Kill the Competition (25 page)

"Yeah, well whack her once for me, will you?"

Belinda frowned. "I'll see you later."

Her heart thudded faster, but her steps were sure as she approached Margo's office. It was the right thing to do, the responsible thing to do. What kind of a CFO would she be if her first key decision was based on less than accurate financial information? She was astounded and dismayed with herself that she'd ever thought she could do anything less. She might have left her heart in Cincinnati, but thankfully, her scruples had tagged along.

Brita was sitting at her desk reading. She frowned at Belinda over her glasses. "She's on the telephone."

"I'll wait." Belinda set her purse, briefcase and raincoat on a credenza and took in the view of Midtown from the reception window. With a jolt, she realized this window was above the spot where the plant had nearly slain her. Cold fear gripped her, and she glanced around, looking for a telltale circle on the carpet where a plant might have been. Nada. But she had managed to gain Brita's attention.

"Nice plants," Belinda commented casually, gesturing to the intermittent foliage.

"We have a service," Brita said dryly.

Belinda pursed her mouth, then turned back to the view. Rush hour was in full swing, but police officers were stationed at strategic intersections to keep things moving. She wondered where Lieutenant Alexander was at this moment, but she willed her thoughts elsewhere lest she fall into the habit of thinking about the man. Instead, she passed the time flipping through furniture catalogs and thinking about her luscious leather couch.

Forty minutes later, Brita cleared her throat. "Ms. Campbell is off the phone, I'll tell her you're here." The woman punched a button on the phone. "Belinda is waiting to see you, Ms. Campbell." She set down the receiver and gave Belinda a bland smile while retrieving her own umbrella and purse. "She said she can't see you. Goodnight."

Belinda stood. "But I
have
to see her."

"No," Brita said sternly. "Ms. Campbell has been through enough today. Whatever it is, it'll have to wait until she returns from vacation."

"This can't wait." Belinda walked toward Margo's office door, sidestepping Brita's attempt to block her path with a red-and-white-striped umbrella. She rapped on the door, then opened it. "Excuse me, Margo. I need to talk to you before you leave."

"Ms. Campbell," Brita said. "I'm sorry—she insisted."

Margo sat at her desk, her hands on her computer keyboard. "You may go, Brita." When the door closed, she sighed. "Can't it wait, Belinda? I'm swamped here."

"No, I'm sorry, it can't." Belinda took a deep breath. "Margo, I'm still not comfortable with those questions on the Payton financials that I gave you the morning we presented to the board. Before the contracts are mailed, I'd like the chance to dig deeper into the numbers. Just to be sure."

Margo rubbed her forehead. "Belinda, we've been over this."

"But—"

Margo brought her hand down on her desk in an explosive smack. "We made a
deal,
remember?"

Belinda's stomach bottomed out. "Yes. B-but that was a mistake."

Margo's eyes narrowed. "I thought you were made of stronger stuff."

Belinda's skin tingled. The urge to buckle under the direct challenge was overwhelming. "My conscience demands that I revisit the figures."

A dry laugh escaped her boss. "In business, if you don't have a penis, you can't afford to have a conscience. The sooner you realize that, Belinda, the better."

Belinda inhaled and tried a different tack. "You hired me because I'm a top-notch numbers woman. Let me do my job."

Margo looked back to her keyboard and resumed typing. "You
did
your job. Now go home and celebrate with your roving reporter."

Belinda let the barb pass, then lifted her chin. "I won't change my mind."

Margo sat back in her seat and regarded Belinda with a level gaze. Her long black cherry nails tapped on her desk.
Plap, plap, plap.

Belinda's mind flew ahead. If her boss refused to hold the contracts, then what? Was she prepared to contact Juneau Archer and jeopardize both their jobs, not to mention the entire acquisition? Her pulse thudded in her ears, and all moisture vanished from her mouth. The tension in the air whined.

"Okay," Margo said, lifting her hands. "I've waited long enough for this deal to fall into place, I guess another couple of weeks won't matter. But I want you to wait until I return, and we'll go over everything together."

Relief flooded her limbs. "Thank you, Margo."

One side of her boss's mouth slid back. "You're welcome. Now get out of here, I still have to go home and pack."

"Just one more thing. I'd like to take a day of vacation tomorrow to have my car repaired, if that's okay."

A small smile curved Margo's mouth. "One perk of being a senior manager is that you don't have to take vacation for a personal errand. Take as much time as you need." Margo's phone rang with the double bleep of an internal call, and she sighed. "It's a conspiracy."

Belinda smiled. "I'll let you go. Have a nice vacation."

Closing the door behind her, Belinda released a pent-up breath, glad beyond words that she had followed her instincts and talked to Margo.

The woman was a conundrum. Margo could come off as such a hard-ass, but she was genuinely looking out for the good of the company. So she didn't have the best bedside manner—if she were a man, her abruptness would be seen as a strength. And Belinda doubted that any man would have handled Jim Newberry with as cool a head as Margo had today.

Belinda gathered her belongings and retraced her steps down the hallway toward the back stairwell. The overhead lights were after-hours dim, the many cubicles sat vacant, and the air hummed with the distant drone of office equipment. At this time of day the department took on an almost eerie quality. A shiver traveled over her shoulders as she replayed the scene of Jim Newberry charging into Margo's office earlier, his eyes wild. How differently that encounter might have ended.

Violence in the workplace had always bewildered her, but lately she could see how someone who was having a personal crisis might construe a setback at work as the final straw. In hindsight, Lieutenant Alexander's concern today was well-founded, and she was grateful he'd thought of her safety.

Grateful and...
flattered.
But not swayed.

Her thoughts jumped to Rosemary, and she sent up a little prayer that her friend had fared well in her evaluation. It was a shame that Rosemary and Margo had once been friends and were now at professional odds. A potential outcome, she supposed, when relationships got "messy."

She wondered if Libby and Carole had managed to follow Rosemary and uncover the root of her secret meetings. Yet Belinda's immediate concern was the best way to get to Libby's house to pick up her car. She pushed open the door to the stairwell, shifted her load, and began her descent down seven flights. What had begun as paranoia about the elevators had at least become a healthy habit.

A taxi from Midtown to Libby's house would cost roughly the same as the killer Gucci purse she dreamed of owning, so that was out. But she could catch the MARTA rail train at the Arts Center station and ride the northeast line to the end, then hail a taxi, and that would set her back only about the cost of a below-average pair of shoes.

One minute she was thinking about the pair of shoes she was sacrificing, and the next thing she knew, she was falling. She flung her arms out to catch herself, but momentum she blamed on those extra twelve pounds sent her skidding over the steps on her belly.

A wall stopped her.
 

When she opened her eyes, pain was her instant realization—her head, her shoulder, her wrist. And a sense of having missed something more than a step... time? Had she passed out? She moaned and was gratified to hear her voice. She dreaded moving because she suspected the pain would get worse.

She was right.

The ache in her left wrist convinced her to use her right arm to push herself upright. Thank goodness no bones were protruding, but her wrist was swollen and she was going to have a knot on her head. Her cheek burned, and the knuckles on her right hand were skinned, but otherwise she felt lucky. And, being the pragmatic girl that she was, her immediate thought was if the ninety-day probation period on her medical benefits had passed.

A couple of minutes later, she felt well enough to stand and gather her wayward items. She'd managed to lose a shoe and become detached from the raincoat she'd been carrying. Her purse and briefcase were intact and undamaged, so that was something. From the sign on the wall she'd collided with, she had made it to the second floor, so she decided to proceed to the ground level lounge for repairs.

She navigated the rest of the stairs carefully, then avoided eye contact with passersby until she crossed the threshold of the women's lounge near the entrance of the hotel lobby. Her navy jacket was filthy, torn, and minus one pewter-colored button. After removing the jacket, she pulled up the sleeve of her blouse and held her wrist under cold running water in one of the sinks.

A glimpse in the mirror revealed a bright patch of skin on her cheek. She'd probably have a bruise, but considering how hard she'd fallen, she was lucky she hadn't broken her preoccupied neck. She washed the blood from her knuckles and noted with relief that her wrist was already feeling better. A woman exited a stall and cast suspicious looks in Belinda's direction as she washed her hands. Belinda didn't blame her for staring—she looked as if she'd been in a barroom brawl.

After dabbing powder on her cheek and fluffing her hair, Belinda dusted off her jacket and slid into it with a grimace. She decided she'd rather wear the raincoat than carry it, which meant more contortions. Thoroughly exhausted, she gathered her briefcase and purse and left the lounge. Having tomorrow off was sounding better and better; at least she could sleep late. And it would be nice to have her car back in top working condition. She smirked—might as well get her Georgia driver's license while she was at it. Since she was going to be the new CFO of Archer Furniture Company, it looked as if she'd be staying a while.

At this time of day, most of the activity in the Stratford Building surrounded the hotel and fitness center. Every time she thought about her brazen episode with Julian, she burned with embarrassment—and the teensiest bit of satisfaction that she had the potential to surprise herself. Then, as if she had imagined him into existence, across the enormous corridor she saw Julian walking into the gym carrying a black leather duffel bag, his shoulders rounded as if he were in deep thought.

Pleasure bubbled in her chest. "Julian!"

When he recognized her, he seemed surprised, then smiled.

She met him halfway. "Hi. I see you made it back."

He nodded, but seemed distracted—probably tired from the flight. "You cut your hair—nice."

"Thanks."

He shifted foot to foot. "What are you still doing here? Hasn't your carpool left?"

"Something came up that needed my attention, so I told the girls to go ahead. I was on my way to MARTA."

"MARTA? To Alpharetta?"

"Well, as far as I can go, then a taxi to Libby's house to pick up my car."

"I can take you."

She shook her head. "I don't want to keep you from your workout."

He hesitated, then smiled. "Nonsense, I'll take you. Maybe we can grab a bite to eat on the way."

She winced. "This sounds klutzy, but I fell in the stairwell and sprained my wrist, so I really need to get home and ice it down."

Julian shrugged. "Okay, I need to run an errand out that direction anyway."

"Thanks. I have to admit your offer sounds better than catching the train and a taxi."

He looked down at his bag. "Um, give me a minute to ditch this in a locker."

"Sure."

Julian waved to the cute girl at the desk, who motioned him past the long check-in line. Local celebrity had its advantages, Belinda thought with a wry smile.

Then again,
fooling around
with a local celebrity had its advantages, too.

Chapter 18