her bare-breasted secretary going at it on Eve’s desk. Her desk. Ugh. Perry, the cheapskate, couldn’t even shell out the bucks for a motel room. Eve had needed an entire canister of antibacterial wipes before she’d felt comfortable sitting at her desk again.
Clearly they hadn’t expected her to miss her flight and return to the office. Delores had still been gasping for air and Perry searching for a lie when Eve had calmly picked up their clothes—Perry’s carefully draped Armani suit and Delores’s size-two skirt—from her guest chair and walked back out the door.
Perry had screamed bloody murder but hadn’t followed her down the hall. Too many people worked late for him to give chase with his johnson catching wind. And Eve would bet they were also pretty surprised when security showed up shortly thereafter based on an anonymous tip. Perry had called the next day, not to apologize but to demand his suit back. She’d referred him to the Goodwill she’d passed on the way home.
Getting mad was a waste of energy. But getting even was definitely satisfying.
“He could’ve told me he wanted to see Delores. It was the deception that bothered me.” She tugged at the waistband of her skirt. It wasn’t a size two. It was a twelve and it was tight. Too tight.
“Sorry, babe. He was doing more than seeing her. Delores is a skinny tramp,” Andrea said. Andrea was a good friend.
“Bimbo.”
“Floozy.”
Eve basked in the satisfaction of name-calling for a few seconds. It was almost as satisfying as a steak-and-cheese hoagie. Well, not really, but it’d have to do.
“Delores might’ve been a bimbo, but she was a great secretary. I definitely miss her more than I miss Perry.” Eve was still getting used to LaTonya, Delores’s replacement.
“You know the whole thing’s turned you into something of a legend. The women revere you and the men fear you. Eve the Avenger, superhero to women around the world.”
Eve indulged in a little eye-rolling. “I hope they write better copy for the Bradley ad.” She tried to bring the conversation back to her latest assignment. Perry was old news. Embarrassing old news.
“Hey, they can only work with the material they’re given.” Andrea tore open the wrapping on a Twinkies. “You ought to have a little weekend fling while you’re there. You know, clear out Perry’s bad karma.”
“I’m not a fling kind of gal. And Perry didn’t leave any karma there.” Things hadn’t progressed beyond a few dinner dates and a couple of lukewarm kisses. Despite the surprise element, she’d kept her wits about her and was able to size things up when she’d caught Perry naked. Unless he was extremely good at making the most of what he had, she hadn’t missed much.
“There’s a first time for everything.”
“But—”
Andrea held up her hand, interrupting Eve’s rebuttal. Eve shut up. No one in their right mind talked to Andrea’s hand. “Eve, you are a genius at work. But you’re lousy at picking men. Do yourself a favor. Have a fling.”
Eve had Godiva’d her way to the same conclusion—not the fling part, but the bad choice in men. Chocolate hadn’t helped and she didn’t see that Andrea’s advice would, either. “Is a fling going to improve my lousy judgment?”
“No. I personally think you pick those guys to avoid commitment. They’re losers, so it’s a good reason to dump them. You know, like in Moonstruck when Cher tells Nic Cage he’s a wolf who’d rather gnaw off his own leg than get caught in a trap.”
Eve knew the scene well since she and Andrea had seen the movie about a dozen times since they’d been friends. Andrea had serious Nic Cage fever.
“I do not deliberately pick losers in order to avoid serious relationships.” She didn’t, did she? That would be seriously warped. “So, tell me again why I should hop into bed with a stranger this weekend?”
Andrea wore a dreamy expression. “Think ‘Strangers in the Night,’” she sang the title to the Frank Sinatra classic. Andrea, who’d grown up in Brooklyn, with her grandmother sharing her parents’ house, had been weaned on Sinatra, Nat King Cole and Ella Fitzgerald. Andrea was a quixotic mixture of uptown sophisticate and romantic neighborhood girl, virgin extraordinaire still waiting on a man with an equally romantic soul. They, however, were in short supply. “Think romance. It would be fun.”
“The only fun I’m interested in is winning that promotion and beating LaRoux.”
“I’m just interested in who winds up on top,” Andrea said, a teasing glint in her eye.
JACK LAROUX LEANED against the hotel’s black marble counter, impatience lurking behind his nonchalance. He needed a swim, a shower and a Scotch. Not necessarily in that order. All three were a mere check-in away.
According to Neville, Jack also needed to get laid. But then again, his assistant considered sex of tantamount importance ninety-nine percent of the time. From day one Jack’s perpetual reserve had never inhibited Neville’s outrageous tongue.
While he waited on his key card, Jack checked out the bar tucked into a corner on the first floor, visible from the lobby mezzanine. Not crowded yet. Not surprising at seven forty-five on a Friday night. He could probably pick up a Scotch and Neville’s prescribed lay in the bar. If that was what he’d wanted. Instead, he’d order the Scotch poolside after his swim.
“Here you are, Mr. LaRoux,” said the desk clerk. Meg, according to her name tag, offered a smooth, professional smile along with his key card. “You’re in Suite four-fourteen. Is there anything else I can help you with? Do you need a hand with your bag?”
“I can handle it.” He picked up the garment bag and the black leather attaché housing his laptop, compliments of Hendley and Wells, and smiled across the desk at her. “Thanks, Meg.”
Meg blushed and tucked her hair behind one ear, flustered. Who was he to question why women responded to his smile that way? But they did, and it made his life much easier. Most of the time. “Enjoy your stay, Mr. LaRoux.”
“Thanks.” Jack shouldered his bag and headed for the bank of elevators, anxious to dump his things in his room and head to the pool. He had energy to burn and swimming laps inspired some of his best thinking.
He rode the glass-fronted elevator to the third floor. The thick carpet absorbed the sound of his footsteps as he walked down the hall.
His cell phone buzzed. Neville’s office extension flashed on the caller ID. Jack flipped it open with one hand. “Hi, Nev.”
“You will not believe who just called the office looking for you,” Neville announced with typical dramatic flair.
“Don’t leave me hanging.” Jack keyed open his suite door and padded across the thick carpet. He deposited his laptop on the desk.
“LaTonya Greer.” Neville paused for effect.
The redhead he’d met at the art gallery opening last week? No. Her name was Leslie or Laura or maybe it’d been Leanne. It wasn’t LaTonya. He crossed the sitting room to the bedroom and hung his garment bag in the closet. “Am I supposed to know LaTonya Greer?”
“Hel-lo.
