Kill the Competition (2 page)

Perry Ponytail pulled in behind her and honked cheerfully. Belinda flashed a tight smile in the rearview mirror, then locked her doors and turned up the radio, hoping for another dose of the sexy-throated traffic reporter. It was a mild case of celebrity worship, she knew, but his voice on the radio had been the first friendly sound she'd heard when she'd driven into the engorged, alien city, and she...
appreciated
him.

"Whew-we, folks, forget what I said about Georgia 400 southbound! Somebody dropped a
commode
in the road at the Northridge exit and caused a twelve-car pileup across all lanes. No one behind this clogged-up mess is goin' anywhere for a
loooong
while. This is Talkin' Tom Trainer for the MIXX 100 FM traffic report."

She cringed for the unfortunate commuters trapped in the mishap, but the incident was forgotten when a sympathetic driver on the parkway stopped and allowed the entire queue of cars to merge while the northbound lanes were clear. She would've kissed the man full on the lips if she could have, but she settled for an enthusiastic wave of thanks before assuming her spot in the creeping line of cars that extended as far as she could see.

Anxiety coated the inside of her stomach as she anticipated the next sixty-plus minutes of bumper-to-bumper traffic. She checked the security of her seat belt and planted her hands on the steering wheel at ten o'clock and two o'clock, Driver's Ed style. Visibility would be better once the sun had risen fully, but for now, a couple of seconds of distraction equaled an insurance deductible she couldn't afford.

She flipped on her right signal and began edging over to the rightmost lane. Perry Ponytail disappeared into the sea of hoods and headlights behind her. After counting three stoplights and verifying the name of the street, she turned into Libby Janes's subdivision. Stalwart brick-on-basement homes, sloping yards, palladium windows, attached two-and-a-half-car garages—the kind of home she and Vince had aspired to own. They'd spent Sunday afternoons going to open houses while Vince had amassed a filing cabinet full of house plans and names of mortgage companies. Since he was saving for their down payment, she'd volunteered to foot the wedding expenses. As it turned out, chicken kiev hadn't been the wisest investment for her nest egg. And if there was a God, Vince's spanking-new ranch home was parked on a starving termite colony.

Libby's house was a two-story, taupe-colored monstrosity with an unkempt yard and lights blazing in every window. Belinda pulled into the driveway, dimmed her headlights, and lightly tapped the horn. After a minute, she cracked open her canned breakfast and yielded to the dread building in her stomach.

Margo would expect her to have completed the valuation for the mom-and-pop furniture manufacturer being championed for acquisition, even though her boss hadn't e-mailed the final figures she needed until 10:30 last night. If she were a suspicious person, she might suspect that Margo was setting her up to fail in front of Juneau Archer, the elusive owner who was supposed to put in an appearance at this morning's meeting. Her boss had a reputation for being competitive—and unpredictable. Around the watercooler, people called her Manic Margo—and worse. Belinda hadn't exactly clicked with the woman, but she was willing to accommodate the mood swings in return for that handy little paycheck every two weeks. So it wasn't the world's most exciting job—she still wasn't about to fail. She really needed this starting-over thing to pan out.

Belinda puffed out her cheeks and checked her watch. Perhaps she should knock on the door? She hadn't yet mastered carpool protocol.

Suddenly the front door burst open and Libby appeared, pleasingly plump in a brown stretch skirt, her bottle-blond hair a helmet of pink sponge rollers. Libby always did her hair in the car, even if she was driving. Libby's cubicle was near Belinda's at Archer, and she had extended the invitation to join the carpool. Belinda hadn't formed an opinion of the woman beyond "vigorous."

If Libby were a drink, she'd be carbonated.

A red-faced man stood behind her, in hot pursuit of an end to their conversation, shaking a piece of paper. Belinda squirmed at witnessing the domestic drama, but Libby glossed over his concerns with a smile and a peck on the cheek. Then a girl appeared for a good-bye kiss. She was a shorter version of Libby, stuffed into preteen clothes. Libby gave the girl's crop-top an ineffective tug, then turned and tottered toward the car, juggling purse, laptop bag, and insulated coffee mug. She opened the front passenger door and fell inside, ushering in a cloud of cologne and the jangle of enough gold jewelry to melt down into a brick.

"Lordy, Belinda,
tell
me this is Friday." Her voice trilled like a bird's.

"It's, um, Monday."

"Good gravy, I was afraid so."

Chapter 2

Libby's gaze bounced around the beige interior of the Honda. "Cute car."

"Thanks. I—"

"Don't ever have children, Belinda." Libby sighed and rearranged herself. "They'll turn you into an old, grouchy woman."

Belinda checked the rearview mirror for people, dogs, and cars, then backed out onto the street. "You're not old, what—thirty-five?"

"Bless you. I'm thirty-nine. And it's not the model year, honey, it's the mileage. I think my odometer is on the verge of rolling over." She fanned her cleavage with one hand and sipped from her coffee mug.

Belinda turned on the air conditioner. "How many children do you have?"

"Well, there's Glenda—her daddy, Glen, is my second husband. Then there's Glen, Jr., my husband's son by his first marriage. He's a freshman in high school, second time around. And I have a son, Billy, by my first husband, who lives with his daddy, Big Bill. Billy's a senior in high school. His truck was broken into at school, so he borrowed my SUV this week until the window is replaced, else I wouldn't have asked you to drive the carpool right off the bat like this."

"I don't mind."

"Kids. Most days I wouldn't throw them back, but if I had it to do over again, I might opt for the road you've taken."

One corner of Belinda's mouth lifted. Her "road" was more like a footpath, and she had no idea where it might lead. Fairly terrifying, considering a few months ago she'd had her life mapped out well into menopause.

Libby looked up and squeezed each curler, apparently checking for "doneness." "I know you don't like to talk about your ex—what was his name? Vic?"

"Vince."

"Well, I know you don't like to talk about Vince, but you're lucky the marriage ended before you had little ones."

Belinda bit the inside of her cheek. When she'd joined the carpool last Thursday, Libby had remarked on the thin stripe of white skin on Belinda's left ring finger. (Who knew that two years of fluorescent office lighting could produce a tan line around her engagement ring?)
"A brief, unsuccessful marriage,"
she'd told the women. A half-truth. But pawning herself off as a divorced woman would elicit fewer questions than admitting she was—
dum dum dum dum
—acutely single.

Libby clucked. "I changed my mind—the children are fine. It's the men I would throw back."

Belinda slowed for a stop sign, then realized she'd missed the woman's cue. "Did you and your husband have an argument?" Not that she really wanted to get involved....

"Not
an
argument—
the
argument. The same uninterrupted argument Glen and I have had since the day after we got married: money. Do you believe he threatened to cut up my Bloomingdale's card?"

Belinda hid her smile as she watched for an opening in the oncoming traffic. Allegedly the president of the department store chain had sent Libby a thank-you card last year. "Isn't Glen an accountant? We're all frugal." These days, by necessity.

"You might be frugal, but Glen is cheap. For Valentine's Day, he actually suggested that we go to a card shop, exchange cards in the aisle, then put them back because he didn't see the use in spending the money!"

"Okay, that's cheap."

Libby huffed. "I swear, if he cuts up my Bloomingdale's card, I'll cut off his pecker."

Belinda choked on her breakfast drink. "You don't mean that."

"Yes, I do. I have a mean streak. Want a homemade bear claw?" She opened a sack, and the scent of cinnamon sugar rode the air.

"No, thanks. I'm having—" She squinted at the can. "Berry Bonanza with extra calcium."

Libby made a face, then bit into a lump of fried dough. "Sugar and caffeine, girl, that's the way we get our engines started in the South. You're going to have to get with the program."

"I'm trying to lose a few pounds." More like twelve, which had climbed onto her hips from a steady diet of comfort food after the wedding and now refused to dismount.

"You look nice and curvy," Libby insisted, cheeks full. "What size cup do you wear, D?"

"Um, a C." And not even her mother knew that about her.

"Did you have a fun weekend?" Libby asked.

Belinda checked the street signs and turned right into the entrance of the upscale apartment complex where the two other carpoolers lived. "I wouldn't go that far."

"Don't tell me you worked."

"A little."

Libby began unwinding curlers, leaving corkscrews of yellow hair hanging around her ears. "Doesn't the Mistress of the Dark get enough blood during the week?"

Belinda had concluded that Libby wasn't Margo's biggest fan—something about Margo once taking credit for a document that had come out of Libby's technical writing group. But there were two sides to every story, and Belinda had vowed not to gossip about her boss with the women, all of whom were veteran employees of the Archer Furniture Company. "I was preparing for a meeting this morning with Mr. Archer."

"Mr. Archer is coming in? Must be some meeting."

"A potential acquisition—Payton Manufacturing?"

"Oh, yeah, I saw the memo. Don't they make sleeper sofas?"

"Right. And Murphy beds."

"Don't tell me Margo's actually going to let you sit in on the meeting?"

Belinda stopped in front of the clubhouse, where Carole and Rosemary stood, then waved. She glanced at the clock and willed them to run. "That was my understanding."

"I wouldn't be so sure." Libby snorted. "When Mr. Archer is around, Margo likes to be the only female within a hundred yards. She has the hots for him, you know."

Carole Marchand, twenty-something mail room employee with short, barrette-studded black hair, slid into the backseat behind Libby and slammed the door. "Who has the hots for whom? Cute car." The metal braces gave her a slight lisp.

"Thanks."

"Margo, Mr. Archer," Libby tossed over her shoulder.

Rosemary Burchett, immaculate in her gray Donna Karan suit and dark pageboy, placed a lumbar pillow in the seat behind Belinda, then slid in place and caught her gaze in the rearview mirror. "You haven't heard? Margo turns positively giddy when Juneau is in the vicinity."

The woman said Margo's name with veiled loathing, and the owner's name with the familiarity of a loyal executive assistant. From what Belinda could gather, Rosemary handled correspondence and generally fronted for the absentee owner. Belinda found the unruffled-able older woman a tad intimidating, and it seemed that she wasn't alone—even Margo stepped aside when she met Rosemary in the hallway.

"Mr. Archer is coming in today?" Carole asked, shifting her gaze sideways. "So that explains why Rosemary is dressed to the nines."

Rosemary returned a bland smile. "Even if he puts in an appearance, Margo shouldn't get her hopes up. As if Juneau would be interested in the likes of her."

"Well, we all secretly lust after the man," Carole said, clicking her seat belt home. "But Margo is positively shameless. I actually heard her
giggle
once when she was in his office. I think the earth stalled for a second or two."

"Isn't she supposed to be leaving for Hawaii soon?" Rosemary asked.

"This evening," Belinda verified. Her boss had talked about little else. "She'll be gone for two weeks."

"Hallelujah," Libby said. "That's like a two-week vacation for the rest of us."

Belinda didn't say anything, although she had to admit she was looking forward to the independence, however brief.