Whole Lotta Trouble

by Stephanie Bond

  Afraid that if she moved both hands, she would reveal the photo, Felicia nodded toward her desk. “Just drop it in my in-box. Please.”

  Tamara’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, but she walked into the office and dropped the bundle in the tray a foot in front of Felicia. “There you go.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Tamara gave her a strange look, then said, “By the way, the lemon cupcakes you brought in were divine.”

  “Good. I’m g-glad everyone enjoyed them.”

  “When are you going to tell me the name of your bakery?”

  “You know I don’t reveal my sources.” Felicia tried to smile past her burgeoning panic but failed. The hidden photo burned her hand. “Listen, Tamara, I’m really swamped right now—will you hold my calls?”

  Tamara glanced down at Felicia’s pristine desk, but pursed her mouth and nodded. “Sure.” After a final inquisitive look, she left and shut the door.

  With shaking hands, Felicia closed the blinds on the interior glass walls of her office to shut out the rest of the department and to thwart her assistant’s curiosity. When she looked at the photo again, she was instantly nauseous. In the amateur candid, she was standing, wearing red bikini panties, slightly heavy-lidded, her blond hair tousled, her nipples erect.

  Felicia’s mind spun as she tried to place where the picture had been taken, but the background was dark, indistinguishable. The underwear was nothing special, she had always owned a few pairs of red bikini panties. Her hair, which she’d worn in the same long, straight style for years, gave no hint to time or place. She certainly didn’t remember posing for the photo…. Had she been drunk? A month ago she’d had a one-night stand with a man she met at a holiday party—could he have taken the photo and was now playing some kind of sick game? His face floated in her mind, his features as hazy as his name—Jim? John? Her cheeks flamed, and she covered her mouth with her hand as bile backed up in her throat.

  She searched the envelope for a clue to the sender’s identity but found nothing other than the return address. A call to directory assistance revealed no such company at no such address, so whoever sent it had gone to lengths to remain anonymous.

  She stared at the photo, willing it to disappear, then turned it over to check for processing information. It was printed on generic photo paper—on a personal printer? Her heart raced and her neck felt sticky with shame. What did it say about her that she’d been naked with enough men in her thirty-five years that she couldn’t pinpoint the culprit immediately?

  Who had sent the picture, and why would they have sent it to her at work with no message? Panic rose in her chest like a scalding tide—what should she do? What could she do? She pressed her lips together hard to stem gathering tears.

  Nothing…except wait to see if the sender made another move.

  Chapter 3

  Tallie stepped into The Bottom Rung at a few minutes past 6:00 P.M. She was immediately enveloped by the hum of voices and energy that fostered her excitement over the responsibility that Ron had entrusted to her. Editing an author as highly esteemed as Gaylord Cooper would mean having her name dropped at industry cocktail parties and mentioned in trade publications—in bold type. After years of harboring a “feeling” that her big break was just around the bend, she had finally rounded the proverbial corner. She had arrived.

  Alone, her mother would point out.

  Irritated that the thought had even wormed its way into her mind, Tallie threaded her way through vertical bodies, her bulky striped wool coat catching on everything and everyone she passed. It was that mortifying Christmas newsletter that haunted her. Her mother was the most wonderful, most maternal, most adept homemaker on the face of the planet. It was, Tallie knew, her mother’s utter happiness with her role in life that fueled her worry that her daughter would become so wrapped up in pursuing success that she would miss out on the things her mother found so fulfilling—a husband…children…laundry.

  Merrilyn Blankenship considered the state of her family’s clothing to be a personal reflection of her worth as a person. Tallie’s most enduring memory of childhood was wearing clothes so starched they crackled. Even her sweatpants received knife-edge creases from a sizzling iron. She didn’t need a shrink to tell her that her refusal to own an iron was a manifestation of her resistance to a life that resembled her mother’s. Tallie acknowledged that she was fortunate to be the recipient of her mother’s mothering, but as soon as she’d been old enough to read an atlas, she had plotted to escape the confines of the sleepy town of Circleville and what she perceived to be a preordained existence. Her deep-seated fear of domesticity was undoubtedly the root of her resistance to men in general. Oh, she dated occasionally, but no one had held her interest. She had her own barometer for knowing when a man was getting too close: As soon as he felt comfortable enough to help himself to something in her refrigerator, he was history.

  She smiled in vindication. Her dogged concentration on her career had finally paid off. Wearing slightly rumpled clothing and sleeping alone were small sacrifices compared to this drumroll beating in her chest.

  Tallie scanned for a glimpse of Felicia or a free table. The bar was more crowded than usual for a Monday, but the previous Friday had blown up a blizzard that had sent everyone home at lunch, and people who had missed out on their regular Friday happy hour—like her and Felicia—were making up for lost time. She spied a couple of men leaving their table and sidled up to stake her territory before anyone else noticed, grabbing one chair for herself, hanging the straps of her purse and her manuscript bag over the back. Then she plunked her hairy coat in the other chair as a placeholder until Felicia arrived.

  Tallie climbed into the chair at the tall table and drummed her fingers on the lacquered top. Felicia had seemed so preoccupied when she’d called back that Tallie had decided to wait until they got together to tell her about Gaylord Cooper. It was Felicia’s opinion that she valued most because her friend was the epitome of cool, savvy, Urban Woman. Born and raised in Manhattan, Felicia knew every nuance of the city and every maneuver of the publishing industry. She was having cappuccino in the Rose Room of the Algonquin Hotel, rubbing elbows with the most powerful people in the business, while Tallie and the rest of the interns at Parkbench Publishing were grabbing bad coffee from street vendors on their dash into work. Felicia brought into the office delicacies from bakeries only she knew about and wowed the executives via the breakroom and the boardroom. Beautiful, smart, ambitious. It was no wonder she had been the first to be promoted, and the first to be wooed away by a bigger publishing house.

  Tallie toyed with the Plexiglas stand containing the drink menu and marveled on the tenets of their friendship. Other people undoubtedly wondered why Felicia, who could spend time with just about anyone—male or female—of her choosing, would pair herself with Tallie, who was by just about every yardstick unremarkable. Yet Felicia had initiated the friendship all those years ago and, instead of being condescending about Tallie’s rural upbringing, had seemed fascinated by it. She had appointed herself Tallie’s big sister and had taken Tallie under her wing. For her part, Tallie’s idolatry had evolved into genuine affection and admiration for Felicia. Theirs was a low-maintenance friendship, flying above short-term boyfriends, family crises, and sudden work commitments. They respected each other’s privacy and shared a similar outlook on life: Success was power, and power was independence. Men were…distractions.

  There was only once, about a year ago, that she’d thought Felicia had fallen in love, with agent Jerry Key. But that flash had burned out—Felicia had ended their affair because she’d been concerned about the career complications. Secretly, Tallie had been relieved because she’d heard some rather unsavory things around the water cooler about the self-proclaimed metrosexual.

  Tallie looked up just as Felicia entered the bar. As always, her arrival was a study in human behavior. For a split second, everyone froze, looked, then moved aside. Felicia, clad in a l
ong white cashmere coat, her golden hair flowing over one shoulder, could have easily passed for a supermodel. She glided through the opening, oblivious to the attention. It was Felicia’s complete lack of vanity that allowed Tallie to remain friends with someone so beautiful without developing an inferiority complex.

  Except today Felicia’s normally flawless expression was marred by a wrinkle on her brow, and her mouth looked slightly drawn.

  “Hi,” Tallie said, removing her coat from the extra chair.

  “Hey,” Felicia said as her fingers moved over the pewter buttons on her fabulous overcoat. “Have you been waiting long?”

  “Just a few minutes.” Tallie leaned forward, but Felicia wouldn’t make eye contact as she unshouldered her own manuscript bag and swung into the seat. “Are you feeling okay?”

  Felicia looked up, and pain flashed in her electric blue eyes. “A little headache.”

  “Another one?”

  “It’s better,” she said quickly. “I took a pill as soon as I felt it coming on.”

  Tallie was unconvinced. “Why don’t you go home and get some rest?”

  “No, I wanted to see you.” Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Have you ordered yet?”

  “I haven’t seen a wait—”

  “How are you ladies doing?” a waiter cut in, clearing the glasses left by the previous occupants while beaming at Felicia.

  Tallie lifted one side of her mouth; men materialized from thin air when Felicia was around. “We’re fine, thanks. I’ll have a Bacardi Silver.”

  Felicia wet her lips, then said, “I’ll have a martini. Two olives, please.”

  Tallie waited until the man had left, then ventured, “Are you sure you should be drinking alcohol with your medication?”

  “Probably not, but today calls for it.”

  Tallie’s good news died on her lips. “Did you have a bad day?”

  “Yes, but I don’t want to bore you with the details.” Felicia sighed. “How about you? What’s going on at Parkbench?”

  Tallie hesitated, unaccustomed to seeing her friend in anything but the best of moods. “Ron’s going to be away for a few days.”

  “Oh, nice. Vacation?”

  Tallie hesitated. “Actually, he didn’t say, but I think he’s in some kind of trouble.”

  Felicia frowned. “Trouble?”

  “He’s been so jumpy lately, I wondered if maybe he’s going through a personal crisis. I overheard him talking on the phone to someone and he was angry that the person had called him at work—he said he was already in enough trouble.”

  “Maybe it’s a boyfriend problem,” Felicia said with a scoff that was so bitter that Tallie blinked.

  “I suppose that’s possible,” she agreed slowly. “Or maybe it’s an illness or something to do with his family.”

  “Could be. How long will he be out?”

  “Possibly a few weeks.”

  “Does that mean extra work for you?”

  The server arrived with their drinks and Tallie waited until she poured the Bacardi Silver into a glass over ice before smiling. “As a matter of fact, Ron asked me to edit Gaylord Cooper’s manuscript while he’s gone.”

  Felicia smiled in earnest for the first time since arriving. “Congratulations, Tallie! What a coup.” She held up her martini and Tallie met her glass for a celebratory clink.

  “I hope so.”

  Felicia took a deep drink and winced. “How did Scary Kara react?”

  “She doesn’t know yet,” Tallie said. “But even Ron warned me to watch my back.”

  “Good advice,” Felicia said, then her gaze clouded. “You never know who’s out to get you.”

  Tallie frowned. “Did something happen today?”

  “The Dannons are quarreling again, and Jerry Key wants me to play referee.”

  “Oh,” Tallie said mildly. “You talked to Jerry?” That probably explained her taciturn mood.

  “Yeah,” Felicia said. “Tell me again why I got involved with him.”

  “Because he’s a wealthy, charming, powerful, good-looking bachelor?”

  “But he’s such a bastard.”

  Tallie gave a dry little laugh. “Don’t make me more nervous—I’m depending on him to smooth the way for me to work with Mr. Cooper.”

  “That’s right, he represents Cooper. The guy is something of a kook, isn’t he? I remember Jerry saying Cooper claimed to have worked for the government, thought everyone was gunning for him.”

  Tallie’s stomach roiled. “The man has his eccentricities. I hope this assignment doesn’t blow up in my face.”

  Felicia winked. “Ron’s a smart cookie. He knows what he’s doing.” Then she glared. “Just stand your ground with Jerry.”

  Tallie nodded and took a drink from her glass, studying her friend. If she didn’t know better, she’d think Felicia was still hung up on Jerry…not that it was any of her business, but she hated to see her go down that toll road again. Suddenly she touched her head. “I almost forgot—I found a gray hair today, can you believe it?”

  Felicia phsawed. “Pluck it.”

  Tallie grinned. “My mother says that if you pluck a gray hair, seven will grow back in its place.”

  Felicia grew serious. “Really? I thought that was an old wives’ tale.”

  “It is—my mother is an old wife.”

  “She is not,” Felicia said, her tone sharp.

  Tallie held up her hands defensively. “Hey, it was a joke.” For never having met Merrilyn Blankenship, Felicia seemed almost protective of the woman. Tallie assumed it had something to do with Felicia’s reserved relationship with her own mother, a securities attorney. At times she seemed envious of Tallie’s mother, even though Tallie had tried to convince her that their relationship was far from ideal.

  Felicia sighed and rubbed her temple. “Sorry…the migraine is making me cross.”

  “Let’s finish our drinks and go home,” Tallie urged. “I have a ton of reading to do, and you should get some rest.”

  Felicia nodded and seemed on the verge of saying something, then took a drink from her glass instead. But Tallie could tell that something was weighing on her mind, something heavier than a migraine.

  “Felicia, Tallie—what a nice surprise!”

  Tallie turned to see a familiar-looking olive-skinned woman walking toward them. Her memory stirred. “Jane?”

  “Jane Glass,” Felicia confirmed, offering a smile at the woman they had interned with years ago at Parkbench Publishing.

  “Actually, I’ve added an accent to my name,” Jane said cheerfully. “Now I go by ‘Juh-nay.’ I discovered my birth mother might have been French, so it seemed appropriate.”

  Tallie nodded awkwardly and remembered that when they had worked together years ago, Jane had been on an ongoing search for her birth parents and had sampled many ethnic customs, certain that she would sense when she happened upon the practices of her ancestors. The French connection probably also explained the jaunty beret sitting atop the woman’s head. “Jané,” she corrected herself, although the pronunciation sounded ridiculous leaving her tongue.

  “So, Jané,” Felicia said with the merest hint of sarcasm, “where have you been keeping yourself? Are you still at Bloodworth?”

  “No. I’m working for Futurestar now,” the woman said. “I think they’re really going places.”

  A defense of the company’s electronic publishing format, Tallie realized, before she or Felicia could say something negative about what was considered by industry pundits to be a second-tier book medium. “That’s great,” Tallie offered. “I’ve been reading good things about Futurestar.”

  “What are you doing for them?” Felicia asked, apparently unwilling to expound on Tallie’s complimentary words about the start-up company.

  “Well, it’s a small shop,” Jané explained. “Right now, we each do whatever needs to be done. Can I join you until my friends arrive?”

  “Sure,” they said in unison. While Jan
é stole a chair from a nearby table and dragged it over, Felicia gave Tallie a look that said she wished she’d gone home when Tallie had offered. Felicia had always thought Jane—er, Jané—an odd duck.

  Jané settled herself and gave them a bright smile. “Tallie, I hear you’re still at Parkbench, slaving away for Ron Springer.”

  Tallie blinked. “Well, I…yes.”

  “And Felicia, you’re still at Omega?”

  “Right.”

  “It’s such a coincidence seeing you, Felicia. Your name came up in conversation today at work.”

  Felicia looked amused. “Really—how?”

  Jané leaned in. “Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the president of our company, Seth Johnston, works out with Jerry Key.”

  Felicia’s mouth hardened almost imperceptibly. “And?”

  Jané squirmed in her seat. “And it seems that Jerry’s been bad-mouthing you.”

  A pang of sympathy barbed through Tallie. She glanced at her friend, who was toying with the base of her glass, trying not to react.

  “Can you be more specific?” Felicia finally asked.

  Jané’s hesitation spiked the tension, then she sighed and lowered her voice. “He told Seth that you were…well, easy. And that you were into all kinds of kinky stuff.”

  Felicia drank from her glass, then a little laugh escaped her. “Jerry is a dick. We were involved, but very briefly, so trust me, he’s no authority on my preferences in bed.” She lifted her chin. “How on earth did the subject come up between you and the president of your company?”

  “Seth said that he was hoping to work out a deal for Futurestar to publish some of Omega’s backlist, and I mentioned that I used to work with you.” Jané looked apologetic. “Look, I told Seth you were a standup person, Felicia, but I thought that you’d want to know that your ex-boyfriend is talking behind your back.”

  Tallie felt compelled to jump to her friend’s defense. “Jerry’s just sore because Felicia dumped him.”