Do-Over (4 page)

She had to give her sister credit. It was tough to dismiss a hockey-playing librarian under the general heading of “been there, done that.” Whatever it took to deflect this guy was going to have to be original…and fast.

“Does he speak Swahili?” she asked, thinking of a snippet she’d heard on National Public Radio while trapped in yesterday’s traffic jam.

“Um…not that I know of.”

“Then I don’t want to meet him. Have John tell him that I’m in the middle of a Swahili immersion course. No Swahili, no dinner.”

“Come on, Cara. I’ve already invited Ted. I can hardly un-invite him.”

“Fine. Tell him I’ll be the puffy-eyed, sullen chick speaking Swahili at the end of the table.”

“Cara—”

“Kwa heri,”
she said before hanging up. If
goodbye
was to be the only word she’d ever know in Swahili, at least it was perfect for Ted, the hockey-playing librarian.

She’d no sooner gotten rid of her sister than the phone rang again.

“Hello?”

“You’ve been crying,” Bri accused.

Cara sniffled. “And here I was thinking that I sounded better.”

“So what’s up? I thought you did the soggy-hankie thing only in alternating leap years.”

That was the difference between Cara’s best friend
and her sister. Bri knew her inside out, while Dani had always watched her the way one might a specimen in the zoo—with no actual, personal regard.

Cara rolled from the bed and tossed her last tissue in the wastebasket.

“You know how I wanted the do-over?” she asked as she wandered into the living room.

“Yeah?”

“Well, there must have been nothing good on Olympian television last night, because the gods chose me for their viewing pleasure.” She hesitated before speaking the evil truth. “Mark Morgan is joining my firm.”

“Right, and Robby of the wandering hands is hiding in my closet.”

“Bri, I’m serious. I drove by to look at my office today and—”

“I’m not even going to comment on how weird that is.”

“I think you just did,” Cara pointed out, then continued. “He was there, in the parking lot, and…and…now he’s going to be there for good.”

She needed aspirin, more tissue and a reason to live. Since two out of three could be found in the bathroom, she headed that way while Bri talked.

“First question…does he still look totally hot?”

“Better than ever,” Cara replied glumly.

“Okay, that could be a plus.”

Cara’s stomach clenched. “I know what you’re thinking and I’ll give you a one-word answer—
never.
”

“Keep tempting those gods, Adams. See what it gets you.”

“Now you’re sounding like a true believer. Aren’t
you worried about a lightning bolt headed your way?”

“Nah, I figure God’s busy enough dealing with your heresy. Okay, so it’s you and the Shark,
mano a mano,
or
mano a
fin, or whatever. Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“That was ‘what if’ stuff. You know, pity-party chat. It wasn’t real.”

“So, now it is.”

She could almost see Bri shrugging as she spoke. “You’re just a regular go-with-the-flow kind of girl, aren’t you?”

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

“I’m genetically incapable.” Cara massaged her aching temples with her free hand. “But, yeah, now I have Mark ‘the Shark’ Morgan as my daily reminder of mistakes past.”

“So what are you going to do about it?”

“Do?”

The empty aspirin bottle lay in the trash. Cara glared at it and then pulled open the medicine cabinet to see if she had any eyedrops. Of course if she did, they were probably long-expired. She shopped as frequently as she went to the dry cleaners.

“Yeah, do. As in a battle plan?”

This was why self-pity was such a stupid waste. Not only did it leave her with a nose red enough to guide Santa’s sleigh, it consumed valuable time.

She could either seize the opportunity presented, or once again turn belly-up for Morgan. Cara tried to ignore an unacceptable tingle down low in that belly as another, more intimate meaning for
belly-up for Morgan
drifted through her mind. It was Bri’s fault. Bri and her talk of “totally hot.”

She needed to think mean thoughts. Killer thoughts.

“I’m going for the jugular, Bri. And this time, put your money on me. I swear I’ll win.”

Bri cheered, Cara winced at the noise, and up on Olympus, Zeus and his buddies began to tally the odds.

Cara’s Rule for Success 4:

If you’re on the losing side of a battle,

manipulate it until

you look like a winner.

T
WO MINUTES PAST NINE
on Monday morning, Mark walked through the front doors of Saperstein, Underwood.

“Good morning,” he said to the person he knew from some prior groundwork to be Annabeth Kielman. Of course, he hadn’t expected that she’d be wearing a broad metal choke chain usually seen on a rabid Rottweiler, or that she’d be humming “Taps.” “I’m Mark—”

She glared at him. “Can’t you see I’m in the middle of a ceremony?” With a militarily precise turn, she faced the wall of names behind her. She took two steps forward, the edgy American version of a Buckingham Palace guard.

Intrigued, Mark watched as she slid the plate bearing Rory McLohne’s name from its holder. With a turn, she faced him. Brass plate held between thumb and index finger, she brought her hand to shoulder height, then released. Mark raised a brow at her cannibalistic smile when Rory’s nameplate landed with a
thud in what he assumed was a wastebasket. She dusted off her hands and then returned to her desk.

“I take it you weren’t a fan of Rory’s?” he asked.

She toyed with the metal ring at the end of her chain, brushing her fingers against the upper curves of what looked to Mark to be manufactured—or at least rearranged—cleavage.

“Big ego, small…
hands.
”

Nibbling on her lower lip, she made a show of sizing him up. For about a tenth of a second he was startled, but then he had her pegged. Mark settled his palms on the smooth granite surface of the desk.
Look all you want, Lolita,
he thought.

Leaning forward, he gave her an intimate smile…a knowing smile.

Her smug expression wavered just enough that he knew his instincts were dead-on. “You like your little kingdom, here, don’t you, Annabeth?”

“It sucks.”

Spoken like a true postmodern man-eater. “Ah, but here you’re safe. Here you’re in control. It’s so much better than that big, mean world out there, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied in a venomous voice.

“Sure you do, and here’s my deal for you… If you don’t play me, I won’t play you. Straight-up and honest between us.”

Her black-eyeliner-rimmed eyes narrowed, but she said nothing.

He held out one hand to shake hers. “My name is Mark Morgan and I’ll be moving into Rory McLohne’s old office. I won’t call you demanding coffee and I won’t expect you to run personal errands for me. I will expect you to greet my clients politely and to take
comprehensible messages when calls for me land up here. And in exchange, Annabeth, your little secret will be safe with me. You can pretend to hate this place worse than Jackson State Prison.”

Her flat stare from eyes so pale gray they were almost void of color might have made some guys question their judgment, but not Mark. He dropped his hand and shrugged. “Okay, have it your way.”

In what could be interpreted as an act of capitulation, she shoved a pile of pink message slips across the counter at him.

He smiled. “This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

“Eat shit,” was Annabeth’s succinct reply.

Mark shrugged. “Close enough.”

C
ARA SAT BEHIND
her desk, door closed, deep in a mental run-through of her shark-baiting strategies. She half wondered whether he was late just to jerk with her. Okay, so he was late only by her standards, she conceded with a glance at her watch. As she practiced her calm smile, the one that said, “I’m in control, as I should be,” the interoffice line on her phone rang.

Cara glanced at the caller ID, then picked up. “Hey, Annabeth.”

“They were doing it in the file room.”

Cara blinked. “Is this code-speak or something?”

“Your former secretary, Leigh, and her boyfriend,” she explained impatiently. “They were going at it like otters between the
L
and the
M
rows when she was supposed to be working overtime to purge old files. Howard stopped by to pick something up. Now he’s having the area sterilized.”

Cara smiled at a vision of Howard in a haz-mat suit,
spraying down files. Then another thought distracted her. “Otters?”

“Yeah, otters,” Annabeth snapped. “Got a better word?”

“You’re a little testy this morning. What’s up?”

“He’s here.”

“Who’s here?”

“Mark Morgan. I heard you screamed at him in the parking lot on Saturday, but to refresh your memory—big hands…bigger ego.”

That sounded about right. “Where is he?”

“Moving into Rory’s old office.”

“No stinking way!”

“Ah, I feel better already,” Annabeth sighed.

Cara didn’t hear because she’d already hung up and headed for battle.

She found Mark Morgan behind the desk that was to be hers, looking like the king of all he surveyed. Which left her, once again, in the role of a groveling subject. The skin on the back of Cara’s neck crawled with a nauseating sense of déjà vu. Years melted away and she was watching Morgan move into the editor-in-chief’s spacious office, while she tucked her tin cup of stumpy red pencils into the grungy, gray cubicle she’d been allotted outside His Highness’s door.

Some of what she felt must have telegraphed itself because she was sure she saw a flash of pity cross his face.

Screw pity.

“Hi,” he said.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking around. I’ll be moving in here.”

“Is that so?” she said in the same tone she’d use to say,
“Drink some strychnine.”

He glanced over her shoulder and out the door as though seeking backup. “I figure they stuck me in here because it was convenient.”

“As opposed to the two open associate offices just down the hall?”

“Cara—”

Oh God, now she could hear the pity.

Screw
him.

“Do you recall me being particularly stupid back in law school?”

He didn’t answer. In fact, as she watched him sitting there saying bloody nothing, it was as though he had forgotten that she was in the room. The beginnings of a smile played about his mouth. He had these cool crinkles at the corners of his eyes she couldn’t recall seeing before. And the hot expression in those eyes sent a primal shiver through her, which, of course, ticked her off all the more.

“Morgan?” She leaned across the desk and waved a hand in front of his face. “Anybody home?”

“Huh?”

This
was her competition? Just now, the NYC-minimalist suit and tie had more life than their wearer. “I don’t know how you remember me, but I don’t remember you being this dumb. First, pay attention when I talk. It gets on my nerves the way you wander off as if I’m too complicated to follow.

“And second, don’t humor me. I know the score. They stuck you in this office because they figure it will be easier than having you move again when you make partner. My advice to you is not to get too comfortable. I’ve put in six long years of work to get that chair,” she said, pointing at the high-end leather
model he so happily occupied. “No way are you weaseling ahead of me.”

He watched her with the kind of calm she’d kill to really possess, instead of fake. Seconds slipped by, the two of them locked in a battle Cara chose only to half understand. Then that smile—the one promising wonders that would spoil a woman for all other men—appeared. “You know, we could always share. Wanna sit on my lap?”

“Jerk,” she snapped. “This isn’t funny.” She turned heel and retreated to the low-rent district. His laugher drifted through the wall.

Damn, damn, damn!
Feeling totally impotent, Cara paced between the desk and the credenza. They’d given him Rory’s office. Smoke from the Vatican chimney would be no clearer a signal of who was next to ascend to partnership.

Cara briefly considered calling Rory and nudging him along to find her a new home. She knew he’d do it if she kissed up enough. Two things stood in her way: loyalty and honor. Regardless of the lawyer jokes she heard daily, loyalty and honor were tenets she never abandoned.

Rory, on the other hand, had shown her no loyalty. And as for honor… The guy was sleeping with at least three women that Cara knew of, each of whom believed she was in an exclusive relationship. It had been none of Cara’s business, so, even though it had made her crazy, she’d kept her mouth shut. In time, she had come to realize that her answering silence when girl number one, two or three would mine for info on Rory, made her no better than he. She’d ignored these thoughts while Rory was here, for he’d
been her best advocate among the partners. Now that he was gone, she could admit to the truth.

She was far safer battling Morgan than moving on. She couldn’t risk falling into Rory’s deceitfully charming ways, and she suspected that in his continued company, it was a distinct possibility.

Cara checked her watch. In fifteen minutes, the finance practice group would assemble in the conference room to be officially introduced to their shining new hero. She knew she shouldn’t be so cynical about him. After all, he wasn’t as inherently oily as Rory, and he couldn’t help it if he was too handsome for her own good. But dammit, for once, couldn’t life go the way she planned?

M
ARK SCOWLED AT HIS
office windows. There wasn’t even a vent he could open on the things. He didn’t know much about Rory McLohne, except that he’d poached clients and had been too damn fond of his aftershave. Over the weekend, this space had been cleaned from top to bottom and it still bore the cloying scent of “Guy with something to prove.” Maybe by the time Mark returned from New York at the end of the week, the smell would have dissipated, as would have Cara’s anger. He knew the odds on losing the Rory-stink were better.

Cara had asked what he remembered of her from law school. He could recall a great many things, like the way on warm spring days, she’d wear blue shorts that had probably been a more conservative fit back in high school. Then she’d cross her legs and swing one foot, its sandal dangling, drawing attention to crimson-painted toenails and a gold toe-ring. He could recall wanting to touch her skin, to trace the dusting of
freckles across her shins, and he could recall the one time he’d been lucky enough to taste her.

Of course, the pitcher of margaritas she’d singlehandedly downed had created both her salty taste and the opportunity to experience it. He wondered if she still drank margaritas. Somehow, he doubted it. In fact, he doubted if she even remembered that hot, endless kiss. Or throwing up on his shoes about fifteen minutes later. At least, if God was kind, that would be the case.

“Are you ready?”

Mark set aside thoughts of margaritas and their aftereffects and focused on Stewart Harbedian, who stood in the doorway. Mark’s instant assessment of Stewart had been that the guy was gregarious and smart, and that his favorite sight was his reflection in a mirror. Nothing since that first meeting in New York weeks ago had changed Mark’s mind.

Mark stood. “Ready.” He walked around his desk.

Stewart grasped his hand and gave him a hearty handshake. “You’re looking good. Custom suit?”

“Off the rack,” Mark corrected.

“Damn,” Stewart murmured. “Great fit.” Mark could see him mentally penciling-in two more weekly sessions with his personal trainer.

It hadn’t escaped Mark that Harbedian appeared to consider him an extension of himself. He’d recruited Mark, thus whatever good Mark brought accrued to Stewart. For all that, Mark actually appreciated the pep talk Stewart gave while they walked to the conference room.

Inside, five partners and eleven associates sat at a large oval table. Two spots were open at the head of the table, one for Stewart and one for Mark. As Harbedian
led him into the room, Mark noticed that Vic Mancini was swiveling around in his chair. The sight reminded him of a dog chasing its tail. Hard worker, but lacking in direction.

To Vic’s left sat Cara. Her face was composed in a serene smile, one that brought visions of madonnas and saints and other impossibly ideal sorts. Her eyes, however, weren’t as perfectly under her control. There, he could see her flash and fire. There, he could see the woman who’d danced with abandon, making him hard and scaring the hell out of him, all at the same time.

Now, however, was not the time to think about being hard. Or having the hell scared out of him. Now was the time to start as he planned to continue. He sat, keeping his expression friendly, yet not ingratiating.

Stewart introduced him, right down to a recitation of his law school accomplishments, which Mark considered ancient and somewhat embarrassing history. Then he motioned to Mark, as though he was supposed to say something wise and enthralling. But like every other associate in that room, he just wanted the hell out.

“I don’t have much to say at this point, except thanks for the warm welcome. I look forward to getting to know everyone in a little more casual setting. And I’m sure you all have work to do, so…”

Howard Blenham stepped into the breech. “Each of you, tell Mark your specific areas of specialty,” he ordered the associates.

Mark was hammered with catchphrases like “syndications” and “participations” plus a few mumbled “dunnos” from those so new to practice that specialization
would have been an absurdity. Then Cara spoke.

“As Stewart mentioned, Mark and I attended law school together. In fact, he was editor-in-chief of our law review when I was case notes editor. I want all of you to know that it was an absolute pleasure working with him then, as it will be now.”

Mark smiled while thinking,
you incredible fraud.

Her voice was as rich and sweet as honey, enough to persuade everyone that she was a dear old friend. Hell, she almost had him convinced that she liked him, and he knew better. His respect for her burgeoned, as did his caution. He wondered why no one here had urged her toward litigation; she was wasted outside the courtroom.

She had risen and moved until she was standing behind him. “As the most senior associate, I want to set the tenor for the practice group by promising here and now to do all I can to make Mark’s transition into the firm a smooth one.”