Her Favourite Rival. Sarah Mayberry

      Montblanc.

      Wow. No wonder his handwriting was always so crisp and elegantly formed.

      Must be nice to be able to drop three figures on a fancy pen. She made a noise, unable to imagine a universe where she would have enough money to spare to allow herself that kind of indulgence.

      She returned the pen to the caddy on Zach’s desk and escaped his office, taking with her the slightly guilty sense that she’d invaded his privacy. Checking out his photos and sniffing his aftershave and using his fancy-schmancy pen was hardly on a par with riffling through his underwear drawer, but if their positions were reversed, she knew she wouldn’t be thrilled to know he’d lingered over her personal effects. In fact, the thought of him examining her space in that way made her toes curl into the carpet.

      In her office, she tore the wrapper off the protein bar and ate it with stolid determination, chewing and swallowing until the thing was gone and the edgy, shaky feeling had passed.

      She let out a sigh of relief, then grabbed her bag, briefcase and shoes and headed for the garage.

      Whether she liked it or not, Zach had saved her bacon tonight. She would make a point of thanking him for his generosity tomorrow—as well as replacing the bar, of course. Under no circumstances would she try to get close enough to find out if he was wearing any of that delicious aftershave, though. And she definitely wouldn’t ask him to confirm her guess about the photos on his office wall.

      He was still the enemy, after all. Or, at best, her fiercest rival. It would never pay to forget that.

      * * *

      “HOW DID IT GO?” Megan asked.

      Audrey sank onto the bar stool next to her best friend and let her bag slide to the floor. “I’m alive. That’s about all I’m willing to commit to right now.”

      Twenty minutes ago she’d left the conference room after delivering her range review and enduring nearly an hour and a half of brutal, probing questions courtesy of Henry Whitman. He’d asked about her range initiative, grilling her on every possible detail, then branched out into asking about her strategy for the department, her thoughts on the retail hardware sector in Australia, her experience in the industry...

      Even though it was only five o’clock when she emerged, she’d been so exhausted and wrung out she hadn’t hesitated to bail when she found Megan’s note indicating that she’d be waiting at Al’s Place. She’d said goodbye to her assistant, Lucy, and made for the exit as though the hounds of hell were on her tail.

      Megan slid a glass of red wine along the bar toward her. “Here. You look like you could use this.”

      “Does it come in IV form?” Audrey slumped forward, propping her elbows on the bar.

      Megan pushed her hair over her shoulder. “Wow. He really gave you a going-over, huh? I pretty much said my piece, answered a few questions from the retailers and then buggered off.”

      Audrey stared at her. “Really? He didn’t grill you on everything from your favorite color to whether you believe in the Easter Bunny or not?”

      “It was an Easter Bunny–free conversation.” Megan’s brow puckered. “Do you think that’s a good thing or a bad thing?”

      “I have no idea.”

      “I think it’s a bad thing. He was obviously interested in you. Me, not so much.” Megan shrugged philosophically, her expression clearing. “Oh, well. As soon as I’m knocked up I’m out of here anyway, so it probably doesn’t really matter what the Executioner thinks of me.”

      “I think we need a different nickname. The Interrogator is much more accurate,” Audrey said.

      “The Interrogator. Nice. Has a good, intimidating ring to it.”

      Audrey sucked down a mouthful of wine. “We should probably eat something with this.”

      They both had to get behind the wheel to drive home, after all.

      “Already on it. Cameron is bringing curly fries.”

      “I knew there was a reason we love it here.”

      They’d discovered Al’s Place a couple of years ago. A dark and dingy little bar in the strip of shops across from Makers, the rest of their colleagues gave it a wide berth, making it the perfect place for post-work bitch sessions and two-woman mutual sympathy parties. The floor was sticky and the decor firmly stuck in the eighties, but Cameron always gave them lots of pretzels and was never stingy with his pouring.

      “Okay, the big question for you,” Megan said, twisting so she faced Audrey more squarely. “If Whitman came over all Robert Redford in Indecent Proposal with you, would you or wouldn’t you?”

      Audrey let out a crack of laughter. Trust Megan to find such a unique, irreverent way to put the afternoon’s ordeal into perspective.

      “Come on.” Megan nudged her. “Would you sleep with him to keep your job or not?”

      Audrey considered that. Whitman had to be in his late fifties, maybe early sixties, but he was in good shape, no spare tire or jowly chops. If she squinted and the lighting was right, he might be considered a silver fox. But there was no amount of squinting that could erase those steely, all-seeing eyes.

      “Not in a million years,” she said.

      “What was it that did it for you? The sausage fingers or the seagull eyes?”

      “The eyes. I didn’t even notice his fingers.”

      “Oh, you will, trust me. They’re hard to miss.” Megan shuddered, then took a sip.

      Audrey huffed out a laugh. “Have I told you lately that I love you?”

      “I’m thinking he’s a socks-with-sandals kind of guy, too. I bet he breaks them out at the conference, along with bad floral shirts with short sleeves.”

      Audrey nearly choked on her wine. “God, I’d forgotten all about the conference.”

      She’d been so consumed with researching her new boss it had slipped her mind that she and her colleagues would soon be flying to sunny Queensland for three days of intense business powwows with more than six hundred member retailers.

      “Only ten days to go.” Megan raised her glass in mock toast.

      Audrey didn’t lift her glass in return. This would be her second conference in the capacity of buyer, and she wasn’t looking forward to being cornered by random retailers and taken to task over some imagined slight or oversight or deficiency. Throw Henry Whitman and his X-ray vision and hard questions into the mix, and the conference began to look like an endurance test of epic proportions.

      “Look at it this way—it’s three days’ worth of sucking-up opportunities. We can all sing for our supper and make the big man feel suitably powerful, then come home again and get back to business as usual,” Megan said matter-of-factly.

      “You really think it will be business as usual?”

      Megan’s blue eyes became serious. “No. I think Whitman is going to go through us like a combine harvester. But there’s nothing I can do to stop that from happening, so I am going to do my best and live my life and take the worst as it comes, if it comes.”

      They were both silent as they contemplated the truth of Megan’s words. Cameron broke the moment by sliding a bowl of golden fries in front of them.

      “Enjoy, ladies.”

      “Bless you. Animal fats to the rescue,” Audrey said.

      They both reached for a handful of potato curls.

      “Who do you think will go first?” Audrey asked.

      Megan sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe Barry? And possibly Gordon. In my experience, guys like Whitman always have their own team they want to bring on board.”

      Since