by Lila Monroe
My brain struggled to recover from its lust-fueled short circuit, but before I could come up with an appropriate verbal reply, the doors started closing.
Grant’s face went stony again, and he backed out into the hall. “Well. Good to know.”
And then he turned and walked away, was gone before I could even respond.
The elevator continued on its way, and I stared out the window. Grief and anger battled inside me like wolves, but I felt something else win: determination.
I had lost Grant, but I still had Devlin Media Corp.
And I would do whatever I had to do to protect it.
31
Determination was well and good, but with all the emotions swirling around my head like autumn leaves, I didn’t have a clue where to start.
…that is, I didn’t have a clue where to start until I saw Portia trying to sneak out of the building.
See, people like Portia usually walk around like they own the place, striding directly wherever they want to go, eyes forward and chin thrust high like a warning to get the hell out of their way or they’ll mow you down.
But Portia was moving through the lobby…slowly. Positively dawdling as she stopped to gaze at the artwork, or flash a smile at an incoming employee—a few, probably those who knew her, actually stumbled in shock at the sight.
I’d been unable to shake the feeling that she was up to something before, and now that I was seeing this blatant telegraphing of ‘look at me, harmless and innocent, just stepping out of the office for no sinister purpose, I swear,’ my suspicions were cemented.
I dashed over to Kate, who was pretending to shuffle appointments but was really adding the final touches to a naughty nightie on an artist’s program. I grabbed her arm. “Hit Save and take a break, Katie, we have work to do.”
“I already took my break—” Kate protested, even as she frantically hit the Save button and closed the program.
“I’ll talk to your manager and have her sign off on another one, she owes me a favor, come on!” Portia was already out the door, and if she made it out of sight before we left—
Kate scribbled a note as I pulled her away from the desk, miming to her co-receptionist Kari to cover her.
“What the hell?” she asked as soon as we were out of the lobby and out of the earshot of anyone from work. “I mean, I like extra breaks, who doesn’t like extra breaks, they’re great and of course I’m always here to help you with anything you need, but Lacey, I am wearing heels, can we please slow down—”
“Not until she slows down,” I said, picking up my own pace as our quarry turned a corner and briefly disappeared behind the awning of an upscale jewelry boutique.
“Who?”
“Come on!”
We dashed around the corner, and I groaned. She was already a block ahead of us, and a huge group of tourists were in the way. Granted, they were blocking her view of us as well, but if she spotted us through the crowd she could lose us in a flash.
Kate craned her neck to see who I was trying to catch up to. “Portia? Why are we—”
“Keep your voice down,” I hissed, pulling her behind the cart of a very confused hot dog vendor, just in time to avoid Portia’s gaze as her head snapped backwards, owl-like, to scan the area behind her. “And I don’t know why. Not exactly. Not yet. But I will.”
“Well, that’s reassuring,” Kate said with an amount of sarcasm so great that new scientific instruments would have to be invented to measure it. “And when, exactly, are you expecting to get this info? Is it going to be before she catches us and fires me? I’m really hoping it’s before she catches us and fires me. You see, I have this hobby of eating, and my day job allows me to do that.”
“She’s up to something,” I insisted. “I know it.”
Keeping one eye on Portia and one hand on Kate’s arm, I pulled her along and quickly and quietly filled her in on Portia’s behavior during today’s meeting.
“And then I came downstairs and saw her pulling that sweet innocent Disney Princess bullshit like she was just casually wandering out the lobby looking for a fucking bluebird to sing with or something. Would Portia ever pull an act like that if she didn’t have something to hide?”
“A falcon or a vulture does seem more her style for a duet bird,” Kate said, and raised her hands defensively at my glare. “I’m agreeing with you! Just give me a second; I didn’t get out of bed this morning thinking I’d be in a Cagney and Lacey act!”
I rolled my eyes and then ducked behind a dumpster as Portia yet again whirled to survey the area around her. Yeah, not shady at all, Portia. Why don’t you just rent a giant billboard saying ‘I AM TOTALLY UP TO SOMETHING RIGHT NOW.’ You could add on blinking neon lights and it’d still be more subtle than the act she was putting on.
“What, reference too dated?” Kate asked from behind me. “Fine, I’ll be Watson and you’ll be Holmes. Just don’t go getting addicted to cocaine; I think any more excitement in my life and I’ll need to become a nun and enter a life of silent contemplation. Also, there is a banana peel in my hair right now and it is totally your fault.”
“Banana peels are in this season,” I said absentmindedly, watching Portia glance up and down the street. “Also, you do know that Sherlock Holmes is older than Cagney and Lacey, right? He is, like, literally the oldest imaginary detective.”
“Girl, Sherlock Holmes was a cheap ripoff of Edgar Allan Poe’s Auguste Dupin,” Kate said. “Just because you have this new ‘trailing suspects’ hobby that you did not tell me about, do not even try to outmatch me in the fictional detective department. Think of it as a professional courtesy, like how I don’t try to argue with you that James Bond is better than John Steed.”
“That’s not even debatable,” I said, turning around for just a second to argue this incredibly important point. “Can Bond pull off a bowler? No? End of discussion.”
“Yeah, but Bond had all the gadgets,” Kate said. “Like, he totally would have had a sweet invisible car we could have tailed Portia in, or cameras in our hairclips so we could still have this discussion and you wouldn’t miss Portia going into Rama like she is just now.”
“Wait, what?” I whirled back around. Shit, she was right.
I caught just a glimpse of the hem of Portia’s dress as she swept inside the restaurant on the arm of some older Wall-Street-looking guy. He was followed by a whole wolf pack of Wall-Street-looking guys, you know the kind I mean, well-made suits in classic cuts and conservative blacks, greys, and navy blues, like the slightest unorthodox angle or splash of bright pink might bring the Conformity Police down on them with batons and tear gas.
“Okay, yeah, the fishiness index just went off the charts. I’m going in.”
I rose, and Kate rose with me.
“Kate, no. You don’t need to come in with me and risk your job any further.”
“So you dragged me out to, what, watch the building to make sure it doesn’t walk away?” Kate said with a raised eyebrow. She made her eyes large and pleading. “Come on, you can’t just ditch me now after giving me all that lead-up!”
“Well, first of all, I’m not even sure I can get in without Grant here,” I said, tapping my foot and darting nervous looks at the front door of Rama. The longer I stayed out here, the more likely the employees would notice me lurking behind a dumpster, and that was definitely not conducive to the image of a well-off young lady who could pay for an upscale Thai dinner. Also, what if this was a feint, and Portia was sneaking out the back this very minute? “Second of all, the more of us there are, the more likely she’ll see us the second we walk through that door.”
“Didn’t you tell me last time that everybody was watching the front door?” Kate pointed out. “Places like this, they treat people-watching like a competitive sport. And if you’re right about Portia and she’s on edge, she’s definitely going to see you even if you go alone.”
I gritted my teeth, and then sighed. “You have a point.”
“I
always have a point,” Kate said. “That’s why you keep me around, despite my devastatingly distracting beauty. So what do we do now, Miss Marple?”
“Miss Marple didn’t trail people, Kate, she just sat still and gossiped and knit and listened to what people said and drew conclusions from her rich knowledge of the human psyche,” I said, unable to let this pass from a proclaimed expert on fictional detectives, despite the current high stakes in our real life detecting. “God, it’s like we never had seventeen sleepovers where I introduced you to the staples of classic British television.”
“Don’t remind me; I talked in a British accent for six weeks. My parents were thinking about having me committed. So, Insert-Lady-Detective-And-Or-Spy-Name-of-Choice here—”
“Peggy Carter.”
“So, Peggy Carter, what’s our next step?”
I thought for a second, and then I felt a wicked grin bloom on my face as I came across the perfect idea.
“We get sneaky.”
I fished my cell phone out of my purse and searched for the restaurant number. Grant had gone ahead and put it in after a few days into us living together, “so you aren’t perpetually asking me what it is when you get your inevitable cravings for mango sorbet.” I stifled the bittersweet pang that rose in my heart when I remembered that moment, remembered the softness in his eyes undercutting the dryness of his words.
“Rama front desk, how may I help you?” The brisk business-like voice of the receptionist called me back to reality.
I shot a grin at Kate and, twirling a lock of hair around my finger, put on my very best Valley Girl voice. “Um, hi, this is Kimberly? I’m the assistant to, like, Portia Smith? And oh my God this is totally random but she really really wanted to know when her South African diamond shipment came in here at the office? And I’m totally supposed to deliver the shipping manifest to your restaurant and she’ll totally kill me if I don’t get it there on time?”
Kate was holding her stomach trying to keep in the laughter. I shot her a warning look; background giggles would definitely give us away.
“I see,” the receptionist said slowly. “Well, we can certainly accommodate a delivery, if you would care to stop by—”
“Well, gosh, sure, thanks!” I bubbled like an out-of-control water cooler. “But it’s like, for her eyes only? And, like, the delivery boy has to know the name the reservation is under? And I can’t remember if it’s Smith or one of her business partners and OMG this is so embarrassing but I totally forgot their names? Like, one of them—” I cast my memory back to the sight of Portia entering Rama—“he’s like, older, bald, blue suit, kind of a hatchet chin? And another one, he’s younger, slicked back blonde hair, black suit, sort of, like, a button nose? And there’s about three other guys with them, basically dressed the same, like totally a clone army, you know?”
“Er…” I could hear the uncertainty in the receptionist’s voice. “We’re really not supposed to give out that kind of information, I’m sure you understand—”
“Oh my gosh, please, I’ll be like, totally indebted to you!” I pleaded, trying not to look at Kate, who was steadily losing it, hand clapped over her mouth as she writhed in laughter. “She’ll totally murder me with a slide rule or something if I don’t get this to her, and I really need this job!”
“I’m sorry, and I’d really love to help, but—” the receptionist began.
I had one card left, and no more options. “Please! It’s minimum wage, and my rent’s already late this month, and if I get fired I’ll have to bring my cat back to the animal shelter and move back in with my parents!”
I waited, mentally willing the receptionist to soften, while Kate shook with thankfully silent giggles.
“Oh, very well, as long as you check in with the maitre d’,” the receptionist caved. I heard the sound of flipping pages as she searched through the reservation book. “Ah, here it is. Party of five, under the name…James C. Brandt.”
“Oh, like, thanks so much! You’re a literal lifesaver.” I hung up and turned to Kate. “I need to borrow your phone.” I reached into her purse and took it.
Kate managed to stop laughing long enough to look confused. “What? Why? There’s a phone in your other hand, Lacey, you just used it!”
“I need to borrow your phone because you have a smart phone, and my phone still remembers the good old days where this entire valley was mastodon as far as the eye could see.” I typed ‘James C. Brandt’ into Google, and then swore at the bad news.
“That quick?” Kate asked. “Damn, your Google-fu is strong. So what now? Are these guys her coven or something? Do they drink the blood of the innocent? Are they planning to sacrifice babies at the full moon?”
“Worse,” I said grimly, and turned the phone around so that Kate could see. “These guys run a hedge fund, and they’ve tried to buy out the company before.” I swallowed, hard. “Portia is plotting a hostile takeover.”
I sat at the Codex Café across from Rama; Codex was the kind of place that had once been miles beyond my budget, but still seemed like a fast-food joint next to Rama. Kate and I had long since seen Portia and her cronies leave through the view from Codex’s front window, and half an hour ago Kate had left too, with her apologies.
But still I stayed, sipping another twenty dollar cappuccino served in a cup so tiny that it looked like it had been made for an American Girl doll. I had a lot to think over.
I stirred my cappuccino with a minuscule spoon, too twisted up inside to really taste and enjoy it. What should I do?
Hell, what could I do?
Grant clearly wanted me gone. He’d made that obvious. I’d tried to air my concerns about Portia with him, but he hadn’t been interested in my opinion. Were he and the company really worth the time, effort, and heartbreak it would take to communicate to him that there was real danger? Would I even be able to communicate that to him at all? Or at the end of all my attempts, would he still sneer and coolly dismiss me?
Maybe I should just seek out another job and get myself out of his sight. If Portia was attempting a hostile takeover, was it really my concern? After all, at the end of the day, what did I really owe Grant Devlin?
My eyes were drawn to a moment in the street—the jerky motion of a homeless man as he made his way down the road carrying a cardboard sign that said in black marker: WAR VET—OUT OF WORK—PLEASE HELP.
Living in the warm, temperate climate of the West Coast, you see a lot of homeless people, to the point where after awhile, you start to harden your heart just to keep from getting it broken every day. But something about the opulence of our surroundings made his dirty, ragged clothes and sad shuffle seem even more poignant than usual.
Then I saw the group of teenagers headed straight towards him, and my heart seized up. Were they going to beat him up? Call the cops on him? Should I call the cops on them—
I was frozen in indecision, my hand halfway to my cell phone in my purse, and then I saw something amazing.
Two of the teenagers reached into their pockets and pulled out money.
Over the man’s evident protests that they not give him so much, they stuffed it into his pockets. Another reached out to shake his hand, and the fourth offered him a military salute.
I tossed back the rest of my cappuccino in one gulp and blinked away the tears in my eyes.
There was still good in the world. And the bad that was in the world with it—that could be fought. A good company could fight it, by creating jobs, by fostering a supportive atmosphere, by using its profits to create or support political and social initiatives.
And as I thought about those teenagers and that homeless man, I knew what I had to do.
I hadn’t put in all this time and effort to watch Devlin Media Corp go down. A takeover meant jobs shipped overseas, mass unemployment. The company would be broken into parts and sucked dry for the enrichment of the people at the top, like a carcass ripped into pieces and feasted on by vultures. I couldn’t let that happen to all o
ur employees, to all those people who were still counting on me.
I stood to pay, and was momentarily distracted by the couple at the opposite end of the restaurant. Not that they were doing anything flashy—just the opposite. She was leaning back against his shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and his arm curved around her without a second thought. I felt a pang of loss in my heart, though it was a loss of something I’d never had. Not really.
Okay, I admit it. It wasn’t just the employees I was worried about. I couldn’t let this disaster of a takeover happen to Grant either. However much he had tried to hide it, I knew how much Devlin Media Corp meant to him. He had honored me by telling me so when we were together, and it was time to repay that trust.
I shoved a handful of bills into the grip of the surprised waitress—I was over-paying her by about 100%, but I didn’t have time to calculate exact tips—and filled with resolve, grabbed my keys and marched to the spot I had parked my car this morning. I had things to do, places to be.
Before I knew it, I was hammering my fist on Grant Devlin’s door.
32
And before I knew it, the door was swinging open—revealing Grant Devlin in nothing but a pair of black boxers.
Damn. My eyes involuntarily traveled the length of his body, ripped and tanned and glistening with sweat as if he had just been working out, or maybe tossing and turning in bed, alone or with company. Those boxers clung to his hips with just a tantalizing bit of give, the light dusting of hair thinning to just a shadow above the elastic band. He was close enough that I could have just reached out and—
His eyes narrowed as if he could read my thoughts, and he ran a hand through his ruffled brown hair as if to draw my attention to its tousled state, and further fire my jealousy.
I felt myself go weak at the knees just looking at him. Oh, that bastard. How could he still be so sexy to me after everything he had put me through?