Plum Girl (Romance)

by Winters, Jill

  "I know I shouldn't have acted so possessive," he said sincerely. "I swear, its not even like me. I don't know what's happened to me since I met you."

  "I know, the same thing happened to me! I don't even know how, but it did. That's why every time I see the red-haired girl from your office on the elevator, I just want to shake her skinny, gorgeous bones. I want to tell her to stay away, you're mine."

  "Who, Mo?" he asked, grinning.

  "So then you admit she's skinny and gorgeous?" Lonnie said, pointing at him accusatorily, but with a smile behind her eyes.

  "It was the red-haired part," he said calmly, and smiling confidently, he moved a few inches closer.

  She held up her hand to stop him from getting too close. "My point is, the possessive thing is only okay if you trust the other person—"

  "I do." He moved closer in spite of her hand.

  "I mean it, Dominick. You have to trust me."

  "I swear to you I do. You're the sweetest girl I've ever met. I trust you."

  "And respect me."

  He cocked his head to the side. "C'mon, Lonnie, you know I do."

  "Uh... yeah," she said, and when he looked bothered by her doubt, she gloated. "See, how do you like it?"

  He pulled her into his arms, and she rested her cheek on his chest and added on a sigh, "I don't know how this is all going to work out but—"

  "We'll figure it out somehow," Dominick said quietly, not willing to break the moment by thinking about the future. Not now. He grinned. "And, just so we're clear, this reverses your breaking up with me the other night?"

  "Well, that was sort of an accident anyway." She giggled, and hugged him tighter. "But then when I never heard from you—"

  "I called you Tuesday, but you never called me back."

  "What?" She lifted her head to look at him.

  "Yeah, I talked to some woman and left a message."

  She thought for a second. "Oh, damn. I was out of the office Tuesday and Wednesday."

  "You were?"

  "Yeah, for my interviews, remember? I told you that."

  "Oh, I forgot, I've been such a mess."

  She smiled. "Anyway, I never got the message because my mortal enemy was covering my desk."

  "How do you have a mortal enemy?" he asked, smiling.

  "I don't know. It just sort of happened."

  "I'm crazy about you," he said. "Promise you'll never accidentally break up with me again."

  She slid her hands up his chest, clutched his shirt, kissed him so deeply she lost herself, and when she finally came up for air, she felt only half lucid in the most liberating and extraordinary way. "We should probably stop this now, before Peach comes home."

  He grinned, caught her lower lip in his mouth, kissed her again, and said, "I have a feeling your sister's not coming back for a while." Their mouths moved on each other passionately, deliberately, with arousing suction and wet heat. Finally, Dominick pulled his head back and looked dazed when he spoke. "Listen—not that it makes any difference—but I had no idea about this whole setup. I swear."

  "I believe you."

  "Did you think I did?"

  "No. I doubted it, but I was hoping maybe..."

  "If it helps any, I only agreed to fix her laptop because I thought it would make you feel guilty about not calling me."

  "It's my laptop," she teased and leaned into him again, loving the feel of his solid, strong body. Suddenly, he hitched her up. She locked her legs around him, and he walked them over to her bed, kissing and nuzzling her throat on the way.

  When he set her down on the puffy comforter, she looked into his eyes, and he decided to try again. "I love you," he said softly.

  She didn't hesitate for one second. "I love you," she whispered. "I love you so much." Within seconds they were lying together, exchanging soft words about their future, and melding their bodies into one beautiful tangle of lust, love, bliss, and life.

  Chapter 29

  At 12:30, as B.J. stepped onto the elevator, Lonnie pushed away from her desk and headed down the hall. She'd decided to wait until he went to lunch before she ransacked his office. She just hoped that the folder he'd stolen from Bette was still around so she could figure out what he'd been after.

  She looked around to make sure nobody was watching as she opened his door, and walked into his office. Shutting the door behind her, she thought, Make this fast.

  She riffled through the papers and notebooks on his desk, careful not to make a mess, and uncovered nothing of particular interest. Then she looked in a big desk drawer that was unlocked, and found only discarded pink phone slips and a mountain of protein bars. In his top desk drawer was the usual top-drawer fare: pens, pencils, and assorted crap.

  Hmm. She looked around the room, surveying her options, and spotted what could very well be the mother lode: the gray filing cabinet by the window. Scurrying from his desk to the window, she pulled on one of the filing drawers. All she got was frustrating resistance. It was locked, which, in all honesty, she could've predicted. She yanked more violently for another two seconds, and then came up with a different strategy.

  Darting back over to B.J.'s desk, she opened that top drawer again. She frantically pushed aside pencils, pens, floppy disks, and boxes of staples, until she came across a set of tiny keys. Thank God people were predictable.

  The third key she tried opened the filing cabinet.

  And she got lucky. The second drawer—which appeared to be on eye level for both her and B.J.—contained the blue folder. It must have been crumpled just enough to fit, because it sprang forward a little when the drawer opened. She pulled it out and read the tab. P-FLYNN. Bette regularly referred to her "p-files"—or personnel files—so this had to be B.J.'s.

  She had to hurry, because for all she knew B.J. would pick up something for lunch and come right back. Racing against the clock, Lonnie opened the folder and scanned the contents. Since B.J. had only been with the firm for a year, there wasn't much there. Two performance evaluation reports, and a salary increase evaluation. She focused her attention on B.J.'s performance reports. One report was dated June 30th of that year, and the other was dated December 31st.

  December 31st! That was just a couple of weeks ago. Lonnie glanced at the bottom of each page; both reports were signed by Twit. Should she risk taking the time to read the comments on B.J.'s evaluation? If she took the folder, B.J. would realize it was missing, and that might send him into a panic. At this point, she didn't know what he was capable of, and she'd rather not find out.

  She was about to stuff his p-file back in the drawer, when something on the June 30th report caught her eye. In the margin, there was a handwritten notation that read "PNH." It wasn't Twit's handwriting, either. She checked the December report. "PNH" was written on that one, too, and preceded by two asterisks.

  PNH. What did that mean?

  She heard someone in the hallway. Lonnie stuck the reports back inside the folder, and crammed the whole file into the open drawer. Kneeing it shut, she headed for the door.

  It opened before she got to it. She froze.

  "What are you doing in my office?"

  She flinched at the sight before her. B.J. was standing in the doorway with his hands balled into furious fists, and his face was a cross of shock and fury. Lonnie's own face went from creamy peach to beet red, as she struggled to explain herself out of this awkward situation. "Oh, B.J., I... I was just... looking for you." She gulped and reminded herself not to tip her hand. There was no reason that B.J. had to know she suspected him of a lot more than a Napoleon complex. "I was just wondering if you had a three-hole punch," she said weakly.

  "Stay out of my stuff," he growled, squinting his eyes menacingly.

  "Okay, well," she began, walking to the door backward, "like I said, I just needed a stapler—I mean, a three-hole punch. Well, both, actually. Okay, so... see ya later!" She completed the frenetic departure with a coy little wave that was hopelessly out of place, but she didn't care. Sh
e just wanted to get out of there.

  It wasn't until she got back to her desk and fell into her chair with palpable relief, that she wondered how bizarre life must be if she was this scared of B.J.

  * * *

  "So, how's the Twit?"

  Lonnie switched the phone to her other ear, before she stated the obvious. "Annoying, neurotic, afflicted by a profound God complex, the usual," she said. "This morning he told me to measure his office when I get a 'free moment.' I mean, a moment? He's crazy."

  "Why do you have to measure his office?" Peach asked.

  "Because he's decided to get new wallpaper. According to the fax he just sent out, he's settled on Regal Platinum."

  "The man needs serious therapy."

  "I can't help but wonder if it's just a coincidence that today is also Lyn Tang's first day," Lonnie commented.

  "Ah."

  "Actually," Lonnie went on, "Lyn seems cool. I like her. She's no Macey, or anything, but I think she has potential."

  "You and your deep-seated psychological need for an on-call role model," Peach remarked.

  "Please, don't start with the diagnoses right now, okay? I'm in a good mood, and I want to stay that way." Lonnie felt all right now that B.J. had left for the day, and soon, she was going to take off herself. She wanted to tell Peach about breaking into B.J.'s office and what'd happened after, but she couldn't take the chance that someone would overhear her.

  Less than an hour after she'd escaped B.J.'s office, she'd e-mailed Bette, claiming she had a friend who was interested in pursuing a career in human resources. She'd asked her a couple generic questions about hiring policies and interviews—to pass along to her "friend"—before asking Bette about the HR term "PNH." After all, odds were good that Bette had written that notation in B.J.'s file.

  Lonnie was praying she'd take the bait, but so far, she hadn't replied to the e-mail.

  "Why are you in a good mood?" Peach asked her now.

  She shrugged to the air and said, "I don't know. Life's short; play hard."

  Peach groaned.

  "Wait, don't even say it!" Lonnie protested. "Slogans are not the same as trite platitudes," she explained, grinning and waiting for her sister to challenge her. But she didn't. She just giggled and said, "I love you, Lon."

  After Lonnie hung up, she checked the clock: 5:29. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lyn and Bette approaching her desk. Perfect! Now she'd get a chance to ask Bette in person.

  "But I don't know. I've just always enjoyed Hilton Head in the spring and Lake Wanda in the fall," Bette was saying to Lyn. "Of course, nothing tops November skiing in Vermont."

  Lyn nodded. "True. I do love skiing. I assume you've been to the Ridgemont?" She looked away from Bette to smile at Lonnie before handing her a set of documents for Twit.

  "Uh... let me think now," Bette began, leaning against Lonnie's desk, as Lyn was. "Hmm... the Ridgemont, the Ridgemont..."

  "It's a luxury condo community right in the mountains. I'm surprised you're not familiar with it."

  "Oh, well," Bette said, waving her hand as if to brush away the inconsequential information. "A condo association, that explains it. You see, Reggie and I have our own mansion right there on the mountain."

  "Mansion?" Lyn raised an eyebrow quizzically.

  "Lodge," Bette corrected. "I meant, we have our own lodge-mansion sort of place that we go to—stay at. That is, we own it, so we stay at it."

  Was it just Lonnie or did that sound a little fishy? True, Lonnie didn't ski, had never been to Vermont, and knew nothing about architecture, so perhaps a "lodge-mansion" was a real thing. But from Lyn's expression, it didn't appear as though she was completely convinced, either.

  Bette blushed. Her face—which was normally characterized by layers of age-defying, consciously earth-toned foundation—took on an unnaturally pink hue. Lonnie's first instinct was to try to alleviate her embarrassment somehow. But as soon as Bette shot her a snide sideways look, as if she were a nosy peon eavesdropping on a private conversation, Lonnie went with her second instinct. Namely, not giving a rat's ass one way or the other.

  "A lodge-mansion," Lyn repeated, too evenly to be anything other than skeptical. "How nice. Where did you say it was located?"

  "The mountains," Bette answered.

  "No, I mean, where specifically? Perhaps we've skied the same slopes." Lyn's tone was mild, but there wasn't much mistaking the challenge that underlay it. Lonnie couldn't believe she lucked out with front-row seats, so to speak, as someone knocked Bette Linsey's pretentiousness down a peg. Fabulous.

  "Specifically? Well, it's around the area—"

  "What's the address?"

  Apparently, she was really going to push this. Bette might as well have been on the witness stand by the way Lyn fully expected her to provide clear, truthful answers. This bordered on the ridiculous, of course, but it really wasn't any more ridiculous than the usual office happenings.

  Just then Bette was saved by the ring of Lonnie's phone, which was getting predictable in its bad timing. "Beauregard Twit's central headquarters..."

  She recited the rest of Twit's id-versus-superego greeting, while focusing 99 percent of her attention on the two women in front of her desk. The caller mentioned something about wallpaper swatches, but Lonnie didn't really catch it. She was too busy watching Bette to make sure she didn't slip away before she got some information out of her.

  She hung up just as Lyn was heading out the main glass doors and Bette was turning on her heel to walk away. "Wait, Bette!" Lonnie said. Bette turned around and raised a sculpted brow. "I... um, did you get my e-mail?"

  Bette was still blushing—obviously being mortified by Lyn didn't agree with her. So in standard corporate form, she opted to take it out on the temp. "Right, that e-mail about your friend who's thinking of pursuing a career in human resources." Her voice was thick with condescension. "Well, you tell your friend that one doesn't just jump into human resources. One must possess skills."

  With that, she offered a brief smile good-bye, and walked off. "But, wait... PNH!" Lonnie called after her, but it was futile because Bette had already disappeared down the hall.

  Lonnie's phone rang. "Hello," she said absently.

  "Kid."

  "Oh, Detective! I'm so glad you called me!" she said. She filled him in on B.J.'s personal evaluation reports.

  "You read my mind," Montgomery said, sounding anxious.

  "What do you mean?" she asked.

  "Shit! We just got a call. I gotta go. But I gotta tell you something."

  "What is it?" she demanded.

  "All right, I'm coming! Just stay away from Flynn," he ordered, putting a stern emphasis on each word. "I can't explain it to you now; just stay away from him. You got it?"

  "Well, he saw me in his office before—"

  "What?" he barked angrily.

  She swallowed. "How else could I get the file?" she argued.

  "Jesus Christ!" he yelled. "What'd I tell you about being inconspicuous?" She struggled to remember his exact words. "Great, so now he knows you're onto him."

  "Not necessarily—"

  "I'm coming! I really gotta go," he said quickly. "Do me a favor: get the hell out of there! D'ya understand? Just go home, lay low, and I'll explain everything to you later."

  "O-okay, but—"

  "Just do it! Oh, wait, kid? Have you seen Matt Fetchug around?"

  "Uh, yeah, I saw him just a little while ago."

  He sighed. "Okay, good. He's all right." Damn it, what is Montgomery saying? And why does he always have to go when I want to talk to him? "I'll call you later."

  A click and he was gone.

  Chapter 30

  "So I see the D drive's still not working."

  "Oh... yeah," Lonnie agreed, and shut the front door behind her. "Sorry, but every time Dominick starts to fix it, he... gets distracted." She tossed the mail on the sunshine-yellow table, and kicked the front door closed with her burgundy heel. After she took off
her coat, she made her way over to the sofa. "How was your day?" she asked Peach as she sank into the cushions.

  "Okay," Peach said over her shoulder as she typed away on Lonnie's laptop. She was sitting at the oak table in the corner of the room facing the window, with her back to the rest of the apartment.

  "What are you working on?"

  "Hold on a second... okay," she said as she clicked the mouse, and swung her chair around to face her. "Sorry. I was just IM-ing Iris," she explained. Ordinarily, Lonnie would've been tempted to tell Peach how disturbingly odd that was, but at the moment, she had much graver things on her mind.

  "So, how was your day?" Peach asked. She looked incurably sweet, sparkling, and streaky gold, and Lonnie felt a pang of sentimentality, realizing how much she'd miss living with her sister when she moved to Maine.

  "Very strange... and scary." She explained what'd happened at the office, and how she hadn't gotten any information from Bette because of the bad timing. Then she described her disturbing conversation with Montgomery, and his unnerving inquiry about Matt's well-being. "I just don't know what to do about this," Lonnie said. "I know Detective Montgomery wants me to lie low, but how can I do nothing when there's a chance that... I don't know... Matt could be in danger?"

  "I'm sure if he's in danger, the police are taking care of business," Peach assured her. Lonnie wasn't that easily convinced. Not because the police wouldn't take care of business, but because they might not do it quickly enough.

  "I guess," she mumbled half-heartedly. "I just wish I'd gotten to ask Bette what the PNH notation meant in B.J.'s personnel file."

  "What makes you think what was in B.J.'s file is important?"

  "I don't know. Maybe it would tell me something more about him. Like maybe he has a medical condition that affects his mental state. Or maybe he has a history of a certain type of violence. It might give us some clue what he's gonna do next."

  "Maybe he has a prison record," Peach said, and after a two-second pause, slapped her hands on her knees. "All right, let's go."

  "Where are we going?"

  "Bette's house," she said simply, and retrieved her coat. "Is it snowing out?"