Man at Work

by Elaine Fox

  The last thing Marcy felt like doing was dressing up and going to a benefit ball, but Trish had asked her weeks ago and at the time it had seemed like a good idea. Plus she’d already bought a killer dress, exactly the kind the ever-stylish Trish had advised for their mission.

  It was silly, though, Marcy felt now, after seeing Calvin the night before, to be spending one of the only nights she wasn’t working late in an overdecorated ballroom with a bunch of strangers. Then again, Calvin would no doubt approve of the reason she was going. He worried about her single and frequently dateless state.

  Benefits, Trish had told Marcy, were the intelligent woman’s alternative to bars when it came to meeting men. At bars you met worker bees, guys who dressed like men but would always be just guys, and tired, older fellows for whom the term ambition had lost all meaning. These last were the worst, Trish contended, because they were so hopelessly sad, inspiring some women to try and fix them.

  At benefits, on the other hand, you met the real upper crust of Washington society. The suitable men. The classy ones with the coveted “three Ps”: pedigree, property, and philanthropy. (The last was important because in most cases it showed they were not stingy.)

  In other words, Marcy translated to herself, money and the balls to show it off.

  There was nothing like walking into a roomful of men in tuxedos, Trish said, knowing that every last one of them not only owned their tuxedo but most likely had at least another one in the closet at home.

  A man with a tuxedo, Marcy was informed, was a man with taste.

  Marcy stood in front of her full-length cheval mirror—an antique she’d splurged on just the week before—and turned this way and that to examine the dress she’d put on. It was black and full length, but the fact that the silk clung to her like a second skin and the spaghetti straps holding it up looked nearly too fragile for the job kept the gown from being at all conservative. And one should never dress conservatively at these things, Trish said. Wound once around her neck was a black tulle scarf that draped the length of the gown on either side.

  Marcy wasn’t sure about the scarf, but without it she felt as naked as she’d ever want to be in a room full of people so she left it on.

  The only jewelry she wore were diamond drop earrings (a present to herself after her last, stunningly large raise) and a costume diamond bracelet. Just enough to keep her from looking plain, but not so much as to appear to be overcompensating for a lack of real jewels.

  She stopped twirling for the mirror and put her hands on her hips, sighing. It wasn’t so much that she regretted agreeing to go to this thing. She just hadn’t planned on being this tired when the event finally rolled around. She wondered how long she’d have to stay. Fortunately she was meeting Trish there, so she wouldn’t be tied to her stamina. Trish always wanted to stay long after Marcy had worn out, though Marcy probably would want to stay too if she dripped eligible men the way Trish did.

  She picked up her tiny black handbag and tried to stuff her hairbrush into it. As she’d feared, the handle was too long. She had just rummaged a smaller one from the bathroom cabinet when someone knocked on the door.

  She paused. Had she missed the intercom? Usually Javier, the doorman, announced any arrivals, but she’d heard nothing. It must be Trish, she thought. No doubt Trish forgot they were supposed to meet at the benefit. Since Javier knew her he probably just let her come up.

  She stuffed the small brush into the handbag and opened the door.

  When Marcy appeared at the door, Truman felt his heart thud once, hard, against his ribcage and then it seemed to stop. His mouth went instantly dry.

  She looked incredible. Like some beautiful, young Italian widow in a classic movie, with her hair pulled back and her eyes dark and mysterious. And that perfect smooth gorgeous skin, from her cheeks to her cleavage. So much perfect smooth gorgeous skin. He couldn’t help imagining himself flicking those tiny straps off her shoulders, first one, then the other, and peeling that black silk down to reveal…

  “Truman,” she finally spoke. She looked and sounded as surprised as he felt. One hand rose to her throat while the other held a little black purse.

  He peeled his tongue off the roof of his mouth and spoke. “Marcy. Sorry, I guess I—I’ve caught you at a bad time.”

  Though he couldn’t say it was a bad time for him, now that he’d seen her in that dress. He wondered what her skin would feel like, what she would do if he laid his hand on her bare shoulder, there near her collarbone, and ran his palm down her arm.

  A long scarf of something sheer wound around her neck and dropped to the floor, giving her the look of a delicate bird that had just escaped capture.

  She glanced briefly down at her dress and moved the hand from her throat out to the side in a helpless gesture. “Actually, yes. I’m just going out.” Her brow furrowed and she made a move as if to look down the hall. “How did you get up here? Did Javier let you in?”

  “Ah…he looked busy. Someone had let a stray cat in, so I decided not to trouble him.” Tru smiled slightly, proud of the diversion.

  She looked at him warily. “I see. How did you find out where I live?”

  “Phone book. Listen, I did what you asked, I made up a list. But we can talk about this later. You’ve obviously got to be, uh, go someplace.” He started to turn.

  She reached out and nearly grabbed his arm, but stopped before she touched him.

  “Wait, a list? Of what?”

  He shrugged. “Just a few safety violations and stuff. Things I could think of that might help Burton’s case against Planners.”

  He stuck a hand in his pocket, felt the folded up Burger King napkin, and imagined taking the pins from that demure little net she had her hair pulled back in.

  Her eyes lit up; he again sensed the hunger she had to win this case. “Gosh, I wish you’d come by earlier, but…well, can I see it? the list?”

  Tru couldn’t help but look her up and down again. Indeed, he could barely keep from reaching out and touching the fabric of that dress, fabric that seemed to have been melted onto her body, right down to where it flared gracefully at the bottom and draped to the floor.

  He glanced down the library-silent hallway toward the elevators. “Someone picking you up?”

  She shook her head. “No, I’m meeting them there.”

  He scoffed. “Some date. Dress like that demands a limo and some champagne at the very least, I’d think.”

  Her cheeks grew pink. “It’s a girlfriend I’m meeting. Listen, I have a few minutes. Why don’t you come in for a second?”

  He smiled to himself. A girlfriend. Not a date. She was dressed to kill and it wasn’t a date. There couldn’t be a man in her life.

  He seemed to think it over, cocking his head and looking past her into the apartment. White rug, white furniture, one of those tall decorative vases full of some improbably colored and uselessly decorative sticks next to the couch. “I don’t know. I wasn’t all that thorough writing things down, you know. Thought I’d explain them to you when I got here. But…well, maybe we should do it another time.”

  She looked at him in exasperation. “I was hoping to hear from you all week, and now, the one time I have plans, you decide to show up? How long do you think it’s going to take?”

  “Depends on how much you understand and how much detail you need.” The one time she had plans? No doubt she was climbing that legal ladder fast, working hundred-hour weeks and dropping friends like flies.

  She placed a hand on her hip and he noted the fake diamond bracelet. “All right. When can you do it?”

  He shrugged again. “I don’t know. I was free tonight.”

  Hell, he was free every night, but she didn’t need to know that.

  “I can come by your place after the benefit, if you think you’ll be up. It’s down near the Capitol so I’d be relatively close to your place.”

  “Later tonight?” His mind spun, imagining Marcy in his apartment in that dress late ton
ight.

  “Or—”

  “No, later tonight’s fine,” he said quickly. “I’ll be up. I’m kind of a night owl. And yeah, the next few days’re real tight for me.”

  She raised a brow at that but didn’t comment. “Fine. I don’t think I’ll be late. This thing…” She flung a hand down at her dress to indicate the event she was attending. “I don’t have to stay long.”

  “Those formal things break up pretty early, do they?”

  “For me they do. If I’m later than, what, eleven, should I not stop?”

  He paused to consider. “I’m up till midnight, usually.”

  “Okay, before midnight, then.”

  “Midnight,” he repeated, glancing over her midnight-black dress again. It was enough to make breathing difficult, that dress, he thought, trying not to gape. “Okay, see you later.”

  “Okay,” she said. But she didn’t close the door. She waited for him to turn toward the elevators, and even then he didn’t hear the click of the hasp until he was several doors down.

  5

  Friday, October 11

  WORD-A-DAY!

  PERICLITATE: v., to imperil; as in willfully exposing oneself to a forbidden desire

  “Tonight?” Trish stared at her, mouth agape in, of course, a classy way. “You’re going to his place tonight? Are you crazy?”

  Trish’s voice bounced loudly off the marbled walls of the ladies’ room in the Phoenix Park Hotel.

  “What do you mean?” Marcy looked for a dry spot on the sink counter on which to put her purse, then pulled out her compact and tried to disguise her guilty blush by dusting her face profusely. Unfortunately, there wasn’t enough powder in the MAC case to hide it. She leaned in toward the mirror. “It’s close by here and if I get the information tonight—and it’s as good as I think it’ll be—then I can start drafting a settlement first thing in the morning.”

  “But Marcy, his place is in Southeast. And it’s after dark. And you’re dressed…” She moved a hand up and down, Carol Merrill–fashion, to indicate Marcy’s dress.

  “I know, but his street isn’t that bad.” She thought briefly of that morning’s word for the day. Was she periclitating herself? “He’s on the first floor. I’ll just dart right in. Besides, I’d like to see the dog.”

  Trish made a face. “The dog’s going to ruin that dress, if nothing else. Why don’t you just wait and talk to him tomorrow? Schedule a lunch.”

  Marcy flipped the compact shut. “For one thing, I don’t think this guy does lunch. For another, he said this was the night he was free this week. And I just really don’t want to wait for this information. If Planners doesn’t intend to settle then I want to know that and get going on the suit.”

  It was true, she told herself. She really did want to get a move on the case. Besides, she was right here, just a few blocks from his neighborhood. What was the big deal? So she was dressed up.

  She smiled to herself, remembering the look on Truman’s face when she answered the door in this dress. Okay, so she wasn’t immune to the kind of flattery his expression bestowed. And she was aware of the fact that his flattery was particularly gratifying, but that didn’t mean anything. She could enjoy his appreciation the same way she enjoyed countless harmless flirtations over the years. It was fun, that was all.

  “Okay, so you’re going to his place, dressed to the nines, to get mauled by the dog and what else?” Trish looked in the mirror and patted a lock of her hair, where not a curl had drooped and not a strand was out of place.

  “He’s got information on safety violations at the building site. Plus, I got the pictures developed that he took for me on Tuesday and I need to ask him about some of them. He got a bunch of the faulty scaffolding but he took a few more and I’m not sure what they’re supposed to show.”

  Trish shook her head. “I don’t know…I still think I should go with you.”

  “There’s really no need, Trish.” Marcy pushed her compact back into her purse, unwilling to analyze the strong gut reaction she had against Trish coming with her. “Besides, you’re having a good time here. Who’s that guy you keep dancing with?”

  Trish flipped a hand away nonchalantly. “That’s just Palmer Roe. I met him a couple months ago and he’s nice enough, but way too much of a playboy for me.”

  “He certainly seems interested. And you know what they say, there’s no man more loyal than a reformed rake.”

  “I don’t know anyone who says that. Besides, reformed seems like the key word there. If you watch,” Trish said sourly, “he’ll seem interested in anyone he happens to be talking to.”

  “That’s too bad. He looked like a shoo-in for the three Ps.” Marcy sent her friend a teasing grin.

  Trish laughed. “Oh he’s got them, all right. In spades. But that’s not enough. Fidelity should start with a p.”

  “You just want everything, don’t you?” Marcy joked.

  “You know it. And you should too, Marcy.” Trish turned to her with an earnest expression. “No compromises, now. Don’t forget that when you’re over there in Southeast getting, uh, briefed on safety violations.” She gave Marcy a knowing look.

  Marcy was sure her blush was now rendering the powder on her face useless. “What on earth does that mean?”

  “I mean,” she said seriously, “that I sense trouble with this guy. Romantic trouble.”

  Marcy scoffed. “You couldn’t be more wrong.”

  “Couldn’t I? You said he was handsome…”

  “No, I said he could be handsome, if he cut his hair and shaved. And at the time I was only thinking in terms of his appealing to a jury.”

  “Right. Those blue-collar working men you’ll be hoping to get are so traditionally sympathetic to handsome men.”

  Marcy gave her a dry look. “As it turns out, we’re not going to have a jury. Win thought it best to opt for a bench trial and opposing counsel agreed.”

  Trish continued to give her a skeptical look. “Are you honestly saying you’re not attracted to this guy?”

  “Trish,” Marcy said, putting a mental foot down for both herself and her friend, “I am not going over there for any romantic reasons. Even if I did feel the slightest desire for this guy, which I don’t, you know he could well become a witness for the case. And you know how bad getting involved with a witness would be. So believe me, I’m not going to be tempted to do anything foolish.”

  Trish cocked her head. “Uh-huh.”

  Zipping her bag shut, Marcy gave her friend a patient look. “I’m not. For one thing he’s too…I don’t know, rough or something, for me.”

  Trish’s brows rose and she smirked. “Rough? He’s too rough? How would you know that?”

  “I did not mean that in a sexual way and you know it.”

  Trish laughed.

  “He’s just rough around the edges, you know?” Marcy continued, heading for the door. “He probably wouldn’t go to a symphony performance if you paid him, for example. And the ballet I’m sure would only provoke a bunch of bad men-in-tights jokes. We’d just have completely different tastes.”

  “Not to mention worlds.” Trish followed her out the door.

  “Yeah, well…” Marcy’s blush was manageable this time. Still, she kept walking, her heels clicking on the marble floor. When she reached the front door she handed her coat check ticket to the attendant and turned to her friend. “Listen, don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. Have a good time tonight, okay? If you’re working tomorrow, stop by my office. I want to hear all about it.”

  “You know I will. But be careful. And I don’t just mean getting there. Remember there’s as much danger inside that apartment as there is outside. Maybe more.”

  Marcy laughed. “You’re relentless.”

  “No, I’m intuitive.”

  “Then you’re overreacting.”

  Trish smiled and looked skeptical. “I certainly hope so.”

  Trish was right.

  Marcy pulled up in front of Truma
n’s building and turned off her headlights. This wasn’t safe.

  In her rearview mirror Marcy watched a couple of shadowy figures emerge from an alley, merge into one silhouette, then part, one of them returning to the alley. The other ambled off down the street, slinking quickly around the corner.

  She picked up her little black purse and thought about how slow she’d be if she had to run in these shoes and this dress. The spike heels might inflict some damage, but let’s face it, she thought, she’d never get that close. Everyone here was armed.

  She glanced at Truman’s building, at the glowing light in his apartment, and marveled at how far it seemed from the sidewalk to the front door.

  She was losing her edge, she thought. She hadn’t even remembered to pack her Mace. She briefly considered going home and explaining to Truman later. But she was here now and it seemed silly to flee because of a few yards of vulnerable territory.

  One more glance in the rearview mirror told her there was no one out in the open. No doubt every darkened corner harbored a pair of eyes to watch her, but there was nothing she could do about that. She was sure she could make it from her car to the door before even the alley shadow could get to her.

  She opened the car door.

  At the same time, the door to Truman’s apartment building opened and a figure emerged, silhouetted by the hallway bulb behind it.

  Half in, half out of the car, Marcy decided that maybe this really wasn’t worth it. The person coming out the door was probably harmless but represented one threat more than she was able to talk herself out of. The settlement draft could wait another day, or even week, if it meant meeting in a reasonable place at a reasonable hour in reasonable clothes, couldn’t it? The figure moved quickly toward her and just as she was dipping back into the car, the light from the block’s one unbroken streetlamp illuminated Truman Fleming.