Kill the Competition (5 page)

"I left mine at home," Rosemary said.

"My battery's dead," Carole said.

Libby cringed. "My service was temporarily disconnected."

And Belinda hadn't reactivated her own wireless phone service since she'd moved. She glanced at her watch with one eye closed and pulled the brush through her tangled hair. She'd never make the meeting, and Margo would be irate. The only upside was that she had longer to contemplate what she was going to say about Payton Manufacturing. Assuming her boss would still want her input. Assuming her boss would still want her employed.

"I hope no one sees us," Rosemary said, holding her hand over the side of her face.

Carole laughed. "Haven't you ever been in the backseat of a police car?"

"No."

"It's no big deal, you know. Being arrested."

"No one is under arrest," Libby said.

"And if you don't mind," Rosemary said coolly, "I'd rather not hear the sordid details of your trips to the hoosegow."

Carole made a face, then twisted and looked out the rear window. "I've never seen a cop change a tire before."

"It was the tears, I'm telling you," Libby said. "Otherwise, we'd be standing out there with our thumbs in the air."

Rosemary scoffed. "He would've called a HERO unit."

Libby sighed. "But this is so much more chivalrous. I
loooove
big Southern men. Did he make a pass at you, Belinda?"

Belinda stopped working at the rat's nest in her hair. "Um,
no
."

"I'll bet you're the cutest woman who ever rammed his car."

"As dubious a distinction as that might be, he's only changing my tire so he can get the heck out of here."

"He got your address—I bet he'll call you at home."

"He got my address so he could write me three big fat tickets."

"How much are the fines?" Carole asked.

She gave up on her hopeless hair and pulled out the three citations signed by—she squinted at the scrawl—Lt. W. Alexander. After adding the numbers in her head, she laid her head back on the headrest. "Two hundred and twenty-five dollars."

"Oooh," they chorused.

Oooh
was right. No telling what the car repairs would cost, and her insurance premium would probably go up. So much for having her TV fixed. And a couch was definitely being pushed farther onto the horizon unless that raise materialized.

Worse, the slips of neon-colored carbon paper in her hand seemed to scream, "You're bad, Bad, BAD." She'd been driving for fifteen years and had never once violated a traffic law. In fact, in thirty-one years, she couldn't remember breaking
any
rules, written or otherwise. She'd been born innately good, her mother had once said. Every child's friend, every teacher's pet. Valedictorian, Most Likely to Succeed, Who's Who Among American College Students. Devoted daughter, employee, and fiancé.

By all accounts, her life should be a raging success. Instead, she was sitting in a police car on the side of a festering interstate, miserable, poorer even than a mere hour ago, decidedly indecisive and significantly insignificant. She pressed her fist to her mouth. She needed a better reason to be here, a better reason to stay here, than simply because it wasn't Cincy.

"One of the tickets will be canceled when you get your Georgia driver's license," Libby soothed.

"And Gustav's cousin has an auto body shop," Carole said. "He'll give you a discount on your car repairs."

In the rearview mirror, Belinda saw Libby elbow Rosemary.

Rosemary sighed. "And no one is going to die if you miss one lousy meeting."

Belinda smiled at their attempt to cheer her up, but her appreciation was cut short by the sight of the officer striding back, wiping his hands on his handkerchief. She stuffed everything back into her bag, opened the door, and stepped outside.

"All done," he shouted. Black grease streaked his temple.

"Thanks," she said, but her voice was lost in the wake of a bellowing eighteen-wheeler flying by. The wind nearly knocked her out of her muddy shoes.

The officer reached out to steady her. "Are you sure you're okay? You don't look well."

Nice.
"I'm fine."

He cleared his throat. "Your headlight is broken, and you need to have the trunk latch looked at. And that spare tire isn't meant for heavy-duty wear."

She nodded, then signaled the women. They climbed out of the cruiser and expressed their appreciation to the officer as they filed by.

"Yes, thank you," Belinda said, and extended her hand. "Again, I'm sorry to have made you late, too."

He hesitated, then gave her hand one quick pump. "You'd better get on the road."

"Yes." She turned and walked toward her car.

"Ma'am?"

She turned back, then touched her neck where it twinged.

"This is Coca-Cola territory," he shouted.

"Excuse me?"

He nodded toward her car. "The Diet Pepsi will have to go. It's all Coke around here."

She brushed her hair out of her eyes and squinted into the morning sun. "I've never acquired a taste for Coke."

He gave her the first semblance of a smile. "You will."

It was a small gesture, an offhand remark from a virtual stranger. But spoken with the certainty that she'd be staying long enough to absorb the local culture. He couldn't have known how much it meant to her to know that despite being obviously ill-suited for this dynamic city, she was still welcome to
try
to fit in.

She climbed behind the wheel, ridiculously cheered. The officer turned on his lights and edged out into the traffic, waiting until she nosed in behind him before pulling ahead. A few seconds later, his siren sounded, and traffic parted like the Red Sea to allow him by. He weaved through the maze of tail lights and soon disappeared from her vision.

"You gotta love a man with a siren," Carole said.

Libby hummed her agreement.

Belinda mulled over his casual words, then was drawn back into the honking, irritated soup around her. While the officer had leapfrogged through the jam-packed lanes, she and the cars around her had progressed all of twenty feet. The two lanes of traffic merging onto I-85 southbound were at a complete standstill. She turned up the radio volume, hoping for a spot of good news. A few commercials later, her favorite traffic reporter came on.

"Well, folks, it's officially rush hour! I-85 southbound is a parkin' lot all the way down to the I-75 connector. We're talkin' fifty minutes, at least, to make your way through that mess. I hope the driver who rammed the police car got a note for his or her boss, because they're gonna be L-A-T-E."

Belinda squeezed her eyes shut. The day had to get better... didn't it?

Chapter 4

Despite their protests, Belinda stopped to let the women disembark before looking for a parking place. "I'm sorry I made everyone so late."

Libby dismissed her concern with a wave. "We could be late every morning for a month and Archer Freaking Furniture would still owe us hours."

"Those chumps in the mailroom probably haven't even missed me," Carole said.

Rosemary flashed a sympathetic look in the rearview mirror. "If I see Margo, I'll try to run interference for you."

"Thanks," Belinda murmured, experiencing a surge of warmth toward the aloof older woman. She wasn't used to accepting help from others—it never occurred to her to ask. In the aftermath of their non-wedding, Vince had remarked that she was "arrogantly independent," that she made people, including him, feel unnecessary. She had dismissed his words as those of a man looking for a way to blame her for his change of heart. But was a woman in need simply more attractive to others?

The last door slammed, and her new comrades moved toward the elevators, Libby and Carole chatting, Rosemary lagging behind. Belinda pressed the gas pedal, her heart suddenly racing at the prospect of facing her unpredictable boss. The numbers from the spreadsheets she'd built ran through her head—if she was late, at least she could be prepared. She still didn't know, though, what she could say about Payton Manufacturing that would satisfy Margo and her own conscience.

By the time she found a parking place at the tip-top of the garage, which had been erected for all the employees located in the twenty-story Stratford Plaza building on Peachtree Street, her bladder nagged and her watch read 9:25. She hefted her briefcase and purse, then scrambled to the bay of elevators and stabbed all five buttons. The Out of Service sign on the sixth one gave her pause—and the willies. Poor Jeanie Lawford.

Belinda shivered. If some horrible accident were to befall her, what would her epitaph read?
Here lies Belinda Hennessey. She was lacking.

Thankfully, her disheartening train of thought was derailed by the arrival of an elevator. After a glance to ensure the floor of the car was intact, she rushed forward, only to collide with a tall blond man exiting with equal momentum. She ricocheted off his leather bomber jacket but, with improvised acrobatics, managed to stay on her feet.

The man reached forward to clasp her arm in an iron grip. She shrank back, overcome by the sensation of the stranger invading her personal space in such an isolated spot. At the sight of his large hand clamped around her forearm, panic blipped in her chest.

"Ma'am?" He relaxed his hold on her, and his voice sounded as if he were speaking to a child. "I said are you all right?"

She gave herself a mental shake at her paranoia, uncharacteristically close to tears at the sum of everything that had happened this morning. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" He smiled, producing one deep dimple and a flicker of gold in his green, green eyes. A strange sense of déjà vu hit her, yet she'd bet her life that she'd never met the man.

"Yes, I'm fine."

"Okay." He flashed another smile. "Have a great day."

She'd probably passed him in the halls of the building, she concluded as she watched him walk away. The sound of the elevator door closing brought her back to the matter at hand—she was
so
late. The elevator car went on its merry way before the call button could retrieve it. She inhaled, fighting for control, then eyed the door to the stairs. She could probably jog down to the eighth floor just as quickly as taking the elevator, and heaven knew she could use the exercise.

Besides, there was less chance of stairs falling out from under a person, plunging that person to her death before she had time to prove to the world and to herself that she had made the right choice in leaving behind everything she knew and starting over.

She arrived at the eighth floor winded, and she race-walked through the lobby of Archer Furniture, nodding to a secretary who gave her a sympathetic stare. By the time she wound through the maze of cubicles to the boardroom, her watch read 9:37.

Belinda stood in front of the closed double doors and breathed deeply to calm her pounding heart. She smoothed her hair, hoping she looked more put together than she felt—doubtful, considering the fact that she'd managed to acquire a three-inch-wide run in her pantyhose from ankle to knee and her best pumps were covered with mud and flecks of gravel. Turning the knob with an unsteady hand, she pushed open the doors.

Empty.

Empty black swivel chairs around the table flanked by empty Payton Manufacturing couches sent over to foster the merger. Her stomach bottomed out.

A noise caught her attention. Clancy Edmunds, Archer's receptionist-slash-host-slash-hall monitor, was clearing paper cups and crumpled napkins. Belinda hadn't been able to get a read on the meticulous, stocky man who had a penchant for bright-colored clothing, but he seemed nice enough. He glanced up and smiled, revealing square, wide-spaced teeth. "Hi, Belinda."

"Good morning, Clancy. Did the meeting end?"

"About twenty minutes ago." Then he winced apologetically. "Margo was a tad miffed you weren't here."

She closed her eyes briefly. "I was in an accident on I-285."

"Everyone okay?"

She nodded.

"Well, traffic happens. Margo will have to understand that not everyone flies to work on their broomstick."