new secretary had her own way of doing everything, and that way scarcely made sense to anyone other than Miss Finnegan.
At one point, when Wheeler asked her where she had filed the particulars for a design project he was bidding on for a local minimart—whose name began with the letter W—his new secretary retrieved it from where she had filed it under L. And when he had asked her what the letter L had to do with design or minimart or W for that matter, she had looked at him as if he were a complete moron, and then had explained to him, in a tone of voice that indicated she thought he was a complete moron, that L stood for lottery. Miss Finnegan, it would appear, always bought her lottery tickets at a minimart. Thus, it made sense—to her, at least—to file the plans in such a way.
And as for his new secretary’s coffee... Well, suffice it to say that Wheeler never asked for a second cup. In fact, after that first day he’d pretty much foregone the first cup, too. He saw no reason to sample Miss Finnegan’s coffee, unless, perhaps, he would have some reason to be awake for seven hundred hours straight.
Now as he pushed his troubling thoughts aside, he forced his feet to move forward again, carrying him through the brisk morning, past the other pedestrians hurrying to their respective places of business. No one else seemed to be too worried about what the day ahead held for them. No one else seemed to be frightened of what might greet them at their jobs. On the contrary, everyone else seemed to be remarkably bored by whatever might be going through their brains.
Then again, nobody else had to face the day ahead with Audrey Finnegan.
Oh, come on, Rush, he chastised himself as he quickened his step a bit It can’t be as bad as you think Miss Finnegan couldn’t possibly be as horrific as you’re recalling. You just had a rough week yourself, and you’re looking to pin it on her. Be fair.
That’s what Wheeler told himself as he gripped the handle on the office door and inhaled a deep, fortifying breath before entering. Because he’d spent his weekend brooding over his ill fortune, he was naturally starting off his week now feeling more morose and defeated than the average person, and he wanted to blame someone other than himself. It was as simple as that.
So Miss Finnegan had taken out a couple of office machines, he recalled. So what? Wheeler had managed to undo whatever damage she had done, hadn’t he? And sure, it had taken a big bite out of his day to act as computer repairman... and phone repairman... and copier repairman...and microwave repairman. But, seeing as how he hadn’t had any real work to occupy his time anyway, that wasn’t so bad, was it?
And, okay, so now his insurance company was canceling his policy because he was rear-ended by his secretary. He was probably going to have to sell his car soon, anyway, for the few thousand bucks it would bring in.
And, yeah, his files were in such a complete mess that he would probably never be able to figure them out for himself, should Miss Finnegan step in front of a bus and go to her final reward, which, considering the woman’s luck, was not outside the realm of possibility.
There were worse things in life, right?
Right.
So chin up, he told himself further. Hey, after all, when things were this bad, they could only get better, couldn’t they?
In spite of his little pep talk to himself, though, Wheeler felt anything but reassured when, very, very cautiously, he pushed the front door open. He hesitated a moment before entering, just to get a feel for things. No smell of smoke, he noted, heartening some. No strange sounds of mechanical upheaval. No power outages that he could readily discern...
Okay, so everything was fine, he realized with a long sigh of relief. See? He really had been overreacting when it came to memories of the previous week. Heartened some more, Wheeler strode into his outer office with all the confidence of a brass band, and found...
...chaos.
Truly. Chaos. What else could it be called when one’s secretary had one’s number-one client—the very, absolute last of one’s reliable accounts—in a choke hold, clearly striving to throttle the life right out of the man? Because that was exactly what was happening. Audrey Finnegan stood behind and had both arms wrapped resolutely around the neck of Otis Denby, CEO of Denby Associates, and Mr. Denby was turning blue as he fought for his very life. He had gripped both hands around Miss Finnegan’s forearms, but she clearly had the upper hand, pumping his body back and forth as she was with much abandon.
And all Wheeler could think was that he couldn’t possibly allow her to murder Mr. Denby. Denby was, after all, the only client Wheeler had left who paid his bills on time.
“Miss Finnegan!” he shouted at the top of his lungs as he rushed forward. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”
Without awaiting a response, he gripped her wrists fiercely and yanked her hands free of his client’s throat, pushing her backward as he pulled the other man forward. Immediately Mr. Denby curled one hand around his nape, stretching his neck tight as he rolled his shoulders forward, then back. His face and bald pate were red and mottled, but he didn’t seem to be struggling. Well, not too much, anyway. His barrel chest rose and fell as he inhaled great gulps of breath, and his pale blue eyes widened in what could only be a combination of relief and terror.
And then, much to Wheeler’s surprise, the other man expelled a bark of delighted laughter. “Well I’ll be damned, Miss Finnegan,” he said with a chuckle. “That really did the trick. You’re absolutely amazing. I never would have suspected that a woman of your, uh...your attributes... could have such a gentle touch. Thank you.”
Thank you? Wheeler echoed to himself. Gentle touch? What the hell was going on here?
“What the hell is going on here?” he cried. He glanced first at his client, then at Miss Finnegan, further demanding an explanation.
She shrugged. “I worked for a chiropractor for a while,” she said. She waved a hand negligently through the air. “You pick up little things on your jobs. For example, everything I know about fashion accessories, I learned from just two weeks at The Limited.”
And speaking of fashion accessories, Wheeler noted through narrowed eyes that Miss Finnegan was in a blue mood today. Sapphire blue, to be specific. Her sapphire miniskirt was topped by a sapphire sweater that actually covered her hips. Sapphire hose ended in sapphire boots, and sapphire earrings swung from her ears. Her black hair, as always, was caught atop her head in a riot of curls, but even they seemed to be touched with blue.
Whatever she had learned about fashion during her time at The Limited, it must have been, well...limited. Because one thing he could definitely say about his temp—she was a color palate just waiting to happen. If she ever learned how to mix colors.
Wheeler pushed the thought away. “Just what the devil is going on?” he demanded again.
Before Miss Finnegan could add anything to her earlier explanation, Mr. Denby turned to him instead. “Your new secretary just fixed a back problem I’ve had for decades, Rush. Decades. I can’t tell you how much money I’ve spent on specialists over the years, only to have Miss Finnegan fix me up—” he snapped his fingers merrily “—like that.”
She shrugged again. “My father suffered from the exact same thing,” she said, sidestepping the accomplishment. “You just have to know where to look, that’s all.”
Where Wheeler decided to look was at the ceiling, while he tried not to think about the potential bodily damage his new secretary could have done to Mr. Denby. What on earth
