Drop Dead Gorgeous

by Jennifer Skully

  The woman’s lips slapped shut, then moved in a whisper. “Harriet said you’d been fired.”

  “Harriet?” T. Larry had told Harriet? Of all people? Well, of course, he had. Harriet’s lawsuit still hung over their heads. There’d obviously been another showdown, and he’d tried the trump card again. Despite what had happened when he’d used it before.

  T. Larry’s door was closed. The halls were empty, but the incessant buzz of whispers filled the air. Bill turned a corner, stopped, then smiled maliciously. “Here to get your stuff?”

  She didn’t let him faze her. Perky, remember perky. “Bill, that smile isn’t very nice. It suggests you want me to leave.”

  He sidled closer as she bounced into her cubicle, setting her purse on her desk.

  “I do want you to leave.”

  She raised one brow.

  “Now I can ask you out.”

  Goodness. She’d thought all his innuendos were a big puff of air. “Why didn’t you ask before?”

  “I couldn’t, not with T. Larry breathing down my neck.”

  She tipped her head to one side and looked over his shoulder. “He’s still breathing down your neck.”

  Bill turned and found T. Larry less than an arm’s length behind. T. Larry was breathing fire. Madison smiled. Maybe he wouldn’t be too terribly hard to convince on the subject of how right they were for each other.

  Piercing eyes glued to Bill’s deeply reddened face, T. Larry barked at her, “I thought you were fired.”

  The whispers died an instant death. Heads popped out of cubicle openings and over walls to stare.

  All right, so it wasn’t going to be that easy, especially with an audience. “I thought you were kidding.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  His glower still flayed the flesh from poor Bill’s cheeks. “But since you’re here, find Ryman and send him to my office.”

  She smiled prettily. “Say please.”

  He growled. “Please.” Then he walked back into his office and closed the door.

  She couldn’t gauge a thing by that reaction. There was also something in the way he said Ryman Alta’s name. Almost as if he couldn’t restrain his anger, maybe even hated his senior partner.

  With Bill’s shuffling, cowed footsteps receding down the corridor, she paged Ryman and asked politely if he could spare a moment to see T. Larry in his office. Ryman grunted. Madison hung up and made her way to the copy-coffee room for her long overdue first cup of the day.

  “Harriet.”

  The other girl stood at the counter stirring creamer into her coffee, her ankles quite lovely as they extended out of her attractive pumps, her navy dress chic as the dickens.

  “I love your dress.” Madison steeled herself for a caustic retort.

  “Do you really?” Harriet’s brow furrowed with concern, not anger, not malice.

  Madison nodded in answer.

  “Thanks.”

  Noise drifted in from the corridor, shoes on carpet, the hiss of voices not quite able to restrain themselves. Madison did her best to ignore them.

  “Is it new?” The words were innocent, yet, not wanting to spook a skittish Harriet, Madison searched carefully for each one.

  “Yes.”

  Oookay. Now what? She had no idea what to say to this seemingly new Harriet in front of her. So she rinsed her cup, dried it with a paper towel, poured a full mug, with Harriet all the while stirring and stirring at the counter beside her.

  Poor Harriet. This must be what it felt like always expecting the other shoe to drop. “New shoes? They’re pretty.”

  Harriet’s lips curved in a shy smile. “Thanks for noticing.”

  Madison almost knocked her coffee cup off the counter.

  This was getting frightening. Madison was used to placating, defending, smoothing over and making allowances. This…this was something completely different. “Harriet, is something wrong?”

  She waited for the explosion. Of course, Harriet would come back with, “Why does everyone think there’s something wrong if I smile or buy a new dress or new shoes or act like I’m a nice person instead of a bitch.”

  Harriet said nothing of the kind. “I’m sorry you got fired.”

  Madison felt herself the closest she’d been to having a stroke since she was fifteen years old. Harriet apologizing? Still a little gun-shy, Madison told herself to give Harriet the benefit of the doubt. Through Richard, she had learned that not all people deserved it, but she’d give it to Harriet this one last time.

  “I’ll try to talk him out of it, Harriet.”

  “I told him I thought he was wrong.”

  Little stars floated in front of Madison’s eyes. Goodness. A ring of sincerity softened Harriet’s usually stinging tone.

  “But Harriet…” She didn’t know what to say to that.

  “I know you think I hate you after I…well, after everything. But I don’t. I’m sorry I named you in the suit. I told T. Larry I’d apologize to you. I also told him I’ve dropped the suit altogether.”

  She was feeling quite faint now. There was a buzzing in her ears. Or that could have come from the excited eavesdroppers just beyond the doorjamb. She kept her back to the sounds. “You dropped the suit? Why?”

  Still, this Harriet, the one she was sure she’d never met before, didn’t explode. Her eyes flicked beyond Madison’s shoulder, then she said, “Because it wasn’t fair to bring it in the first place.”

  A hush fell outside in the hall, probably the whole darn building. Madison held her breath, thought about hugging Harriet, but just as quickly decided that was going a bit too far. She did accept the earnestness shining on Harriet’s cheeks.

  “Thank you, Harriet. From all of us.”

  A commotion started behind her, first a couple of murmurs, feet shuffling, clothes brushing, shoes planted on the linoleum. Madison didn’t have to have a sixth sense to know ZZ Top had stepped forward. The shine on Harriet’s cheek moved to her eyes.

  Madison had the foresight to step to her left and turn around before she risked being trampled. ZZ stood his ground in the doorway. Behind him stood Mike, Anthony and Bill, and behind them, a sea of mesmerized faces.

  “Harriet dropped the suit, ZZ.”

  “I heard,” he answered Madison, his look all for Harriet. Madison’s little matchmaker heart went all gooey.

  “Step away from your coffee, Harriet,” he told her.

  She did.

  “Put down the spoon.”

  She did that, too. Then ZZ Top moved like a whirlwind, took her face in his hands and gave her such a kiss. Openmouthed, slippery-tongued, lips just eating her up.

  Madison’s bones melted. T. Larry, oh T. Larry, where was he when she needed him?

  The kiss finally ended. They all breathed again, some quite heavily, Madison was sure. ZZ, however, wasn’t done. He took Harriet’s hand in his, turned with her to the crowd filling the doorway and said with considerable pride, “Harriet and I are going to the movies tonight.”

  Harriet didn’t say a word, but Madison was sure moisture gleamed in her eyes.

  ZZ raised her knuckles to his mouth, brushed his lips across them and asked, “What do you want to see, sweetheart?”

  “I’m gonna puke.”

  “He’s lost his fricking mind.”

  “Do I even know him anymore?”

  “I mean it, I think I’m gonna throw up.”

  Of course, those were male voices. But no one actually dared malign Harriet herself. From the females came a collective sigh.

  Yet Zachary Zenker wasn’t done. His gaze once again flashing across the assemblage like a flamethrower, he dared anyone to make another disparaging comment. A tall specimen already, ZZ suddenly seemed taller. He stood straighter. Why, ZZ Top fairly exuded manly presence.

  He caught Madison’s eye, then winked, as if he felt his own presence oozing, or he’d read her thoughts. Then, with an adoring gaze on Harriet, he said, “One last thing. Harriet, we’re taking the re
st of the day off.” Eyes darting to her face he added, “Shall we go to your place or mine?”

  Harriet started to cry.

  Madison did, too.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  LAURENCE STARED the pipsqueak down. “Cat got your tongue, Ryman? I asked how Daily here knew that my partnership was at stake. I surmise you can answer that question.”

  Ryman sputtered, then finally found his voice. “I don’t like your tone, boy. And you missed that meeting with Stephen Tortelli last week.”

  “Screw the meeting, Ryman. And I don’t like your methods. You hired him to spy on me, didn’t you?” He pointed at Dilly-Dally who wore a large smile and sat comfortably on the leather sofa, a deliberate reminder of what had taken place there, Laurence was sure.

  He wasn’t beaten, even if Ryman planned the whole thing, even if Dilly-Dally told the world what Laurence the boss had done with his secretary. He wasn’t ashamed of it. He was only ashamed that he’d exposed her.

  As the tall, thin man had tried to intimidate him, demanding an even larger sum and threatening his job as well as Madison’s reputation, the Madison-induced fog had lifted from Laurence’s brain. He’d seen the light.

  “Harriet drops the suit, but Mr. Daily here doesn’t go away. No, he’s back. And this time he threatens to go to you with his story. Not Jeremiah. But you.” Laurence stabbed a finger an inch from Ryman’s skinny chest. The man shrank away.

  “What are you talking about? I don’t even know this man.” He avoided William Daily’s eyes.

  Dilly-Dally said nothing, but the corner of one lip lifted. He obviously enjoyed seeing Ryman on the receiving end, which made Laurence wonder about the tone of their dealings.

  None of that mattered. His, or rather Madison’s, predicament did. He had one card to play. “This was never about Harriet’s suit or my moral conduct. This is all about Tortelli, isn’t it?”

  “What could Tortelli possibly have to do with Harriet’s suit?” Smoothly, Ryman failed to incriminate himself by betraying that he knew even an inkling of what Laurence meant.

  “You want me out so you can bring in more clients like Tortelli. Jeremiah wouldn’t stop you, but you know I won’t stand for your lack of ethics.”

  Ryman erupted. “What do you know about ethics? All you’ve done is keep your eye glued to a certain person’s rear end, while failing to keep the firm’s best interests at heart.”

  The emphasis on the hated word didn’t pass Laurence’s notice. He steeled himself against reacting. “Best interests doesn’t mean simply bringing in more money.”

  “You’re an accountant, for God’s sake. That statement is sacrilege.”

  Dilly-Dally stifled a sound suspiciously like laughter. Ryman was a fool. He’d probably given the man cash up front for his part in the whole scheme. Now Daily could simply sit back to watch the fireworks. And laugh.

  “I won’t agree to sign Tortelli as a client.”

  Ryman’s gaze flicked to Dilly-Dally on the sofa. Then he threw caution to the winds. “I have a witness to your immoral behavior taking place right here in this room.” He flung his arm out. “On that very couch upon which that witness sits.”

  Laurence crossed his arms over his chest.

  Ryman’s voice rose half an octave. “I can and will use that to terminate the partnership agreement.”

  “What about Jeremiah?”

  “He’ll vote with me.”

  Laurence stared at him. Ryman wasn’t bluffing. Jeremiah always voted with him. He would again.

  Inside, Laurence felt all the hours, all the years, all the blood, sweat and tears he’d given Carp, Alta, and finally Hobbs. It was his life. The only place he’d ever worked, the only place he’d wanted to work. He loved his accountants, his accountants. He loved laying down the law when he had to. He loved the staff meetings, the petty squabbles, the clients, Jeremiah. He even loved occasionally punching numbers into his calculator when he could have had a staff member do the grunt work for him.

  And he loved his secretary. But he wouldn’t let his love for his work stand in the way of protecting her.

  “Ryman.” He left a pause long enough to make Ryman shift his feet. “Take this partnership and shove it.”

  The words fell into dead silence that lasted five heartbeats.

  A staggering sense of perpetual free fall invaded his limbs.

  “What else do you think you’re going to do, Laurence?” This came from a very quiet and suddenly undisturbed Ryman Alta.

  He took a deep breath. “I’ll start my own firm. I feel no compunction about taking my clients with me.”

  “That’s unethical.”

  “Leaving them to be serviced by you and your ilk is worse.”

  Ryman curled his lip. “Do you really think they’ll follow you like sheep, Laurence? We offer them a full package of services. Your only expertise is tax.”

  “I can hire the necessary professionals.”

  “They’ll expect reduced rates going with someone untried.”

  Laurence clenched his teeth. “I’m not untried. They know my value. You underestimate their willingness. In fact, I’ve had several clients intimate they’d follow wherever I went.”

  “You haven’t got it in you. You were born a junior partner. You’ll always be a junior partner. You need someone to lean on.”

  The truth hit him like a fist in the gut. He wasn’t a risk taker. He was a planner. He believed change took years to effect. Though he truly loved so many things about this place, this office, this very firm, he’d also stayed because he’d believed he couldn’t succeed without them. Carp, Alta and Hobbs had been his crutch, fear of failure his convenient excuse.

  “You’re wrong, Ryman. I don’t need you. Or the firm.” If he didn’t try this, he’d be a failure. If he knuckled under to Ryman’s threats, he’d never stop being a failure. “My tenure here is over.”

  Ryman’s eyes were wide, disbelieving. “You’ll never work in this town again.” A more melodramatic statement could only be heard in the movies.

  A loud guffaw issued from the couch. Laurence had forgotten all about Daily sitting there.

  But Ryman wasn’t done with his threats and added, with an evil hiss, “Don’t forget how all this will look for our dear Miss Madison O’Donnell.”

  Filthy bastard.

  It wasn’t just Tortelli, or Harriet’s suit. For Ryman it had become personal.

  His threat made it personal for Laurence. “If you hurt Madison in any way, Alta, I will break every bone in your emaciated body.” What a violent man he’d become since falling for Madison.

  “Your threats don’t scare me.”

  “Face it, Alta, you’re outdone.” William Daily’s knees creaked as he rose from the couch.

  Ryman stared at him, anger and fear mixing on his features until his skin stretched thinly over his skull.

  “I’m paying you for your testimony, not your opinions.”

  “There’s nowhere to testify. The woman dropped her suit. He’s not fighting the dissolution of your partnership.” Daily’s British accent had died an unnatural death. “I’m not shitting around with this anymore. The deal’s off.”

  Ryman danced on his toes like a puppet. “But my money—”

  “I earned your money. You fucked this whole thing up. I’m outta here.” With that, Daily yanked the office door open to wade through a puddle of astonished, eavesdropping accountants cluttering up the hall.

  Ryman turned. “You’re finished here, Hobbs.”

  “Yes, Ryman, I am. Finished with you. My resignation will be on your desk within the hour.” Laurence moved behind his desk, negligently opened a desk drawer, then another. There wasn’t much there that he wanted to take with him.

  Ryman pounded impotently out the door, the sea parting for him.

  The sun beat through the window on Laurence’s back. He’d just thrown his Financial Plan right out that very same window. With it had gone the Family Plan.

  In
fact, Laurence had no plans. None. Nothing more than vague ideas. Very risky business facing life without plans. One could fail. However, without risk taking, one couldn’t have Madison O’Donnell.

  “Where the hell is my secretary?” he asked the dumbfounded gathering at his doorway.

  “Executive Assistant,” she piped up, stepping from amidst the avaricious group. She truly was the most gorgeous thing he’d ever seen in his life. Gorgeous, spontaneous, full of life and laughter. And well worth risking failure.

  He looked at the crowd trying to flow through the entry along with her. “Close the door, Madison.”

  “Yes, T. Larry,” and she did just that, excessively obedient, but with a sparkle in her lovely eyes.

  He valiantly managed to remain seated in his chair. “Is the conference room scheduled from—” he looked at his watch “—now until eleven? No, make that twelve?”

  “Why no, I don’t believe it’s taken.”

  “Starting in three minutes, you and I have a meeting, a very long meeting. And we’ll have to lock the door.”

  “Do I need a pad of paper?”

  He rose, rounded the side of his desk, leaning a hip against the edge. “No.”

  “A pencil?”

  “No.”

  “Then what do I need, T. Larry?”

  “One of those candy necklaces from your niece.” He smiled, stripped her naked with a glance, then added, “And you’ll need me. Almost as much as I need you.”

  She launched herself into his arms. “T. Larry, I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Madison Avenue.”

  “Oh, T. Larry.” She wriggled in his arms and hugged him tighter, as if she’d never let him go again. “Do you forgive me for letting Richard kidnap you and bonk you on the head and almost kill you?”

  Her flowery scent filled his head. “Do you forgive me for being an ass where you were concerned?”

  “You were never an ass.”

  “A staid, bald accountant then?”

  She pulled him down to kiss the top of his head. “I adore bald men, especially accountants. I swoon when you quote the tax code.”

  He laughed and believed every word she said. “Well, then I definitely forgive you for siccing Dick the Prick on me.”