Kill the Competition (22 page)

"Okay. Good-bye." Belinda disconnected the call slowly, contemplating her breezy relationship with Julian. A girl on the rebound could do worse than a handsome local celebrity. She looked back to her work spread over the kitchen table, then checked her watch. If she hurried, she could finish reviewing the financial statements before
The Single Files
came on.

Margo had flagged only two more areas, both as easily explained away as the others. Belinda perused the sheet of comments she'd made for her boss and shook her head. Maybe Margo was simply giving her busywork, testing her to see how responsive she would be on weekends. Margo's reference to her evaluation needled her, although she told herself she didn't have anything to worry about—Margo had already offered her the CFO position.

So why did she have the same prickly feeling of impending doom she'd had just before she'd rammed Wade Alexander's police cruiser?

The phone rang again, pulling her from her futile funk. She retrieved the phone from the counter. "Hello?"

"Belinda," said a bleary female voice. "This is Rosemary."

"Hi, Rosemary." She hesitated. "Is everything okay?"

"Actually, I need a favor. Would you mind driving the carpool tomorrow? I just remembered I have an appointment after work that I can't miss."

The mysterious appointments that Libby had mentioned. "Sure, I'll drive."

Rosemary made fretting noises. "If this weather keeps up, it's going to be a mess. I'd normally call Libby, but she won't get her SUV back until later in the week."

"It's no problem, really."

The older woman's sigh of relief seemed exaggerated, considering the issue. "Thank you, Belinda."

Was she drinking? Ill? "Rosemary, are you sure everything is okay?"

"Absolutely. I'll call Libby and Carole and tell them to look for your car. Everything will be fine. I'll see you sometime tomorrow."

"Yes. Goodnight." Belinda set down the phone, then frowned at the woman's phrasing. Everything
will be
fine?

Chapter 16

No one on the planet had the expertise or the right to complain about traffic, Belinda decided, until they'd driven in Atlanta during Monday morning rush hour in the driving rain.

An unending procession of steel machines crawled toward downtown, headlights on low-beam and wipers on high-speed against the gray downpour. Stalled cars were everywhere, and many traffic lights had malfunctioned. At every intersection, tempers were short and waits were long. In a word, it was misery.

"This is misery," Libby confirmed, looking around at the cars that hemmed them in on Peachtree Parkway. They were on their way to pick up Carole.
"Why
do we do this?"

"Because we aren't independently wealthy."

"Amen," Libby said with a sigh. "Lordy, I wish I would win the lottery. I'd hire your buddy Julian to pick me up and fly me to work."

Belinda gave her a wry smile.
"No one
is getting anywhere fast this morning."

The traffic reporters, all grounded by the soup, warned that road conditions were especially dangerous, since car fluids that had soaked into the asphalt were now slick puddles waiting for a bald tire. Belinda was glad Wade Alexander had badgered her into having her tire replaced right away. Operating with a broken headlight was enough of a hazard.

She wondered idly how the big man had spent his rainy weekend—trapped inside with his own temperamental cat, or pulling long shifts, since ugly weather usually meant overtime for public servants. She suspected he preferred working.

"Your hair looks great," Libby said.

Belinda smiled and stole a glance at her short auburn tresses in the rearview mirror. "Thanks to you."

"My hair, on the other hand, is going to look like crap."

Belinda eyed the pink sponge curlers, dreading the hairspray fumes, since they wouldn't be able to roll down the windows. "Maybe you should wait until we get to the parking garage to fix your hair."

"Okay," Libby mumbled, digging in a bag for her third doughnut. She had groused and fretted since climbing in Belinda's car, and Belinda suspected that the woman's evaluation weighed heavily on her mind.

She knew the feeling. How she wished for the distraction of Julian's voice.

After several long minutes of stop-and-go traffic, they pulled in to pick up Carole, who huddled beneath an awning of the apartment complex clubhouse.

She ran to the car, threw open the door, and fell inside. "Ugh, this weather! As if Monday isn't bad enough all by itself."

"I hate to think of Rosemary driving in this alone," Belinda said.

"I know," Carole said, removing her hat and pushing her black hair out of her eyes. "I tried to talk her out of it, but she insisted she couldn't miss her appointment."

"I think when she leaves the office this evening, we should follow her," Libby said matter-of-factly, handing the doughnut bag over the seat to Carole.

Belinda frowned as she eased the car through standing water heading back toward the parkway. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Wouldn't you want to know if Rosemary is sick?" Libby asked.

"Not if she doesn't want me to know."

Libby shook her head. "Did you have girlfriends in Cincinnati?"

Belinda blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Just what I said. Did you have any close girlfriends?"

She pushed her shoulders back. "I had a lot of friends." Was that her voice sounding so defensive?

"Anyone you've stayed in touch with since you moved?"

A flush warmed Belinda's face. "The split with Vince complicated matters."

"All your friends were his friends," Libby said bluntly.

Belinda balked. "That's not true." Was it?

Carole leaned forward. "What's with the inquisition, Libby?"

"I'm only saying that a woman is different with her own friends than she is with the girlfriends or wives of her husband's buddies." She took another bite from her doughnut. "If you had your own girlfriends, you'd know that sometimes sticking your nose into their business is part of what being a friend is all about."

"In this case," Carole said, "I agree with you. How can we help Rosemary if we don't know what kind of trouble she's in?"

Belinda squinted. "But why do you assume she's in trouble?"

"Because," Carole said, "if it were something good, she'd share it with us."

"That's how women are," Libby added, then she angled her head. "You don't like to take chances, do you, Belinda?"

She bristled. "I moved to Atlanta."

"On people, I mean. You don't like to take chances on people."

"Vince—"

"Vince broke your heart," Libby argued. "But that doesn't have anything to do with not having female friends in your life."

Belinda concentrated on the road through the furious blades of the wipers and kept her tone light. "I've always been a loner."

"I think you're afraid if you stick your nose into Rosemary's business, someone will stick their nose into
your
business."

Belinda took a deep breath to stem the ridiculous tears that pressed at the backs of her eyes. "I think you're worried about your evaluation, and you're lashing out at me."

"She's right, Libby," Carole said. "Let Belinda drive."

"People who care about each other go out on a limb," Libby said. "Rosemary's gone out on a limb for us plenty of times. If she's in trouble, I want to be there for her."

Belinda met Carole's glance in the rearview mirror.

"I want to be there for her, too, Belinda."

Belinda looked back to the brake lights of the car in front of her. The truth was, she didn't want to get involved, especially with her own life still in restoration. Yet wasn't that Libby's point—that to be a friend, sometimes things got messy? And hadn't she promised herself that she
would
take chances, break a few of her self-imposed rules?

"Okay," she agreed. "But snooping makes me very uncomfortable."

Libby's smile was triumphant as she lifted her travel coffee mug. "We know."

Feeling absurdly as if she'd just passed some kind of initiation, Belinda turned her attention back to the road. Not that keeping her foot on the brake took much focus. They were going to be so late for work—as well as every OTP person who worked ITP. Margo would be supremely annoyed. She suddenly realized the women were whispering.

"Show her," Carole said. "We won't have time when we get to the office."

Belinda raised an eyebrow. "Show me what?"

Libby smiled. "Carole and I bought you something." Libby reached into a bag at her feet. "Belinda, meet your new best friend."

Belinda stared at the pink beribboned item Libby held up. "That's the biggest curling iron I've ever seen."

Libby laughed. "It's not a curling iron."

Belinda stared at the twenty-inch black wand. "That
cannot
be a vibrator."

The two women looked at each other and fell out laughing. "No," Libby gasped. "It's your very own stun baton."

Belinda hit the brake a little too hard. "Stun baton? I... wow."

"To leave under your car seat," Libby said. "Five hundred thousand volts." She hit a button, and a crackling noise filled the air. "Three seconds on the end of this baby, and a man will be rehabilitated."

"Wow," Belinda repeated. "Is it, um, legal?"

"Good gravy, yes. You're in the South, girl. We'd arm ourselves with an alligator if we could get him in a holster."

"Ah. Right."

"We figured it was the least we could do for asking you to drive so much right off the bat," Libby said.

"Thanks. You. All." She started nodding and couldn't seem to stop.

"Rosemary will be jealous," Carole said, bouncing in her seat.

"Heck,
I'm
jealous of this Big Daddy," Libby said, sending another crackling jolt into the air, just for fun, Belinda assumed.

She, on the other hand, thought Big Daddy was downright terrifying, and she breathed much easier when Libby put him away. But it was the thought that counted, and she was touched that the girls were concerned for her safety. As soon as she received her raise, she planned to reinstate the service to her cell phone.

After her account recovered from buying the evil couch. And after she bought a new television.

Which reminded her. "Hey, did anyone watch
The Single Files
last night?"

"Just the last half," Libby said. "It was a rerun, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, but one of the best episodes," Carole said. "Where Jill first met the locksmith."

"I love reruns," Belinda said.

Libby frowned. "I don't like reruns because I feel like I'm being manipulated into investing time in something that's long gone."

Belinda pursed her mouth. Something to consider.

"There's got to be a DO or a DON'T in there somewhere for our book," Carole said, then snapped her fingers. "I almost forgot to tell you—Ricky called me last night, and you'll never guess what he said."

Libby smirked. "If I guess, can I call myself a psychic and charge people for making outrageous predictions? Hey, maybe
that
can be my part-time job."

"Well, smarty-pants, it just so happens he said he had a vision of my name on the front of a book."

That stopped Libby for a few seconds, then she scoffed. "You told him we were working on a book."

"No, I didn't."

Libby narrowed her eyes, as if she wanted to believe but couldn't bring herself. "That guy is ripping you off. Call-block him, and you wouldn't have to marry for money."

"But I trust Ricky," Carole said. "I believe he really has special powers."

"Girl, he's probably calling you from the basement of his parents' home."

"There's more."

"He's an alien?"

"No," Carole said, and the odd tone of her voice made Belinda look up.