Kill the Competition

by Stephanie Bond

  With a confident appearance, a few buzzwords, and a practiced pitch, she might be able to pull this off.

  Belinda pushed to her feet and cleared her throat loudly enough to pull Downey’s attention away from grooming her hindquarters.

  “Felines and gentlemen, based on the financial statements of Payton Manufacturing, it is my opinion…

  …that the acquisition of Payton would indeed give Archer the fiscal synergy it needs in preparation for going public.”

  Belinda swept a level gaze around the board room table, stopping long enough to make eye contact with Juneau Archer (a striking but gently befuddled man), two venture capitalists who served on Archer’s board of directors (short, dubious-looking men), Monica Tanner, VP of design (slim, nail-biting forty-ish Archer veteran), and Tal Archer, VP of sales and marketing (disinterested mid-thirties gay heir apparent), and finally, Margo. Of the team assembled, she was the last person to contribute to the pitch, and if she had to say so herself, she’d wowed them with her charts and spreadsheets.

  One of the board members leaned forward. “Ms. Hennessey, Archer has been formulating this acquisition for nearly a year. You’re by far the newest member of the team—”

  “Gentlemen,” Margo cut in. “Belinda came to us from Visher-Floyd Insurance in Cincinnati. She was on the team that coordinated the acquisition of Three Signs and Limpkin, resulting in one of the largest insurance companies on the eastern seaboard. She has spent countless hours combing Payton’s financial statements.” She flashed Belinda a charming smile. “I trust her judgment.”

  Belinda smoothed back a strand of hair that had escaped her chignon and concentrated on looking competent.

  The director who had appeared to be on the verge of questioning Belinda’s credentials looked at his partner, then splayed his hands. “If you trust Ms. Hennessey’s judgment, Margo, that’s good enough for us. The board will vote on the matter tomorrow morning, but since our two votes plus Juneau’s constitute a majority, I believe congratulations are in order.”

  Exclamations and handshakes traveled around the table. Margo looked at Belinda and mouthed, “You killed them.”

  Belinda returned a calm, professional nod, but inside she basked in her boss’s praise. She just might give this risk-taking philosophy an earnest go.

  Chapter 7

  “So, I heard the board of directors approved the acquisition,” Rosemary said.

  Belinda labored to bench-press a lousy twenty-five pounds. At the top of the extension, she glanced up at the older, firmer woman who was spotting her. “Yep,” was all she could manage. She lowered the bar to her chest, and her pecs groaned in relief.

  “Juneau seemed pleased,” Rosemary said. “And Margo is in rare form.”

  Belinda followed Rosemary’s gaze across the noisy gym, where Margo was receiving one-on-one attention from the gym’s buff trainer on a mysterious-looking machine that appeared to work the crotch muscles.

  Anxiety needled Belinda—walking the line between loyalty to Margo and loyalty to her friends was proving to be a high-wire act. “Am I finished? I think I heard something pop.”

  Rosemary dragged her gaze from Margo. “One more set, then we’ll hit the showers.”

  Belinda grunted her way through the repetitions, hoping she’d be able to lift her jelly arms to wash her hair. Her legs still throbbed from yesterday’s punishment. (Rosemary called it “lunges.” Tomato, tomoto.) Between her sore muscles and mild whiplash, Advil was becoming her between-meals snack. She glanced at the dry sauna longingly—maybe another day.

  The locker room experience was another one of those unfamiliar girly situations; call her old-fashioned, but the sight of bare-breasted and-butted women walking around chatting about the best plastic surgeons made her pull her towel just a little tighter around her own ta-tas.

  Rosemary, too, was refreshingly modest, but when Belinda emerged from the curtained dressing room, fully clothed and coiffed, she practically stepped on Margo—naked. (Okay, the little woman was wearing flip-flops. And lipstick.)

  “Hello,” her boss said, just as if she weren’t full-frontal with a subordinate.

  “Hi,” Belinda said, keeping her eye contact high while sliding past.

  “Belinda.”

  She closed her eyes briefly, then turned back. The woman’s nipples were as big as saucers. “Yes?”

  “I meant to tell you how nice you looked at the meeting yesterday, and today.”

  Belinda knew the brown wool-blend flattered her auburn hair, so the compliment was probably sincere, but it was weird coming from an unclothed woman. She tried to imagine Margo in her underwear. “Thank you.”

  “And your hair—well, I think all professional women should wear their hair up.”

  So it was a good thing that the coin had landed heads for bun, versus tails for stretchy headband. “Thanks.” Her eyes were watering from the strain of keeping them fixed. She blinked and pointed over her shoulder. “I should go—Rosemary is waiting.”

  A little wrinkle appeared between Margo’s eyebrows. “Someone mentioned that you’ve become friends with Rosemary.” From the tone of her voice, there was no love lost between the women.

  “I carpool with Rosemary, Libby, and Carole from the mailroom.”

  “A word of caution, Belinda. A member of senior management has to be careful of the company she keeps.”

  Belinda blinked. “Jeanie Lawford was a member of senior management, wasn’t she?”

  Margo’s eyes narrowed. “What do you know about Jeanie Lawford?”

  Belinda swallowed. “Just that she died…suddenly.”

  Her boss’s face melted into a mournful expression. “Yes, so sad. I had big plans for Jeanie, and yes, I gave her the same advice about her carpool buddies. She told me she was trying to find a way to bow out gracefully. I hope you do the same.”

  Belinda held her gaze. “I believe I’m a good judge of character.”

  Margo’s black-cherry-colored mouth curled, but the warmth didn’t reach her eyes. “So am I.” Then she glided away, leaving Belinda with an eyeful of steely buns.

  Rosemary was checking her watch when Belinda emerged from the locker room. “Sorry. I ran into Margo. Nude.”

  Rosemary rolled her eyes as she shouldered her gym bag. “That woman is unbearable. I don’t understand how she has the wool pulled over Juneau’s eyes.”

  They exited the gym into the busy first floor of the Stratford Plaza that housed service businesses, a food court, and the entrance to a high-rise hotel.

  Belinda shrugged. “Maybe Mr. Archer overlooks her…personality…because she’s good at her job. And you have to admit he’s rarely at the office.”

  “I know. I wish you could’ve met him before his wife became ill—he was so full of vigor and ambition. Her struggle completely drained him, and he hasn’t recovered.”

  As they threaded through the lunch crowd, Belinda thought ahead to the food court. Rosemary would hit the salad bar, while she was thinking more along the lines of a candy bar. “The son isn’t interested in taking over the family business?”

  “Tal?” Rosemary sighed. “Tal Archer isn’t interested in anything he can’t snort up his nose. He couldn’t care less about the business, but he couldn’t get a job making his salary anywhere else in this town.”

  Belinda swallowed the urge to ask for more details before the discussion spun into full-fledged gossip. Margo was right about one thing—if she was going to be CFO, she needed to maintain a professional distance from the watercooler talk.

  “I’m going to the salad bar,” Rosemary said.

  “I think I’ll browse. I’ll see you upstairs.”

  She waited until Rosemary was out of sight, then contemplated blowing her diet on a burrito. She bit into her tongue, wavering. A sudden jostle to her right shoulder forced her teeth down so hard that she tasted blood. An eye-needling pain ricocheted through her mouth and jaws, stealing her breath.

  “I’m so sorry,” a man said
.

  Her eyes were closed, but his voice sounded familiar—and she associated it with pain. As her mouth sang, she opened one eye, then the other. Tall, blond, bomber jacket. The guy from the elevator.

  “You again,” he said, green eyes laughing. “I don’t believe it.”

  She swallowed blood. “Believe it.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Haven’t we had this conversation before?”

  He looked sheepish, then reached into the back pocket of his chinos and pulled out a folded white handkerchief. “You’re bleeding.”

  Vince didn’t own a handkerchief. Southern men apparently bought them by the gross—perhaps so they could instigate accidents. She accepted the cloth and dabbed at her lip until the red disappeared.

  He leaned forward for a better look. “Are you going to need stitches?”

  “No. But a smoothie is sounding good for lunch.”

  “My treat.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  He extended his hand. “Julian Hardeman.”

  She hesitated, but he wasn’t giving off serial killer vibes. “Belinda Hennessey.” It was a nice hand.

  “What kind of smoothies do you like, Belinda Hennessey?”

  And he had great eyes. “Strawberry kiwi lime.”

  “One strawberry kiwi lime smoothie coming up.” He veered away, heading toward a crowded counter. His clean-cut good looks turned a few heads. He had an open, honest-looking face, with a light sunburn on his cheeks and nose. A generous, ready smile and a pleasing profile. And no wedding ring.

  Not that any of it mattered in lieu of her resolution that men were unnecessary.

  She looked away, back, and away again, realizing with a jolt that Julian Hardeman was the first man she’d studied since Vince. (“Since Vince” had somehow become a time marker.) She had grown so accustomed to behaving like an engaged woman that she was going to have to ease back into the idea of openly looking at men again.

  “One strawberry kiwi lime smoothie.”

  Belinda looked openly, and her pulse tripped. “Thank you.”

  He lifted another tall cup. “Thought I’d try one, too. Care to join me?”

  “I should get back to work.”

  “Come on, give me five minutes to prove that I’m a nice guy.” He smiled. “If I fail, then you can avoid me from now on.”

  He was appealing, she had to give him that. And she needed to make an effort to meet new people—it wasn’t his fault that he had a penis. “Okay. Five minutes.”

  Through the swarming mass of hurrying bodies, he led the way to a tall café table. When she set down her gym bag, he said, “I see you work out.”

  “In the loosest sense.” He laughed, revealing perfect teeth, and she was struck by the sense that she knew him from somewhere other than the elevator.

  “Do you work in this building?” he asked.

  She nodded. “I’m a finance specialist for Archer Furniture Company.”

  The smoothie cup stopped halfway to his mouth. “Archer?”

  “You’re familiar with the company?”

  “A friend of mine used to work there. Jeanie Lawford.”

  The icy fruit blend stung her tongue, then soothing numbness settled in. The woman’s name kept turning up, like the corner of a rug. “I’m new to the company, so I didn’t know her. But I did hear about the terrible accident. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  He nodded appreciatively, his eyes somber. “Jeanie was a great girl. That kind of stuff keeps you awake at night.”

  “So her death was an accident?”

  “Hm? Oh, yes. Tragic.” He stared at the contents of his cup.

  She wondered briefly if he and Jeanie had been more than friends, then cast about for a safer topic. “So you work in the building, too?”

  “No, my office is in the Blake building across the street, but parking is better here, and I belong to the gym. And my stockbroker is on the ninth floor.” He smirked. “The way the market’s been bucking lately, I’ve been spending a lot of time in his office.”

  “What do you do for a living?”

  He hesitated, then pulled at his chin. “I’m a news reporter.”

  “That sounds interesting.” And explained his well-modulated voice.

  “It has its days.” He angled his head. “I can’t place your accent.”

  “Cincinnati. I moved here to take the job with Archer.”

  “How do you like it so far? The city, I mean.”

  “Fine. Except for the nightmare traffic.”

  He laughed heartily. “One person’s nightmare is another person’s job security.”

  She nodded, but her attention was drawn to a tall uniformed man bearing down on her table. Lieutenant Wade Alexander, carrying a small brown paper bag. He didn’t look much happier than when she’d last seen him, but what had she expected? “Excuse me,” she said to Julian as she slid down from the chair. “I really do need to get back to work. Thank you for the smoothie.”

  He stood with her. “Maybe I’ll see you in the gym.”

  She smiled. “I’ll be on my guard.”

  He turned and, to her surprise, did a double take at the officer striding her way. “Lieutenant Alexander.”

  The other man nodded curtly. “Hardeman.”

  Belinda’s surprise gave way to the realization that it wasn’t so unusual for a police officer and a reporter to be acquainted. From the body language, though, she inferred that the men weren’t exactly chums.

  “I hope you’re not here to see me,” Julian said with a little laugh.

  “Not this time.” Officer Alexander held up the bag. “Ms. Hennessey left something in my cruiser.”

  Julian looked back and forth between them, and Belinda’s neck warmed. “Lieutenant Alexander and I were involved in a little accident yesterday morning.”

  Julian grinned at the other man. “Don’t tell me that was you on I-85 southbound?”

  Great—every reporter in town had heard about the incident.

  The officer didn’t smile back. “Yes.”

  Julian chortled, then cast an apologetic look in her direction. “I understand now why you’re so apprehensive about the traffic.”

  A flush climbed her neck. “It was my fault. Lieutenant Alexander was very gracious.”

  “Gracious?” Julian grinned again. “I’ve never heard anyone accuse you of that before, Alexander.”

  The officer gave him a pointed gaze. “Don’t let us keep you, Hardeman.”

  The comment hung in the air for five stretchy seconds. Belinda had the uneasy sensation that she was standing between two bucks, and on the verge of being marked.

  Julian’s smile faded, then he recovered quickly. “Yeah, I need to be going. Take care, Alexander. I’ll see you around, Belinda.”

  She gave him a little smile, then turned her attention back to the officer, who arrowed his dark gaze at Julian’s retreating back. The men had history.

  She coughed politely. “You’re quite the detective to find me in the food court.”

  When he glanced back, she noticed that his jaw was clean-shaven today, and his eyes were clear—clear and not blue, but gray. His expression eased as he nodded toward the entrance. “I passed your friend, and she thought you might still be here. I didn’t mean to intrude on your lunch.”

  “You didn’t. Julian and I just met.”

  One side of his mouth slid back. “Hardeman works fast.” He extended the paper bag.

  She frowned at his presumption but took the package, registering that it didn’t seem heavy enough to hold her electronic organizer. A peek inside nearly caused her to pee her pants—the tiny blue pillow she’d removed from her trunk and stuffed into her purse because she was too embarrassed to let him, or anyone, see the message a well-meaning aunt had cross-stitched onto its surface:

  Belinda and Vince

  xoxoxoxo

  Married April 5, 2003

  She closed the bag with a crunch.


  “Is something wrong?”

  “This isn’t what I thought I left in your car.”

  The cop pursed his mouth. “It looked personal. I thought you’d want it back.”

  “I don’t—” She pressed her hand to her mouth and took a deep breath. “I mean, I didn’t realize this was…missing. I thought I lost my electronic organizer.”

  “I’ll take another look when I leave.”

  “Thank you. Again.” Her mind raced for a way to salvage her pride, but it came up empty. “I should get back to work.”

  Officer Alexander started to go, then turned back, hands on lean hips. “Ms. Hennessey, this is really none of my business, but…”

  “But what?”

  He shifted from foot to foot. “Are you still driving on that spare tire?”

  Her dad would love this guy. “I’m getting the tire replaced today.”

  “Good.” He straightened. “Julian Hardeman has a reputation for playing games.”

  She blinked. “Excuse me?”

  He held up both hands, stop-sign fashion. “I realize you’re married, and I’m not saying that you’d be interested, but since you just met him, I thought I should warn you.”

  First Margo telling her with whom she could “associate,” and now him? Belinda held up a hand, trying to absorb the whole Southern macho protect-the-little-woman syndrome. The man had only changed her tire—proprietary behavior required at least a ceiling-fan install. “Okay, first, I’m not married.”

  He looked at the bag holding the effusive pillow, and she realized his confusion.

  “The marriage didn’t…work.” She lifted her chin. “And second, I’m sure your advice is well-intended, Lieutenant, but I prefer to form my own opinions.”

  He nodded, but a muscle in his jaw moved, as if he wanted to say more. His gaze was so encompassing and so…protective that she had the crazy urge to walk closer. To compensate, she backed away. Men were unnecessary. And a woman with a new philosophy of breaking rules did not foster a pop-up attraction to a man of the law.

  “I have to go. Thank you again for…this.” She held up the crumpled bag, then turned and fled.