The reception desk and waiting area for the main attorney floor and its boardrooms was directly ahead, and the brunette-haired woman in charge seemed to have been chosen as a piece of art that could answer a telephone. Tall and slender as a model, she was wearing a black suit that coordinated with the black-and-gold color scheme of the decor, and the ceiling light above her was angled down like she was a painting. Still, her red-lipped smile seemed sincere, and her eyes were not judgmental in the slightest as Anne cautiously approached.
“Mr. Thurston is waiting for you.” The woman indicated the way to her left with a manicured hand. “Would you like me to have a coffee brought to you?”
“Oh, no. No, thank you. No.”
“Go right down.”
“Thank you.”
The firm’s Big Wig waiting area was like a hotel lobby, full of modern marble sculptures and padded leather chairs, and its view of Caldwell’s twin bridges was beautiful, especially on a sunny May day. The fresh flowers in crystal vases were a nice touch, too, the flares of pastel yellow and pink adding discreet pops of color.
Passing by a lineup of high-end conference rooms, Anne came to a second reception zone that was smaller, but no less formal, and there was Miss Martle, sitting at her desk like a sentry in front of a military garrison. The woman was on the phone, speaking quickly and with force, and as she held up her forefinger for Anne to wait, you had to wonder if the thing was loaded and what kind of range it had.
Miss Martle ended her call. “You may go in. He’s off his line now.”
Anne’s eyes shifted to the open doorway beyond. “Thank you.”
Approaching the corner office, her feet made no sound on the thick carpeting, and she could smell fresh coffee and something cinnamon, as if there were a cook somewhere making the partners their breakfasts to order.
It’s a different world, she thought as she stepped inside what was considered hallowed ground.
Silhouetted against the view of Caldwell’s other half, sitting behind a desk the size of a king-sized bed, Mr. Thurston was white-haired and distinguished in his pin-striped suit, looking as if a Supreme Court justice and a Wall Street tycoon had had a love child.
The man glanced up from an orderly stack of documents and removed his tortoiseshell reading glasses. “Miss Wurster. Sit down.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Closing the distance, she lowered herself into an oxblood leather seat across from the man. The royal-blue-and-gold office was so vast that it had its own meeting table, as well as a bar and what had to be a private bathroom off in the corner. Mahogany shelves filled with leather-bound books covered all the walls, except for a six-by-six area reserved for a full-length oil painting of a man who looked so much like Mr. Thurston that he had to be the man’s father or grandfather.
They had the same icy blue eyes.
And wow… Bruce had painted his apartment the exact shade of this navy color, hadn’t he.
When there was a soft click from behind, Anne twisted around to find that they’d been shut in together.
“I understand there has been some unpleasantness,” Mr. Thurston said. “How are you feeling.”
Totally not surprised the man knew about the whole thing—because nothing escaped him if it involved his firm—Anne raised a hand to her temple. She’d replaced the hospital’s bandage with a couple of Band-Aids, and she was hoping to go without them entirely soon.
“I am fine, sir.” She went back to clutching her steno pad. “Thank you.”
“I never did care for that McDonaldson character. Saw right through him. Glad he’s gone.”
“Yes, sir.”
“There’s a reason that we don’t encourage interoffice dating.” This was said with censure, as if she were Eve with an apple, as if she had courted trouble and shouldn’t be surprised when it came to her. “It’s really not appropriate, but you young people have different ideas of things.”
“We disclosed our… we did go to human resources. Per the employee manual.”
The hmrph that came back at her could have meant a lot of things, none of which were complimentary. “Enough about that.” Mr. Thurston linked his fingers together over the case work he’d been reviewing. “We, the firm, want to make sure you’re taken care of.”
“I’m sorry, sir?” Outside the office, a phone rang softly. “So I’m not fired?”
Mr. Thurston waved his reader glasses. “Of course not. You’ve never caused any trouble outside of this McDonaldson business.”
Between one blink and the next, Anne relived the feel of Bruce’s hands locked on her throat, and saw his screaming, furious face inches in front of her own. The temptation to point out that being assaulted by a man whose lies had been exposed wasn’t something she had “caused” stung.
“So we’d like to give you a thousand dollars.”
Anne lifted her brows and tilted forward in the chair. “Excuse me?”
Mr. Thurston smiled like a king sparing the life of a serf. “I know, it’s a lot of money. But this firm cares about its employees. We understand that there was a visit to the hospital for your very minor injuries and we want to help with your medical bills. We know that we’re being too generous. People first, though. It’s our slogan.”
No, Anne thought. The firm’s slogan was Integrity, Excellence, Legacy.
“I don’t need any money,” she said. “I just want to keep my job.”
Mr. Thurston’s hand moved to rest on a piece of paper… and what looked like a corporate check.
“Your job is safe.” That self-satisfied smile came back, the one that was an internal reflection of his belief that he was superior to most people, and yet not without a heart. “We just want to make things easy on you.”
Anne’s eyes lingered on the check. She couldn’t read the writing from here, but it wasn’t blank and the blue sprawl on the signature line was no doubt Mr. Thurston’s.
“Is there a problem, Miss Wurster?”
“I don’t need any money, thank you.” She got to her feet. “I’m very grateful, however. I’ll just go back to work now.”
Those pale blue eyes narrowed on her, a mask coming over the man’s features, locking all that patrician down—which gave her a sense of exactly how good Mr. Thurston was at his job at the negotiating table.
“You must have a lot of savings,” he murmured, “to turn down our generosity.”
“Thank you for thinking of me.”
“Well. I’ll just keep this here.” He tapped the check and the piece of paper. “But only for a day. I am not going to talk you into accepting the goodwill of your employer.”
Foolish girl, the tone implied. You foolish, silly little girl.
Anne looked past the man to the view. Out on the Northway, morning rush hour traffic was backed up on both sides of the river, the lines of cars crawling toward clogged exit ramps and crowded surface roads.
“Miss Wurster?”
“Thank you, Mr. Thurston,” she said quietly. “Have a good day.”
She turned away without a dismissal, and felt a cool wave of disapproval escort her out the door. On the far side of the inner sanctum, Miss Martle was on the phone again, but the woman’s eyes snapped up from her desk and focused on Anne’s hands.