“Was that fancy BMW your boss’s car?” Anne put her hand up to her mouth. “Oh, God, are you in trouble at work? I’m so sorry I ran into your—”
“No, I’m not in trouble.” God, he hated not being totally honest with her. “And it was worth it. Meeting you, I mean. Well… not like that. Crap—I’m babbling.”
Anne opened her mouth. Closed it. Lowered her eyes.
“Sorry,” he said remotely. “I don’t want to get creepy on you.”
“You’re not. And if I’m honest, I don’t quite know how to handle… this.” She frowned and wiped her hands on her napkin. Even though they were clean. “I mean, not that this is a this. You coming here tonight, I mean. Like, anything date-ish, or anything—you know what, I need to shut up, too.”
“No, you don’t. I always want to hear what you’re thinking.”
She flushed and looked away, as if she didn’t want him to know how much that pleased her. “But you just brought my shoe back. That’s why you’re here. That’s the purpose. Right?”
In the silence that followed, he studied her downturned face, memorizing the curve of her lips, the lashes that hid her eyes, the flush on her cheeks.
“It’s not just about the shoe, Anne.”
As her stare flipped back to his, he spoke slowly so that there was no risk his accent would get in the way of his meaning. “I know you’ve just gotten out of a really bad situation, so I’m not asking for anything other than a little time to get to know you. But blind luck put us both on that road at that moment. Don’t you think that might mean something?”
Of course, blind luck had also brought her a fucking psycho with an upward-mobility fixation and a wardrobe out of a Florsheim ad.
Also a round of X-rays.
“I’m not going to push you,” he murmured. “I’m not like him.”
“Oh, you are definitely not like Bruce.” She shook her head. “He never said thank you, and he never brought me a shoe.”
“Next time I’ll show up with something even better.”
“I’m not really a flowers person.” She flushed again. “Sorry, that’s not really romantic of me, is it. And maybe you aren’t thinking in those terms—”
“I was thinking socks, actually.” As Anne laughed, he knew it was the best sound he would ever hear. “Maybe it’ll be a set of tubes. Could be tennis with the little balls at the heels. Hand knit or machine washable? I’m going to leave you guessing in hopes the mystery keeps you interested.”
She threw her head back and outright giggled—until she grimaced and put her hand on her side. “Oh, jeez, I’m going to have to take it easy over here. Or you’re going to have to be a lot less charming.”
Sitting back in her modest house, in her modest kitchen, at a small table in a little alcove… Darius realized that he suddenly, and most unexpectedly, had the whole world in front of him.
He really did.
“I wish I could stay longer,” he whispered.
There was a pause. Then in a rueful voice, she said in an equally soft way, “And I wish I had another shoe for you to bring back.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
As Anne arrived at her desk the following morning, her telephone was already ringing. Launching herself into her chair, she nearly knocked over her office plant to catch the call.
“Hello, this is Anne—”
“Mr. Thurston wants to see you upstairs in his office.”
As the voice of the senior partner’s secretary speared into her ear, she kept the groan to herself. Miss Nancy Martle was over fifty, married to her job, and built like a battleship. In her gray suits and her fifties-era cat-eye glasses, she would have been considered a stereotype if she didn’t inspire fear in just about everyone. Including the attorneys.
“When would he like—”
“Now.”
The call was cut off and Anne hung up her end. Glancing around, she saw other members of the support staff finding their seats at their desks, putting down purses, taking off coats. Everyone was female except for two supervisors who were men, and the rows of workstations were kitted out with identical accessories—single rolling chair, single visiting chair, wastepaper basket, phone, typewriter, and a coat stand. Overall, the wide-open space sparkled with cleanliness and efficiency, everything white and chrome. Then again, Beckett, Thurston, Rohmer & Fields invested properly in their facilities, even for the little people—
“You still hurting bad?”
As the question was posed, Anne snapped to attention. “Oh, Penny, hi.”
“So how are you?” Her next-door neighbor shrugged out of her incredibly pink coat. “You don’t look good.”
Try facing Mr. Thurston on an empty stomach. Hell, make that Miss Martle.
“I’m fine, Penny. Thanks. I just have to go upstairs.”
“Oh, check you out.” The woman hung her blinding outerwear on a hanger on her stand. “Fancy. You getting promoted or something?”
The girl was in her mid-twenties, but looked older because she had Tammy Faye makeup and a bottle-blond bleach job on her bobbed hair. With her too-bright, too-tight, always-Easter-Sunday clothes, she was a cartoon character who’d been colored in by an exuberant, if sloppy, hand.
“Nothing like that.” Anne grabbed a steno pad, even though she hadn’t been asked to bring one. “I’ll be right back—”
“You’re going in your coat?”
“Huh—” Anne flushed and took off her jacket. “Sorry, I’m a little distracted.”
Penny’s heavily penciled eyebrow jogged up into her glossy forehead. “You get back with Bruce or something? Please tell me that’s a no.”
Of all the people she worked with, why had she told Penny the whole story? She might as well have put a notice in the Caldwell Courier Journal. “Ah, no. It’s not… Bruce. I have to go, be right back.”
Anne all but bolted for the elevators, and as she ran off—or tried to, what with the aches that were still hanging in—she had the sense that there were eyes on her. Except she was used to that. Ever since word had gotten out that she was dating Bruce, she’d been a topic of conversation. Thanks, Penny. And now with her own blabbermouth, she’d made herself even more visible. Surely, though, someone else in the firm could date somebody who seemed on the surface to be too good for them only to have the guy get canned for faking his résumé? It could happen… right?
Then again, maybe she and Bruce had set such a high standard for gossip it was never to be repeated.
Talk about your professional accomplishments.
At the bank of elevators, she hit the up arrows on both sides of the short hall, and she was lucky that there was a bing almost immediately. Hopping into a car full of suits and ties, she shuffled off to the side and kept her head down and her eyes on the marble floor.
Lot of wingtips. Lot of deep-voiced jocularity about golfing at the club, and whiskey, and that cart girl who really knew how to polish balls.
Naturally, the hale-and-hardies rode up to the twenty-ninth floor, and also unsurprisingly, they got off first, elbowing for position as if the evacuation were a race. No one held the doors for her, and she had to catch the brass and mahogany panels before she was locked in and sent all the way down to the lobby.