by Cat Kelly
"About the leave of absence," her shadow whispered urgently.
"I've no idea what you're talking about."
Christie perched on the corner of her desk. "Marchetti arranged for him to go into rehab. Apparently if he doesn't get his act together they're giving him early retirement. While he's gone David's been promoted."
She was relieved this gossip wasn't about her, and glad David was getting a chance. He'd obviously been held down under Bob Rawlings' thumb for too long, and was truly talented.
"You talked to Marchetti, didn't you?"
Marianne laughed sharply. "What makes you think it was me. I'm quite sure I'm not the only one he's pissed off with his antics."
Christie leaned close, a knowing light in her eyes. "Yes, but you are the only one brave enough to beard the boss in his lair. And," she took a sip of coffee and smacked her lips, "I suspect you're the only one he'd listen to." She grinned. "You're the only one he couldn't stand to lose. I think he'd do anything for you."
She thought of him telling her that he'd send her off to Grant Petersen to get around her rules about dating the boss.
Maybe he wasn't kidding. Maybe Christie was right and he would do "anything".
Although she tried to brush this development off as nothing to do with her and simply Bob Rawlings' long-deserved comeuppance, Christie's words stayed with her that day and warmed her spirits. Jack may not be around, but was he thinking of her too, wherever he went?
To celebrate David's promotion, a small number from the design department went out for the lunch buffet at Darbar and for once Marianne felt part of the group. If other people suspected she'd had a hand in the Dickwad's removal —and it seemed more than likely that Christie would tell them her theory—they didn't mention it to her directly, but there were a lot of smiles and shoulder taps. She felt like Dorothy accidentally dropping with her house onto the wicked witch of the west.
It was unbelievable to her that no one else had ever dared complain to Jack, but if that wasn't true and there had been others then she was indeed the only one he'd listened to.
She met with Mrs. Bracknell and her party planning committee that afternoon. Miracles continued to rain down upon her head when the old lady squeezed her arm and told her she thought she was doing a great job.
"Looks like he has someone else to keep him in line now. I'll soon be able to retire, won't I?"
Marianne was surprised. "I think Marchetti's would be lost without you, Mrs. B."
The woman squared her shoulders and pushed her bifocals back in place because they'd slipped down her nose. "Well, you needn't think I mean to stay here until I drop dead in the shafts. I have a life too you know, for pity's sake." And she trotted off with her files under her arm.
A few days later, on her way into the office, Marianne stopped at the coffee shop as usual and then bought a New York Post from the stall outside. She didn't have a chance to open it until later that morning, but her gaze fell immediately on the photo of Jack and Alana in Cindy Adam's Page Six column. Under the title "Wedding Bells."
It was a short piece of gossipy text hinting at an imminent wedding. A close-up of Alana's left hand was placed beside the main photo and it showed a huge rock. Apparently a cushion-cut, pink diamond. Oodles of carats.
How nice.
She crumpled the paper and threw it into the trash.
When someone tapped at her door a short while later she forced herself to invite them in.
A tidy, petite brunette peeped around the door. "Oh, hi. Marianne, right? I'm so sorry to disturb you, but I—I was just stopping by to pick up some of Bob's things. He said this portfolio is yours."
It was Rawlings' wife she realized belatedly. "Oh, yep." she got up hastily and grabbed the portfolio. "Thanks for bringing it in. I was lost without it."
Mrs. Rawlings edged all the way in and hovered nervously. Marianne sat down again and waited, uncertain what to say next. Well, this was uncomfortable. She thought, for one dreadful moment, the woman was about to lay into her for getting her husband dethroned. But then she said, "I came to see Bob one night a few weeks ago and he was too busy in his office, so I sat in here and used your phone. He said you wouldn't mind. I hope that was ok."
"Sure. No problem."
"You see, I didn't realize until some time later that I must have left something behind in here. I dropped my purse as I got up from your chair. I thought I picked everything up again. But, I must have left....it was a business card. You didn't happen to see it, did you?"
Slowly Marianne realized what the other woman was talking about. Surprises were certainly falling thick and fast around here lately. She opened her drawer and took out the card for The Club. "I did wonder how this came to be on my chair," she murmured, handing it across the desk to the woman she'd previously thought of as a poor, sad, downtrodden wife. "Here you go."
"Thank you!" Mrs. Rawlings grabbed it, her face transformed from pretty to beautiful as she beamed and the slightly careworn look vanished. "I was so worried about what happened to it."
"Don't worry. I kept it safe." She paused. "How's Bob?"
"Bob?" His wife was hastily stuffing the precious card back inside her purse. She looked up vacantly. "Oh, he's alright." Then she smiled again. "He'll be away for a few months."
"Yes. I hear Mr. Marchetti sent him to sunny California. Almost makes me want to go into rehab myself."
"True." The other woman laughed softly and batted her lashes. "Maybe he'll like it so much he stays out there." At that prospect her eyes gleamed and her smile grew even wider. "Well, thanks again, Marianne. It was sweet of you to hang onto the card."
A few moments later she was alone in her office again.
So demure Mrs. Rawlings was a member at The Club, getting a little vengeance on her awful husband and keeping herself sane no doubt. Good for her.
Unfortunately for Marianne, visits to that place had not done much for her peace of mind. It had only gotten her out of one fix and into another.
Orgasms, she decided, were vastly overrated.
That afternoon she bought another goldfish and named it Bam Bam. When she introduced it to Pebbles the two got along immediately. As far as she could tell. But then they had an uncomplicated life and no other fish in the bowl but the two of them.
She also bought the couple some new decor to enjoy - a sunken Spanish galleon and an open casket of treasure. Really made the bowl "pop".
* * * *
The sun was hot and high when he stepped out of Dubai International Airport. With the business of the new branch on his agenda and with Marianne Miller constantly on his mind, he was not prepared for the shock of finding his brother, Charlie, waiting there to meet him in place of the usual limo.
"I decided to see what you're up to big brother," he exclaimed, leaning on the hood of a Corvette convertible, arms folded, smug grin on his tanned face. "I hear conflicting reports."
Jack arched an eyebrow and tossed his luggage into the back seat. "From whom?"
"Oh, the usual from Mrs. B. And the slightly more unusual from Alana Shepherd."
The two men climbed into the front and pulled away from the airport with Charlie driving at his usual speed and Jack clinging to the beige leather door handle. "You spoke to Alana?" he shouted.
"She called to tell me she was worried about you. Something about you putting off the engagement again and going off the rails for a younger woman."
Naturally his little brother got nosy, Jack mused, and Alana loved to stir the pot, living for the drama. He'd told Charlie, countless times, that he wasn't going to marry again, but his brother hadn't given up. Just like Alana.
"There is no engagement to put off."
"What?" Charlie yelled back.
Jack simply shook his head and put on his shades against the glaring sun.
"So tell me about this new girl you've been chasing."
How could he tell Charlie anything about Marianne, when he didn't even know what they had together? She
was keeping him at arms length every day. In the beginning he'd assumed sex was all he wanted. That soon changed, but why and how and exactly when, were all questions he couldn't answer. No way was he having this conversation in shouted bursts with Charlie driving like a bat out of hell.
"It's just Alana making mountains out of molehills as usual," he said finally, looking away from his brother and letting the warm wind pummel his face. Hastily changing the subject he asked Charlie, "What happened to the Bugatti?"
"In the shop for a tune up. I hired this little beauty while I'm out here." Thus Charlie forgot the subject of women, because cars and speed always won out over the appeal of the female sex and their quirks. "Great song." He turned up the radio, blasting music. Jack was actually quite proud that he recognized the tune as another version of one of the songs on that Blu Cantrell disc. Something about needing time to breathe. How appropriate.
"Just make sure we get to the hotel in one piece," he shouted.
Charlie threw back his head and laughed as if it was the funniest thing he ever heard. And his foot went down.
* * * *
While there wasn't much predictable about his brother's company—when he might have it or for how long, or what the purpose was— one thing was always sure to happen when they walked into a room together. Every head turned. Time seemed to pause.
It made Jack vaguely uncomfortable although he'd known that sensation since they were teenagers. Charlie, on the other hand, basked in the attention. "Don't worry," he would whisper to Jack, "they won't bother you once they get a taste of my charm."
He was only half kidding. Women usually went for Charlie, because Jack's reserve soon put them off.
"You frighten the poor things," his little brother laughed. "You ought to practice a smile more often. You give them ice burns."
As they walked into the hotel restaurant together, it was the same as usual. Every woman and a few men in the place stopped, stared and seemed to forget what they were previously doing. Jack ignored it, striding straight to a private corner booth. The waitress brought menus and giddily rushed through her spiel before taking their drinks order.
"So why did you really come out here, Charlie? I know it wasn't just to see me."
His brother leaned back, spreading his arms along the curved back of the booth. "I'm trying to take a more hands-on approach to the business. I know you think I'm a lazy bastard."
Jack looked askance. "Right. What prompted the change?"
Charlie lifted one shoulder in a loose shrug. "It's good to change. We can't stay stuck in a rut can we? Besides, I feel like I've left everything on your plate for too long. Maybe I should start taking on some of the burdens."
"And you came to this conclusion out of the blue?"
"Hey, listen...I left you on your own to manage everything because I knew you needed it after Laura died. Then I just got caught up in having a good time."
"You certainly did."
"But as I was listening to Alana crying about the time she's wasted waiting for you, I realized its been four years. It's time I stepped up and did my part."
Jack was still wary. Words were great, but Charlie had a tendency to forget his promises and change his mind when the next idea came along. "Fine. Whatever you want to do."
The waitress brought their drinks and Charlie shot her a wink that made her blush.
"Just don't treat it like another one of your hobbies," Jack added, terse.
Still watching the waitress depart, Charlie replied, "You can trust me. I'll take the reins while you shoot off on your honeymoon."
"I'm not marrying Alana Shepherd. Not even to benefit the ratings of her reality show."
His brother exhaled a low chuckle. "Yeah, I know. She knows it too. Just doesn't want to believe it. Or didn't want to. Now this new girl is on the scene and I think its starting to sink in that you don't actually belong to her."
Jack crumpled his napkin, silent, his thoughts filled with Marianne again at the merest mention. It seemed a pathetic state to be in.
"So," said Charlie, "what are you going to do about this new one?"
He looked at his brother. "I don't know."
Charlie's mouth fell open. "That's the first time I've ever heard you admit to not having an answer. She must be quite something."
She was a lot of things, he mused. A lot of things he hadn't been expecting or looking for. Hadn't hoped to find again. At first, he'd thought of her in terms of what she needed from him. What he could give or do for her. But he'd begun to realize that he needed her as much as she needed him.
"By the way...did you get around to using those tokens I gave you for The Club?"
Ah.
* * * *
While he was away that week she had twenty-four hour a day access to his apartment. Marianne spent every spare minute getting the place finished. She feared running into Alana again, but there was no sign of the other woman in his life. He didn't even keep any photos of her, Marianne realized. However, he didn't have photos of anyone, not even his dead wife.
She'd managed to find some old sepia pictures of Marchetti's storefront from its early days and she got them blown up and framed for his brick wall. Time to make the place reflect its owner as he was now, not as he had been in his college years. Certainly not as someone like Alana wanted him to be.
But she couldn't resist putting a few fluffy pink pillows and scented candles around. See how he liked that, she mused darkly. It would only be the tip of the iceberg if he married Alana, so he may as well get used to it.
The concierge was now calling her by her first name and holding doors for her as he told her about his wife's plantar fasciitis and his niece's new baby. She never saw any other residents in the building and the place was so much quieter than her own apartment that if it wasn't for knowing Pebbles and Bam Bam would wonder what happened to her, she might have stayed there all night.
Chapter Fourteen
Blackmail and Fucking Pumpkin Pie
"What's with all the pink, Ms. Miller? Is it meant to be funny?"
"No. There's nothing funny about pink. I take it very seriously."
"You don't think it's a little...frou-frou?"
"I did my best to incorporate the requirements of your fiancée."
So that's what it was all about. He folded his arms and glared at her.
"What?" She put her chin up.
"A Passive Aggressive Pink Attack? I thought you were too sensible for something like that."
Walking ahead of him she continued pointing out the work she'd done, very cool and professional as usual. Slowly he followed her.
"As you see, with the walnut extendable table you'll be able to fit more dinner guests. The warm color and clean lines make it stand out, but not in an intrusive way. It's functional and stylish, while fitting in with just about any design genre."
"You're inferring that my vinyl diner booth was not any of those things."
She looked over her shoulder. "Correct."
"I happened to like it."
"Then why hire someone to redecorate?"
He had nothing to say to that. If she hadn't figured that out yet, he couldn't help her. Wasn't she supposed to be smart?
"You did admit to being in need of something new and updated," she added crisply, hands on her waist.
Jack smiled slowly, his gaze taking her in inch by inch. He'd missed the brat all week. And she looked damn good today in a lilac, polar neck sweater that clung to all her curves and somehow still managed to look demure. He could almost forgive her for the criminal pink littered around his apartment.
She blinked rapidly, pulled on the high neck of her sweater with fidgeting fingers and then moved on. "The Chesterfield armchairs add a more adult look while retaining the comfort and practicality of leather. This low profile also prevents obscuring the view through the windows."
He actually liked the chairs very much, although..."There's no cup holder for my beer."
"No. You'll have t
o use a coffee table. Like most people over the age of twenty one."
"I beg to differ. I know a lot of men who still—"
"Perhaps you'd like a sippy cup too? A high chair at the dining table? Something to bang on when your dinner's late or you need changing?"
"Very amusing."
"I'm sorry. I assumed when you said you needed to keep up with the times that meant we could dispense with the frat house nursery look."
Wow. She was on the warpath today again.
"Moving on. I'd like to draw your attention to the area rugs. The fun, geometric patterns tie the color scheme together but keep it from being too gentleman's club, or too mature. The glass lamp stands maintain a light and airy feel and over here—"
"Ms. Miller, the only way a piece of carpet can be 'fun' is when too naked people roll around on it."
She sighed gustily. "Well, I was trying to show you—"
"And I see you moved your bishop again. On the chess board." He jerked his thumb toward the second floor.
She looked smug. "Yes. It's checkmate, by the way."
He squinted. "Sure?"
"Definitely."
"I get it. Very nice. You win. What do I owe you?"
Marianne's frown could have knocked him backward through his windows. "Nice? Is that it?"
He considered a moment, one hand poised inside his jacket, reaching for his checkbook. "I did say very nice."
Her cheeks sucked in. Then she shook her head and turned away, mumbling about having given up her Thanksgiving for this.
"Oh, did you have plans?" he asked placidly. "I thought you were too ambitious for a private life."
She was pulling on her coat. "For your information I turned down my brother's offer of a ride home today, so I could be here when you got back. But thanks for the 'very nice'. That makes it all worthwhile."
"I'm paying you enough, aren't I?"
She paused, looked at him, shook her head and started walking away.
"Alright, Ms. Miller. Why don't I give you a ride home to make up for it?"
* * * *