Drop Dead Gorgeous

by Jennifer Skully

  He didn’t put his arms around her. She rolled back to her side of the bed. “I’ll take my shower first if you want to lie in bed a little longer.”

  “All right.”

  Yep, she was destined for that ache.

  She’d set her clothes out the night before, jeans and a T-shirt being her only choices since she couldn’t stand another turtleneck. She climbed from the bed, made sure her nightshirt—which she’d put back on last night when T. Larry donned his briefs—covered her butt, and gathered her apparel.

  “Madison.”

  She whirled, ready to throw her baggage to the floor and jump back into bed. “Hmm?”

  “Why did you have a box of condoms in your drawer?”

  Oh. She’d noticed his hesitation last night. “I bought them for you. Just in case.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Are you mad?” Now he could yell about the dream, too.

  “No.”

  She should go. This was sort of humiliating. “Are you sorry about last night?”

  “No.”

  Then what? “Do you want to tell me what you’re feeling?” Fat chance. He was a man. Men never said what they were feeling.

  “Not right now.”

  She gathered her bundle close to her chest, but the ache didn’t stop. She wanted to tell him she loved him, wanted to ask if he might give up his plans and love her. For the first time in her life, she didn’t say a thing that was on her mind.

  “I’ll take my shower then. Do you want some breakfast?”

  “I have some fruit at work.” Then a second later, “Thanks.”

  The whole scene was beyond mere humiliation. Making love was supposed to bring two people together. Instead, she couldn’t blurt out one teeny-tiny feeling. She padded down the hall to the bathroom and left him alone.

  Maybe the T stood for Temporary. Temporary Larry, temporary in her life.

  Loving him wasn’t supposed to hurt like this.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  LAURENCE HAD JUST pulled into the parking garage after the longest, quietest forty-five minutes he’d ever spent in Madison’s company when she broke her silence.

  “All right, I’m done.”

  His usual parking space was empty, waiting for him. “Done? With what?” Him?

  “Pouting.”

  “Pouting?”

  “T. Larry, why are you repeating everything I say?”

  “I’m trying to understand.” He’d never seen her pout. He’d assumed her silence meant she was hurt because he hadn’t declared his undying love nor encouraged her to declare hers. Pouting, on the other hand, was an emotion that didn’t run deep.

  “It’s unbecoming. So I’m done. We can get back to normal.”

  “Normal?” The night before they’d experienced the most incredible sex of their lives, and now she wanted normal? Maybe the “they” was the problem. He’d experienced the most incredible sex of his life. He didn’t have a clue about Madison.

  “Stop that.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Repeating what I say,” she almost shouted.

  “I think we should talk about last night.”

  “I think we shouldn’t.” She opened her door, stepped out, then closed it on him.

  Then he understood. He’d blown it that morning, when he’d given her monosyllabic answers, terrified if he allowed anything else, he’d humiliate himself by telling her exactly how he felt.

  He caught up with her at the elevators in their building. Normal. If normal was what she wanted, that’s what she’d get.

  They faced the elevator doors. The light dinged, the doors opened. He held them as she boarded, then pushed the button.

  Their reflections in the silver door screeched at him. She barely reached his shoulder, especially without her usual high heels. In the wavy image, she was all glorious red hair, he was all bald head and seriousness. What the hell had he been thinking last night? That was the problem, he hadn’t been doing any thinking at all. His male member had been doing it all.

  Just then, Madison slipped her hand in his, tugged on his fingers until his gaze met hers in the silvered door.

  “You know, T. Larry, no matter what else happens after this, I want you to know last night was the best night of my life.”

  The doors whooshed open, she dropped his hand, graced him with a killer smile and left him to make his own way back down to the gym on the eleventh floor.

  She couldn’t see it, but an answering smile curved his lips. While everything certainly wasn’t right with the world, Laurence was sure it wasn’t all completely wrong, either. Madison had said she loved his bald head.

  LAURENCE FOUND HER an hour later on her hands and knees under her desk making sniffing noises. The sight of her delectable rump in the air, encased in tight jeans, gave him heart palpitations.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Don’t swear at me,” came from beneath the desk. She backed out, sat on her haunches and stared at him. “Can’t you smell it?”

  He sniffed just as she had. He hadn’t noticed a thing, assailed as he was by prurient images of Madison on all fours. But now that she mentioned it…“What is that odor?”

  She plopped her hands down on her thighs. “I smelled it yesterday, but it’s way worse today. I checked the trash cans and behind the filing cabinet. I even threw away Richard’s flowers.”

  Good riddance. “It smells like something died in here. Call Maintenance. Maybe there’s a mouse in the air-conditioning.”

  “It’s only around my desk. I checked the other cubes and the copy room.”

  Bill walked by behind Laurence. “New cologne, Madison?”

  She stuck her tongue out at him.

  “That was rude.” Laurence had never heard Bill say anything so downright mean to Madison. The place was going crazy. Had the moon been full last night? That would explain a lot. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He’s miffed because I spilled coffee on his shirt yesterday.” Madison climbed to her feet and dusted off her hands.

  “Didn’t you tell him it was an accident?”

  “It wasn’t.”

  He was afraid to ask. “Call Maintenance.”

  She did, amidst a chorus of gags and gasps as his crew began to arrive. It was pretty bad. Definitely a mouse. Or a lost and forgotten bit of Madison’s meat loaf.

  Before the words could leave his mouth, Laurence backed into his office and closed the door. He dropped his briefcase on the desk, hung his jacket, then sat in his chair. A myriad of letters needed signing, client documents needed reviewing, and there were checks to be authorized. He ignored them all, thinking instead about the smoothness of Madison’s skin.

  He was definitely a basket case.

  The door opened behind him. Jeremiah; he recognized the throat clearing. Laurence turned slowly in his chair.

  Jeremiah Carp’s face had grown to resemble his name the way some people grow to resemble their dogs. His cheeks looked puffed up with air, and his lips seemed to be in a perpetual pucker.

  Laurence folded his hands in his lap to hide his state of arousal. “What can I do for you, Jeremiah?”

  “It’s about that smell.”

  “Why are you whispering?”

  Jeremiah shrugged, then raised his voice. “I’m not sure.” Entering, he closed the door behind him.

  “You were saying?” Laurence prompted.

  “The smell. Ryman has a client coming in this afternoon, and he’ll pitch a fit if…” Jeremiah’s voice trailed off, and he held his hands up in defeat or acceptance.

  “We’ll have the mess cleaned up by noon. Besides, Ryman can walk his client around the other side of the cubicles. The distance to his office is the same.”

  “Actually, he’s bringing the client to see you.”

  Laurence groaned. “Not Stephen Tortellini.” He snapped his mouth shut, realizing belatedly he’d used a Madison nickname.

  “Tortelli,” Jeremiah
corrected. “And uh…yes, he’s bringing him to see you.” Jeremiah didn’t meet his eyes.

  “When did you stop backing me on this Tortellini thing?” Laurence already knew. Ryman had gotten to Jeremiah. The man was a pushover, an excellent accountant, but a pushover nonetheless.

  “You know Ryman.”

  “You were the one who said any man who wore a Rolex watch, drove a new Porsche Boxster and had just purchased a home in Saratoga couldn’t be making less than a hundred thousand a year the way Tortellini claims.” Laurence would have given his eyeteeth to live in that quiet little suburb. But he couldn’t afford it, and he had brought in over a hundred K last year.

  Jeremiah spread his hands and waffled. “Well, on the face of it, I suppose it is a bit suspicious.”

  “But you want me to handle Ryman.”

  Jeremiah puffed his cheeks like a blowfish, then smiled in an almost boyish fashion. “Yes,” he said as he darted for the door, exited, then leaned back in for a parting shot. “Right after you get rid of the smell.”

  The situation was becoming farcical.

  The phone rang. He let it go four times before he realized Madison wasn’t going to pick it up for him.

  “Hobbs here.”

  “I’m still waiting for an answer.” The slightly stuffy tones of Harry Dump.

  “My seventy-two hours aren’t up.”

  “You just want time to put pressure on Miss Hartman.”

  He raised a brow though no one would notice. “Yes. You’re exactly right. And I think she’s caving, Dump.” He was sure to give the name its phonetic pronunciation.

  “I won’t put up with any shenanigans, Hobbs.”

  “So sue me.”

  He rammed the receiver back in its cradle, hoping the noise would split the man’s eardrums. Damn, that felt good. He should have been worried about Madison’s reputation, about his position in the firm.

  Primarily, he felt like a warrior in battle. He was going to win. Ryman would drop that damn client like a hot potato. Harriet would drop her suit. And Madison…

  What did he want from Madison?

  STAN THE MAN—Madison wasn’t sure of his last name—stretched on his ladder, screwing the air-conditioning plate back in place, his plumber’s crack staring her in the face.

  “I really don’t think there’s anything up there, Madison. You’d smell it all over the office, maybe even the whole building, if something died up there.”

  “I’ve looked everywhere down here. It has to be up there.”

  Stan climbed down, hitched his pants up as far as they would go, scratched two inches short of his privates and took a deep, considering breath. “Did you check out your desk?”

  “How could a mouse have gotten in my desk?”

  “They’re sneaky little bastards.”

  “Stan,” she warned.

  He gave her a pudgy grin. “Sneaky little sons-a-bitches?”

  “That’s even worse. I think.”

  He erased his smile. “All right. The ‘little darlings’ can get into anything. Open your drawers.”

  She wanted to laugh, but then she’d have to explain the image to Stan. So she did as he asked while he watched over her shoulder, sniffing close to her ear.

  “See, I told you there isn’t anything in there.”

  He did some more sniffing and snuffling, his nose wrinkling. Shuffling across the carpet, he bent at the waist. Madison had the awful thought that he looked and sounded a bit like a pig.

  “It’s over here somewhere,” Stan pointed, “and closer to the floor. What about that file cabinet?”

  “I don’t usually go into the bottom drawer. It’s just got some old diskettes and stuff.” Plus it was her secret hideaway for T. Larry’s body parts, when she had a mind to tell people she’d cut him up with her chain saw.

  Stan, still leaning over and shocking her with an enormous amount of his crack, put one hand on his knee and slid the drawer open with the other. The smell intensified.

  “Ewwwwe.” Madison put her hand over her nose and mouth.

  “Jesus H. Christ.”

  “What for God’s sake is that?” Voices punctuated Stan’s.

  “I’m gonna puke.”

  She didn’t have to turn to know it was Mike, Anthony and Bill. They stood at her cubicle opening like a grazing herd.

  Seemingly undisturbed by his audience, Stan rummaged around in the contents of the drawer. “You know what’s in that box?”

  “What box?” She didn’t want to get close enough to see.

  “The one that says ‘Happy Birthday, Madison’ on it.”

  A present? Hidden in her drawer? Ooh, how fun. She stepped forward, stopped. “That’s not what stinks, is it?”

  Hands on both knees, Stan looked over his shoulder. “Don’t know. But one of us has to open it. I just didn’t want to spoil your birthday surprise.”

  “Smells like it’s already spoiled,” quipped one of the herd.

  Someone else snickered. A crowd was gathering. Even Harriet had come out to play. Standing next to the wall, ZZ Top’s gaze moved from Harriet to Madison and back over the massed heads.

  As a matter of pride and bravado, Madison took the box. Multicolored balloon paper wrapped what seemed to be a shoe box. Written in each of the balloons on top, in different-colored inks, “Happy Birthday, Madison” shouted at her.

  The stench was everywhere now, clinging to her nostrils, making it impossible to tell the origin. Certainly not this festive shoe box. She slid a fingernail along the underside of the lid, slicing the paper neatly.

  “Don’t you need to blow out a candle before you open your present?” Bill needling her.

  “That’s before you cut the cake.”

  “Smells like someone cut the cheese.” Anthony? Mike? She couldn’t tell.

  Fear suddenly wet her palms. Something terrible lay in wait for her. Maybe it was the tire slashings, the calls, her clothes, everything catching up with her; her hands started to shake.

  “You want I should open it for you, Madison?”

  Stan. What a man. She wished T. Larry would come out of his office and rescue her. But it was best not to admit weakness when you were actually freaking out. “I can do it.”

  She set the box down on the desk because she couldn’t stand to hold the present against her while she opened it. Slicing through the paper the rest of the way, she slipped a finger beneath the lid, hesitating.

  “Come on, Madison, we can’t stand the suspense.” Laughter.

  She wondered if they knew how scared she was.

  She gave it a flip, sent the lid tumbling and screamed. Stumbling back, she tripped over her chair, shooting it into Stan’s knees. Falling hard on her butt, her head whacked her bookcase, and this time she saw stars for a very different reason.

  They were on her, squirming, writhing maggots, hundreds of them, swarming right out of the box, streaming over her legs and her arms, crawling up her nose. Ohmygod. Ohmygod.

  Voices. All around her. “Jesus, it’s a dead rat.”

  “Gross.”

  “How long’s it been there?”

  “Must have been days.”

  “Christ, who would put something like that in her drawer?”

  “Madison, are you all right?” ZZ Top crouched at her side, touching her arm. She almost started screaming again, but she did at least realize the maggots weren’t actually crawling on her.

  “What’s going on?” T. Larry. Someone must have pointed at the box, because he said, “Get it the freaking hell out of here.”

  “You better call 911.” ZZ’s voice rumbled in her ear. “I think she hurt her head when she fell.”

  Madison sat up. “I’m fine.” Except that she had the silly urge to throw herself into T. Larry’s arms no matter who was watching. “I hit the books, not the case itself.” Which was a lie, but she wasn’t going to any hospital and she wasn’t letting any 911 people touch her. No way. They probably dealt with maggoty dead people all the t
ime. “Make them go away, T. Larry.”

  He squatted beside her, touched the back of her head and knew exactly what she meant. “Go back to your desks,” he barked. “Fun’s over.” Then, when only Stan and ZZ remained, he said in a quieter voice to her, “You’ve got a bit of a bump.”

  “It just scared me, and I fell.”

  Something lit his eyes, she couldn’t tell what. “What happened?”

  “Stan found it in the file drawer. It said Happy Birthday.”

  He glanced at the discarded paper. “And you had to open it.”

  “They were all watching. I couldn’t wimp out.”

  “Of course not.” His hand stroking her arm now, he glanced at Stan by the desk. “Why don’t you take that into my office?”

  Nodding his thanks as the big man shuffled away, box in hand, T. Larry tapped ZZ on the knee. “Zach, call the police.” He rattled off the name and number of the detective handling Madison’s case. “Tell him we’ve got another incident.”

  “The police,” she squeaked.

  “That paper has your name written all over it. Someone put a dead rat in your drawer and waited for you to find it.”

  “I think it was a squirrel, sir,” ZZ said as the phone ostensibly rang in his ear.

  And it was covered with maggots. She hated maggots. She hated to think of them crawling all over her when she was dead. She wanted to be cremated, she’d told Ma. No maggots, no worms.

  They wrap you up in a clean white sheet and throw you down about six feet deep. The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out…

  Her brothers had taunted her with that little ditty for years. At least until she’d had her stroke. But she never forgot, never stopped being scared of the worms and the maggots.

  She whimpered. Who would do this? It couldn’t be someone she knew. Yet it could be any one of them. Richard who brought her flowers. Harriet, Richard, Mike, Anthony or Bill. Even ZZ. No. A voice inside her head screamed for her to stop. It had to be a stranger. That thought was far less scary. She would not accuse a single one of her friends.

  T. Larry wrapped her in his big strong arms. “It’s all right, baby.”

  ZZ Top murmured on the phone, but his eyes were wide as saucers taking in T. Larry’s tone and the grip he had on Madison.