap-tap-tapping as she walked mindlessly up Congress. Around her the lunch hour crowds milled, spilling out of big bank buildings, telecom towers, insurance offices. She ought to blend in, but she felt as though she stuck out, as though she were wearing a neon sign around her neck that read Thief.
He knew where she worked. Was going to keep an eye on her. Her hand rose to her chest and she realized she was walking so fast she was getting winded. Or maybe she was having a panic attack. Slow down, she told herself. Breathe.
Even if he didn’t tell the management at the bank, he’d know. He’d always suspect. What if there was a robbery? He’d arrest her first, ask questions later.
The irony had her close to laughing in a nonfunny, mostly hysterical way. She’d pegged him as a lawbreaker himself, not a cop.
Derek was waiting on the corner, as they’d arranged. He kissed her and took her arm, then launched into a story about a customer and a big diamond purchase. She was glad he hadn’t noticed that she was upset, but it would have been nice if he’d asked if she was okay. Her heart was still banging away and her breathing was far from normal.
They walked past a homeless guy with no legs sitting on an old s
leeping bag. He had a harmonica beside him, but he wasn’t playing it. An old black Lab curled at his side. When Derek took a coin out of his pocket and tossed it into the guy’s hat, she was astonished. “I’ve never seen you give money to street people before.”
“It was an old golf token from the driving range. I found it in my pocket and needed to get rid of it.”
“So you gave it to a homeless guy? Doesn’t he have enough problems?”
“Hey, I work hard for my money. He should get off his ass and get a job.”
“He has no legs,” she whispered in a furious undertone.
“Cry me a river.”
She slipped a hand down the strap of her purse. She wanted to grab some money and run back and drop it in the guy’s hat. She wished she had the courage to defy Derek, but then he’d be angry and she really needed him in a good mood today.
They found a nice spot on the riverfront. It was hot, but there was shade under the trees. She laid out the blanket she’d packed, and pulled out sandwiches, cookies, juice, and apples.
“What kind of cookies?”
“Oatmeal raisin.”
“I like chocolate chip better.” She bit her lip and didn’t blurt out that she’d got up extra early to bake them. And a thank-you would have been nice.
She let him get most of his ham sandwich eaten and listened to another work story. This one was about his ambitions, how he was planning to be store manager by Christmas. Which might mean moving.
It was the opening she was looking for.
“I’m thinking of making a change, myself.”
He glanced at her. “What kind of change?”
“I’m not very challenged in my job. I was thinking of looking for something else. Maybe in another field.”
He glanced at her, his eyes hardening. “We’ve been through this,” he said, speaking slowly as though she were too stupid to keep up with normally paced speech. “I showed you the calculations on my home accounting program. You can’t screw around anymore, Stephanie. We’re getting married. We need your money and your benefits. As soon as we’re hitched, we’ll get your checks deposited into my account.”