Hardly Working. Betsy Burke

a wet silence and then he started. “You know I walk dogs for Mrs. Pritchard-Wallace out near Point Grey?”

      “Yeah?”

      One of Joey’s filler jobs.

      “Not anymore.”

      “What happened?” I asked.

      “Well, early this morning I was taking Jules and Pompadour, Mrs. PW’s miniature poodles, for a walk along by the golf course, when this thing, this creature from Hell comes streaking out of nowhere, snatches Pompadour in its jaws then streaks away. Nothing left but Pompy’s diamond collar. It was a wolf. I’m sure it was a wolf.”

      “It was probably a coyote.”

      “You’re kidding me, Dinah.”

      “Was it sort of a yellowish color?”

      “Yes, my God, it was. How did you know?”

      “Don’t you read the news?”

      “Variety. I read Variety. You know that. I haven’t got time for global disaster.”

      “Jeez, Joey. They figure there must be at least two thousand coyotes in and around town. They can’t catch them because they’re just too smart. I’d heard about them, I’d just never had a firsthand account. Wow.”

      “Wow is right. Mrs. PW’s going to have hysterics. She doesn’t know yet. She’s out getting her facade renovated.”

      “Her what?”

      “Getting her face stripped and varnished. A peeling and a facial, darling.”

      “Oh.”

      “And I’m shaking all over. I’m going to have a Scotch right now.”

      “Joey. At nine forty-five in the morning?”

      “It’s not every day somebody’s thousand-dollar poochie gets to be part of the urban wildlife food chain.”

      “God, yeah. Listen, Joey, you don’t want to get the coyotes used to a diet of expensive house pets. It might build their expectations. You know? Like potato chips? Once you’ve had one, you just can’t stop. So don’t encourage them…careful where you walk your dogs. Listen, speaking of predators and prey, the big boss from the East just blew in driving a Ferrari and I’m really worried, I’ve heard he’s completely insensitive to people’s feelings. He decimated the last office he was in and then some. And I’m told that there may be a total massacre in this office, too…”

      It would have been better if I hadn’t looked up at all.

      “Ooops…gotta go.” I slammed down the phone.

      He, Mr. Silent Shoe Soles, was standing in my open doorway, staring at me. The CEO. He was so luscious-looking in real life that I could hardly swallow.

      Chapter Three

      Ian Trutch continued to stare at me. I tried to match his stare but I couldn’t stop myself from taking inventory. My eyes went first to his face and then to the mahogany skin and black chest hair at the neck of his unbuttoned white shirt. I swallowed with difficulty. If I’d been another kind of girl, if I’d been Cleo, for example, I would have been tempted to climb down inside that crisp shirt and stay there. Maybe all day. Definitely all night. Little things, the length of his fingers, the way his cuffs circled his wrists, made me shiver.

      He had eyes the color of swimming pool tile, surrounded by long, black, almost feminine lashes, and a little set of deep thinker creases between his eyebrows, reflecting his Harvard Business School prowess. His thick, silver-black, stylishly electro-shocked hair was just waiting for some girl’s hands to give it a good running through, though I suspected he was the type who didn’t like having his hair messed up. Everything else about him was immaculate. He had a knowing, ever-so-slightly cruel mouth and a pirate’s tan.

      Sailing, sailing, sailing the bounding main…

      It was a good thing I knew where the boundaries lay and wasn’t the sort of girl who fell for that whole superficial gorgeous man thing. If I had been a real man-eater like Cleo, I would have considered pursuing him for his body alone. Like wanting a whole bottle of Grand Marnier for yourself, it would be a sweet, intoxicating blast, but ultimately bad for you.

      I stopped staring at him. He definitely clashed with the office décor, the splodgy lemon custard walls, the burnt caramel Naugahyde furniture, the mangy, pockmarked beige wall-to-wall carpet. The big question kept nagging at me. Why was a glossy high-rise type like Ian Trutch playing CEO to a low-rise walk-up organization like ours?

      Jake appeared behind him. “Dinah, this is Ian Trutch. Ian, this is Dinah Nichols, our PR and communications associate.”

      He reached out his hand then clasped mine in both of his. They were warm and smooth. “Dinah. Very, very nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot of good things about you.”

      I swallowed. “You have?”

      “You’re the girl who goes after the donors. Jake’s been telling me about you.”

      “He has?”

      Ian Trutch still had my hand prisoner. I knew I shouldn’t fraternize with the enemy in any way, but when he let go of it, my whole body screamed indignantly, “More, more.”

      He added, “Join us, won’t you, Dinah? I’m just going to have a few words with the staff in the other room,” and then he touched my shoulder. I stood up and like a zombie, followed the two men out into the main room.

      As soon as Penelope saw Ian Trutch, she bounced to her feet and went up to him. “Welcome to our branch, Mr. Trutch. Can I get you a coffee?”

      Ian Trutch’s face became delectable again. He said, “Yes, thank you…and you are?”

      “Penelope.”

      “Penelope. A classical name for a classical beauty. Don’t wait too long for your Ulysses. I take my coffee black and steaming.”

      Every woman in the room was staring, breathless, vacillating between envy and lust.

      “Sit down, Mr. Trutch. I’ll bring it to you,” said Penelope.

      But Mr. Trutch didn’t sit down. His tone became snappy. “There’s going to be a meeting in the boardroom upstairs in exactly thirteen minutes. Ten o’clock sharp. Everyone should be present.” He took one sip of the coffee Penelope had brought him, put down the mug and walked toward the back door. On his way out, he winked at me and said so softly that only I could hear, “Get ready for the massacre, Dinah.”

      A little laugh escaped me.

      He’d recognized me for who I was.

      The worthy adversary.

      I was looking forward to the battle, to showing him that our branch of Green World International was a great team. Excluding Penelope, of course.

      Jake looked slightly ill. He turned away and headed back into his office. I followed him in. He sat down heavily then looked up at me with his tired bloodhound eyes. His hand was already dipping into his bottom desk drawer. I had a microsecond of panic that he might have a bottle hidden in there but he pulled out a Bounty Bar, ripped it open, and finished it in two bites. Then, ignoring the little chocolate blob dangling from his moustache, he tore open an Oh Henry! and gestured to the drawer as if to say, “Help yourself.”

      “No thanks, Jake. I’ll just sniff the wrappers. I’m counting calories.” I was always counting calories. Four thousand, five thousand, six thousand…

      He didn’t come out and say, “Ian Trutch doesn’t belong here,” but I knew he wanted to.

      “Jeeee-susss,” sighed Jake, shaking his head. “I’m not sure I’m ready for this. I’ve got kind of a creepy feeling. A few years ago a feeling like this would have had me out of here and heading for the pub.”

      I