than sitting back and collecting his dividend checks, however, Whitaker fancied himself a mogul-in-the-making. All too frequently he would have a “fabulous idea” for a business he should acquire. He would swoop into my office, wearing his trademark cape over a natty custom-made pin-striped suit, and park himself in my guest chair for hours at a time. His breath reeking of gin, he would regale me with the details of his latest scheme, which he invariably described as a “fabulous idea. We simply must do it. It will be too fabulous.” When I was out of the office, he would pepper Jessica with calls, nagging her relentlessly about my whereabouts. She had developed a fierce antagonism toward Whitaker.
Of course, none of Whitaker’s “fabulous ideas” actually came to fruition. In the past year alone, I had analyzed the profitability and prospects of a fire-hydrant distributor, a failing women’s apparel chain and a producer of diet olive oil. An acquisition of any of these businesses would have been disastrous, and I managed to gently curb Whitaker’s enthusiasm.
I had no doubt that Stan had first steered Whitaker in my direction to torment me. I wished I could say that I had since developed any esteem for the Caped Avenger, as Jessica and I referred to him, but unfortunately I still found him just as pompous and tedious as the day I met him. I also had a secret hunch that he wasn’t that serious about any of his proposed acquisitions but had another agenda altogether. While Whitaker’s wardrobe and mannerisms screamed gay, he’d proved himself to be not only straight but lecherous to boot. When he wasn’t invading my office, he tended to favor small dark restaurants for our “meetings” and would encourage me to sit next to him on the banquette, rather than across the table, downing martinis while plying me with wine. I was always sure to order two cars to take us each home separately after these meetings so that there would be no question of any after-dinner activities. I would have loved to be rid of him altogether, but he was far too important to the asset-management group and relatively harmless when handled correctly.
Silence from the Caped Avenger should probably have made me nervous—who knew what he could get up to on his own? But I was glad of the respite, even though I was confident it would be only temporary. I tossed the faxes onto the bath mat next to the tub and turned to the packet the recruiting administrator had left for me.
A team of ten associates had already been at the Charles for three full days conducting the first round of interviews, and my packet included the results, as well as a schedule for the second round of interviews that more senior bankers like Scott and I would conduct over the next two days.
I checked the lists to see what had happened to Sara’s suite-mate, Gabrielle LeFavre. Sure enough, she’d had her interviews that morning—two back-to-back forty-five-minute sessions. Judging by the evaluation forms the interviewers filled out, Gabrielle had not fared too well in the process.
“Seemed extremely nervous and on edge,” one interviewer had written. “I was worried she might start crying,” another had added. Apparently she had frozen during her first interview when she had flubbed a fairly basic question about an item on her résumé. Things had gone downhill from there. Unfortunately, the comments were too consistent from both interviews for me to resurrect her for another chance.
I placed the recruiting packet on top of the faxes, ran some more hot water into the tub, and gave thanks that I was long done with business school and all of its associated stress. I’d loved college at Harvard, and after I’d completed two years as an analyst at Winslow, Brown, Harvard Business School had been the logical next step. I was lucky—I knew I’d return to Winslow, Brown after graduation, so I never had to go through Hell Week. But it had been hard not to get caught up in the competitive warfare that was a constant undercurrent of daily life on campus and erupted to the surface during recruiting season.
Harvard College prided itself on attracting a well-rounded class rather than well-rounded students. Thus, most of the undergraduate student body was extreme in some way. The person sitting next to you in class or at the adjoining table in the dining hall was likely to be the junior world chess champion, or a budding novelist, or a future Nobel Prize winning physicist. Harvard Business School prided itself on its diversity, as well. My class had boasted students from more than thirty countries ranging in age from their early twenties to a woman in her late forties. Demographics aside, however, the place was relatively homogenous, which made sense since everyone there wanted to pursue a career in business. And to pursue it aggressively. My college roommates had always teased me about my Type A personality, but at business school I’d felt practically passive in comparison to the other students.
The water was cooling again, and my fingertips had begun to resemble raisins, so I pulled myself out of the bath and dried off, wrapping myself in a plush terry robe. I padded into the living room with my soggy papers and dialed into voice mail to leave instructions for Jessica. With a thrill I checked the bedside clock—nearly eleven, and Peter would be here any minute.
It had been just a few days since I’d seen him last, when he’d put me on the plane after our New Year’s ski trip in Utah, but it felt like an eternity. It was hard to believe that I had only known him since August. Our meeting had been less than auspicious, taking place during a disastrous wedding weekend. Peter was supposed to be the best man. But Richard, who was to marry my old roommate, Emma, ended up dead before the ceremony could take place. By the end of the weekend, I’d managed to fall in love with Peter, decide he was a murderer, turn him into the police, realize I was completely wrong about him being a murderer, and force a confession from the actual killer, who’d tried to kill me twice.
The entire series of events hadn’t cast me in my most attractive light, but Peter hadn’t seemed to mind. The past five months had been nearly perfect, marred only by the difficulties inherent in a long-distance relationship.
I heard a knock at the door, and I rushed to throw it open. There he was, in the flesh.
He enveloped me in a long hug accompanied by a delicious kiss. “Mmm. You smell good.”
“I just took a bath. You smell good, too.”
“You smell better.” He kissed me again.
“No, you smell better.”
“No, you do.” Another kiss.
“You do.”
“Let’s not fight about it. We both smell really good.”
“Agreed.” And yet another kiss.
“Can I come in?” We were still standing in the doorway.
I laughed. “Absolutely.” I waited impatiently while he put down his bags and tossed his coat over the back of a chair. He looked so cute in his standard Silicon Valley wear—khakis and a navy sweater, his sandy hair slightly mussed from the long flight. I hurried to pour him a glass of wine from the half bottle I’d opened. He took it from me, set it on the coffee table and pulled me down on the sofa next to him.
“Good trip?” I asked.
“Fine,” he said, running his hands through my hair. If I were a cat, I would be purring.
“Four nights,” I said.
“Four nights,” he replied with a grin. “And a suite. How did you pull that off?”
“I have my ways.”
“You definitely do,” he said, moving in for another kiss. And then his cell phone rang. “Crap. I should take this.” He jumped to his feet and dug the phone out of his coat pocket. “Peter Forrest.”
He
