Kill the Competition (21 page)

From the next room, Vince's envelope called to her with the lure of reclaiming a piece of her former life, but exhaustion helped her resist. She smiled at the TV couple's banter and felt her eyelids growing heavy. Last night's missed sleep was catching up with her.

But what if Vince's card was a plea to forgive his foolhardiness and come back to live with him in the home they had selected together? Maybe he had ordered stainless steel appliances and installed bookshelves in the TV room. Maybe he realized that their pre-wedding consummation had simply been bad timing and excessive nerves and not a culmination of their relationship. She'd been sexy and lovable all along.

Her next conscious moment was being jolted awake by the telephone ringing. Downey had been curled against her stomach, but she went airborne with alarm. Belinda registered the fuzz on the TV and filtered daylight streaming in the bay window. The time on the VCR read 9:35 a.m. She pushed herself up, groaning when her back and shoulder muscles seized, and lumbered to the cordless phone, '"Hello?"

"Belinda?" a woman's voice asked.

The voice was familiar, but she was still chasing the sleep from her brain. "Yes."

"Belinda, this is Margo. Did I wake you?"

Panic gripped her—had she somehow slept through Sunday and was, at this moment, supposed to be at work? "Um, no, you didn't wake me," she lied, her mind racing for an excuse as to why she wasn't at her desk.

"Good," Margo chirped. "Listen, I hate to bother you on Sunday morning, but I need for you to take a look at another set of Payton financials."

Weak with relief, Belinda shoved her hand into her hair—or at least tried to. It was an impenetrable mass on her head. "I thought the contracts were already signed."

"They are, they'll go out in the next couple of days."

Margo hesitated, or perhaps she was distracted. Belinda could hear another voice in the background—a male voice. The television? Suddenly all sound was muffled, as if Margo had covered the mouthpiece with her hand, then it cleared.

"These questions are for my own information," Margo said. "But I have to have the answers by tomorrow morning."

"Okay. Did you e-mail the documents?"

"No, I need for you to look at my notes in the margins—I'm having the papers couriered to your house. The messenger should be there within the hour."

Belinda glanced down. She'd slept in the clothes she'd worn to the spa, and they told the story. Downey sniffed her, then turned and walked away. "Okay, I'll be on the lookout. Should I call you if I have questions?"

"No, if we need to discuss anything, I'll schedule some time before your evaluation tomorrow."

Belinda swallowed. "Okay."

Margo hung up.

Chapter 15

Belinda looked at the phone, then disconnected her end of the call. "So much for a lazy Sunday," she murmured, then tore upstairs for a shower so she'd be presentable when the courier arrived.

One glance in the vanity mirror halted her in her tracks. Her hair was positively frightening, and the rest of her was only one step above. She turned on the showerhead, then peeled off her clothes and tossed them in a pile. When she removed her panties, the air hit her in places it hadn't since before puberty. She scrutinized her wax job with a critical eye—the little old lady who had painted on the hot wax, then ripped out the hair with equal levels of skill and detachment, had left a tiny landing strip on her privates but otherwise she'd been picked clean. The "gliding" feeling wasn't wholly unpleasant, but it would take some getting used to.

And the brilliant pain had lasted a bit longer than the "instant" Carole had promised.

She climbed into the shower and began the job of removing the gunk from her hair. Three shampoos later, she turned off the spray, squeezed the excess water from her hair, which felt disturbingly missing, then gave her body a brisk toweling. Her stomach growled—the quesadillas she'd eaten last night with the girls after they'd left the spa had run their course. She needed coffee and brain food—i.e., pancakes.

Since being fully clothed when the courier arrived was her first priority, she pulled on comfy jeans, T-shirt, and sandals. She brushed powder on her face and stroked on lip gloss, then tackled her hair—not a small task, considering she didn't know where to begin. To expedite matters, she turned the blow dryer on high, pointed it in the general direction of her head, and finger-combed the haphazard layers until they were dry. She looked in the mirror and squinted at the non-style, then experimented, finally tucking it behind her ears. While she scrubbed her teeth, she studied her new do from all angles and decided that the short bangs did highlight her brown eyes, and the extra detail around her face did bring out her cheekbones.

She had underestimated Libby—the woman knew hair.

The doorbell rang. She rinsed her mouth, then scooted out into the hall and down the stairs. She opened the door and smiled at the dark-haired lady holding a packet and a clipboard. A memory chord vibrated. "Hello."

"Belinda Hennessey?"

"That's right." Belinda took the clipboard and glanced at the woman's nametag. Tina Driver. "Tina, you look familiar. Do you work at Archer?"

"Not for Archer, for the management company at the Stratford Building, so you've probably seen me around. You're Carole Marchand's friend, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"I work with Carole in the mail room."

Belinda nodded. "We carpool together."

"I know—she talks about you. You're the one who tore Margo Campbell a new butt hole."

Belinda handed back the clipboard. "Well, I wouldn't put it that way."

"Everyone else does." The woman cackled and handed her the package. "Hope this isn't retribution."

Belinda gave her a tight smile. A sick feeling settled in her stomach as she watched the woman climb into her van and pull away. Once a rumor sparked in the mail room, it spread like wildfire throughout the building via the mail employees of the individual companies. She'd have to watch what she said around Carole.

Of course, hadn't Carole expressed the same sentiment about her the other evening when they'd been having drinks?

She decided to let the incident slide. Maybe the story of the encounter had been an embellishment, but it hadn't been a lie. And hadn't she invited open commentary by choosing to play out the incident with Margo in a public place?

A distant rumble drew her attention to the dark clouds gathering on the horizon. A breeze had picked up, signaling imminent rain. Downey tried to make a run for daylight, but Belinda nabbed her, if inelegantly. By the time she closed the door behind them, the cat had nipped at her twice and left a long, bloody scratch down her arm. Belinda released the cat, and Downey bounded up the stairs.

"Run," Belinda yelled, surveying the gash. "I ought to have you de-clawed and those fangs of yours filed down!" She sighed, wondering which one of them would mortally wound the other first.

After washing up, she carried Margo's package to the kitchen. She began to read while she whipped up three pancakes, one of which she buttered and winged into Downey's bowl. "Come and get it," she shouted.

Nothing.

One of Margo's infamous neon orange notes had been plastered on the thick sheath of papers as a cover sheet.

B—

Please respond yes or no by item number on a separate sheet of paper to my handwritten notes.

But as far as she could see, the Payton financials were more of the same. And Margo's questions weren't nearly so urgent as she had made them seem.

Item #1—Yes or no, is this a reasonable figure for this type of expense?

On a separate sheet of paper, Belinda wrote:

Item #l—yes, this is a reasonable figure for this type of expense.

Item #2—Do you think this line item is something we should be concerned about?

Item #2—No, the line item represents standard industry procedure.

After two hours of scanning the pages for Margo's lightly penciled questions in the margins, her eyes were burning. Sometime while she was working, Downey's pancake had disappeared. Belinda shook her head and went back to work. An hour later, a clap of thunder shook the town house, and a black streak shot through the kitchen, ending at her leg.

"'Fraidy cat," Belinda admonished. "Don't even try to suck up to me."

But Downey was in a repentant mood, winding around her legs. Belinda ignored her and pushed away from the table for another cup of coffee.

Margo confounded her, seeming alternately dismissive of and concerned about Payton's financials. Maybe the woman wasn't as confident as she wanted everyone to believe—not a stretch, Belinda decided, now that she knew Margo's background via Rosemary's story. And even as congenial as Margo had been the past few days, Belinda couldn't help but feel anxious about her evaluation.

The dark sky opened wide and sent the rain down in sheets, creating a cozy afternoon cocoon. She turned on the television in the other room for background noise and had almost finished wading through the financials when the phone rang. Probably her mother, she thought ruefully. Then, shot full of guilt, she answered.

"Hello?"

"Belinda? Hi, it's Julian."

An involuntary smile curved her mouth. "This is a nice surprise. I thought you were in Raleigh."

"I am, and it looks as if I will be for the night. The weather is horrendous."

"Here too. It's been raining for hours and doesn't seem to be letting up."

"Guess nobody will be flying in the morning." He sighed. "I wish you had been able to come with me."

"So do I," she said, and meant it. "But as it turned out, I had to work this afternoon anyway."

"On Sunday? Your boss must be some kind of slave driver."

"I work for Margo Campbell."

"Ooh. Did I get you in trouble Friday?"

She sighed. "I blame myself—I don't know what came over me to be so indiscreet at work."

His sexy laugh rumbled over the phone line. "I came over you."

Warmth flooded her thighs. She squirmed, managing a nervous laugh. She hadn't yet graduated to naughty banter. "I should thank you for your radio message Friday afternoon."

"What good is my eye in the sky if I can't help out a friend?"

"I took your advice and waited out the traffic." Wade Alexander's face materialized in her mind, but she blinked him away.

"Listen, I plan to be back in Atlanta by tomorrow evening. I was hoping we could get together again for lunch?"

Lunch, or foreplay? She shifted her weight and was reminded of her sexy new style down below—she needed to show it off sometime, didn't she? That exceptional pain had to come to some good. "I'm supposed to get an estimate for having my car repaired tomorrow, so I might be taking a day of vacation sometime this week. I'll have to play it by ear."

"Is this from your collision with Alexander?"

Him again. "Yes."

"I'll bet he wrote you a ticket, didn't he?"

"Three."

He guffawed. "The man's a real charmer. No wonder his wife was stepping out."

Sympathy for the officer barbed through her—no one deserved that kind of disregard. There were honorable ways to end a marriage.

Not that she could hold hers up as an example.

She pushed away from the counter where she'd been leaning, suddenly antsy. "Under the circumstances, I thought Lieutenant Alexander was generous." She managed a small laugh. "He even changed my tire."

"Yeah, I saw him. Must have felt guilty for fining you. Listen, I can make a couple of calls and have those tickets thrown out."

Although the idea appealed to her bank account, Julian's offer didn't feel right to her gut. "Thanks, but I'll take my medicine."

"Okay. If you change your mind, let me know. Meanwhile, I'll call you when I get back in town to check your schedule."