Kill the Competition (9 page)

"He'll be so happy to hear that."

"Give him my love."

"Bye, dear."

She disconnected the call and jogged upstairs to change clothes—might as well empty the trunk while she was outside. After dragging on shorts and T-shirt
(with
a bra, just in case Perry and his hose were still in the vicinity), she gave in to the guilt and bent to straighten her bed even though she'd be mussing the covers again in a few hours.

The leopard-print bed-in-a-bag had been an impulse buy after the move, and she still wasn't entirely comfortable with the choice, despite the fact that she was now a born-again bad girl. But she hadn't been able to stomach the thought of using sheets that she and Vince had shared, even though their activity had been largely innocuous. So, out with the Waverly plaid and in with the wild animal print.

Grrrrrr.

A quick plump to the solitary goose-down pillow—she'd gotten rid of the one permeated with Vince's cologne.

His too-sweet, too-trendy, too-memorable cologne.

Her thoughts landed on the envelope sitting downstairs. If Vince had met someone, or was—heaven forbid—getting married, wouldn't her mother know about it?

Certainly. But Barbara Hennessey would never drop that kind of bombshell on what she perceived to be her wounded daughter. If she knew something, she would go out of her way not to mention Vince's name.

Belinda chewed on her lip. Come to think of it, her mother
hadn't
mentioned Vince's name.

She shook herself mentally, situated the shammed pillow in the center of the bed, and thumped it with satisfaction. Men were unnecessary, so one pillow would suffice.

Belinda retraced her steps to the front door, exited barefoot, and allowed Downey to follow. The sun-resistant Bermuda grass was a soft, tickly rug for her toes, and a haven for enough insects to tempt even cranky Downey from her malaise. Thank goodness Perry and his truck were nowhere in sight—off to the barbecue place, she assumed. A few children played in the yards of the larger homes across the street. The
ship, ship, ship
of a sprinkler that she couldn't see filled the cooling air, and the sun was beginning its slide.

She used a disposable camera to record her beloved car's injuries and told herself this was why one had auto insurance. She then resigned herself to the trunk. She removed the violated tire and leaned it against the bumper, then divided the nonessential items between the garbage and the garage. Back into the trunk went the tire and the two crates of reference material that she vowed to carry to her cubicle tomorrow. After all, soon she might have a bigger office.

She discounted the sudden pain in her stomach as hunger pangs.

When she opened the car door, Downey promptly jumped inside and made a nuisance of herself while Belinda rummaged under the seats for the waylaid organizer.

"I know you're hungry," she muttered to the yowling cat. "So am I."

Hungry, and minus an organizer, she admitted a few minutes later. She didn't recall having used it at the office, although as preoccupied as she'd been the rest of the day, she might have. Hopefully it was in her cubicle somewhere, because it contained not only her address book but her personal and business schedule as well.

She pulled the car into the garage and shooed Downey through the door leading inside. "Let's eat, my friend." But she had no sooner poured kibbles into a bowl than the phone rang again—her mother, no doubt. Obsessing over Suzanne's package and conveying a checklist from her father for the car tune-up.

"Hello?"

"Is this Belinda Hennessey?"

She tensed for a telemarketing spiel. "Yes."

"This is Lieutenant Wade Alexander of the Atlanta PD."

Her mind froze.

"We were involved in an accident this morning, ma'am."

Recognition slammed into her. "Oh. Of course." Libby's remark clanged in her memory.
He got your address—I bet he'll call you at home.
"What can I do for you, Lieutenant?"

"I believe you left something in my cruiser."

Her organizer. She winced. "Yes. What a relief, I thought I'd lost it." She recalled removing items from her purse to find a hairbrush while sitting in his car—how careless. "How can I arrange to get it back that would be convenient for your schedule?"

"My schedule is pretty erratic the next couple of days." Fatigue weighted his voice. "How about I drop it by your office?"

"That's very kind of you."

"Just doing my job, ma'am. Where do you work?"

"At the Stratford Plaza building on Peachtree, Archer Furniture, eighth floor."

Silence resounded on the other end.

Belinda frowned. "Hello?"

"I'm familiar with the place," he said slowly. "I'll get it to you as soon as possible."

"Thank you." She pressed her lips together. "Lieutenant Alexander... I hope you made your meeting this morning."

More silence, then, "Yes, ma'am. Goodnight."

Belinda replaced the handset and groaned. If the man didn't think she was an idiot before, he certainly did now. Hopefully he would leave her organizer with a receptionist, and she wouldn't even have to see him.

Well, until traffic court, that is.

From across the room, her briefcase loomed large.
I'll take another look at those numbers.
Easy to say when she'd been alone today with Margo—so why did she suddenly feel the need to procrastinate?

She downed two ibuprofen tablets for her sore neck and ran her hands through her overlong, flattened hair. Another to-do item: find a hairstylist. As if finding a new doctor, dentist, ob/gyn, and insurance agent wasn't bad enough. She'd have to ask the girls to recommend someone convenient and not outrageously priced. Meanwhile, a scrunchie might be in order.

The weather was too clear for the television to pick up anything but fuzz—a new set was definitely second on her shopping list behind a couch—so she found an R&B station on the radio. (Talkin' Tom had flown home hours ago.) A can of clam chowder, a handful of crackers, and an apple sufficed for dinner. She ate at the glass table, staring at the envelope Vince had sent, and gleefully fantasized about running into him when she went home for the holidays.

"Oh, you saw me on CNN? Yes, I was honored that Archer made me their CFO so quickly. And who knew we'd become the darling of the analysts after the company went public?"
(Hearty laugh).
"Our breaking up was the best thing for both of us, Vince."

It could happen.

She switched on her laptop so it could boot up while she washed the dishes. For the next hour, she pored over the Payton financial statements, reading the small print and referencing every footnote. The capital expenditures seemed suspiciously high, especially in light of the rash of corporations that'd been caught dumping expenses on the wrong side of the balance sheet to prop up their bottom line.

Belinda sighed and steepled her hands. Payton used a reputable accounting firm, and legally, disclosure had been satisfied. Still, the numbers weren't transparent enough to suit her.

I don't want unnecessary questions to stall the acquisition.

Margo couldn't have been more clear, but Belinda didn't want to greenlight a transaction that would come back to haunt Archer; surely Margo didn't want that kind of headache.

On the other hand, people at the top were paid to deal with headaches. She sat back in her chair. What seemed risky to her was probably rote to Margo and other senior executives. And if she was going to fit in at the top, she needed to be more assertive, to take on the competition.

With a confident appearance, a few buzzwords, and a practiced pitch, she might be able to pull this off.

Belinda pushed to her feet and cleared her throat loudly enough to pull Downey's attention away from grooming her hindquarters.

"Felines and gentlemen, based on the financial statements of Payton Manufacturing, it is my opinion... "

* * *

"...that the acquisition of Payton would indeed give Archer the fiscal synergy it needs in preparation for going public."

Belinda swept a level gaze around the board room table, stopping long enough to make eye contact with Juneau Archer (a striking but gently befuddled man), two venture capitalists who served on Archer's board of directors (short, dubious-looking men), Monica Tanner, VP of design (slim, nail-biting forty-ish Archer veteran), and Tal Archer, VP of sales and marketing (disinterested mid-thirties gay heir apparent), and finally, Margo. Of the team assembled, she was the last person to contribute to the pitch, and if she had to say so herself, she'd wowed them with her charts and spreadsheets.

One of the board members leaned forward. "Ms. Hennessey, Archer has been formulating this acquisition for nearly a year. You're by far the newest member of the team—"

"Gentlemen," Margo cut in. "Belinda came to us from Visher-Floyd Insurance in Cincinnati. She was on the team that coordinated the acquisition of Three Signs and Limpkin, resulting in one of the largest insurance companies on the eastern seaboard. She has spent countless hours combing Payton's financial statements." She flashed Belinda a charming smile. "I trust her judgment."

Belinda smoothed back a strand of hair that had escaped her chignon and concentrated on looking competent.

The director who had appeared to be on the verge of questioning Belinda's credentials looked at his partner, then splayed his hands. "If you trust Ms. Hennessey's judgment, Margo, that's good enough for us. The board will vote on the matter tomorrow morning, but since our two votes plus Juneau's constitute a majority, I believe congratulations are in order."

Exclamations and handshakes traveled around the table. Margo looked at Belinda and mouthed, "You killed them."

Belinda returned a calm, professional nod, but inside she basked in her boss's praise. She just might give this risk-taking philosophy an earnest go.

Chapter 7

"So, I heard the board of directors approved the acquisition," Rosemary said.

Belinda labored to bench-press a lousy twenty-five pounds. At the top of the extension, she glanced up at the older, firmer woman who was spotting her. "Yep," was all she could manage. She lowered the bar to her chest, and her pecs groaned in relief.

"Juneau seemed pleased," Rosemary said. "And Margo is in rare form."

Belinda followed Rosemary's gaze across the noisy gym, where Margo was receiving one-on-one attention from the gym's buff trainer on a mysterious-looking machine that appeared to work the crotch muscles.

Anxiety needled Belinda—walking the line between loyalty to Margo and loyalty to her friends was proving to be a high-wire act. "Am I finished? I think I heard something pop."

Rosemary dragged her gaze from Margo. "One more set, then we'll hit the showers."

Belinda grunted her way through the repetitions, hoping she'd be able to lift her jelly arms to wash her hair. Her legs still throbbed from yesterday's punishment. (Rosemary called it "lunges." Tomato, tomoto.) Between her sore muscles and mild whiplash, ibuprofen was becoming her between-meals snack. She glanced at the dry sauna longingly—maybe another day.

The locker room experience was another one of those unfamiliar girly situations; call her old-fashioned, but the sight of bare-breasted and -butted women walking around chatting about the best plastic surgeons made her pull her towel just a little tighter around her own ta-tas.

Rosemary, too, was refreshingly modest, but when Belinda emerged from the curtained dressing room, fully clothed and coifed, she practically stepped on Margo—naked. Okay, the little woman was wearing flip-flops. And lipstick.

"Hello," her boss said, just as if she weren't full-frontal with a subordinate.

"Hi," Belinda said, keeping her eye contact high while sliding past.

"Belinda."

She closed her eyes briefly, then turned back. The woman's nipples were as big as saucers. "Yes?"

"I meant to tell you how nice you looked at the meeting yesterday, and today."

Belinda knew the brown wool-blend flattered her auburn hair, so the compliment was probably sincere, but it was weird coming from an unclothed woman. She tried to imagine Margo in her underwear. "Thank you."