Feet First. Leanne Banks

and assorted files crammed into a case. The condo was dark and completely silent. He stood still for a moment. It was so quiet he could hear his heartbeat.

      For ten seconds he treasured the silence, a respite from the noises at the office and in traffic. He walked through the hallway to the kitchen counter and glanced through his mail before he put it down. Shooting a glance at his widescreen television, he made a mental note to turn on the Braves game while he worked tonight. He set his case down on the sofa table, loosened his tie and went to the refrigerator to grab a beer. Corona. It reminded him of a trip he’d taken to the islands years before when he’d had more time and less corporate responsibility.

      He felt a twinge at the memory. Lord, that felt ages ago. Had it been so long?

      Dismissing the thought, he took a long draw from the bottle of beer and went upstairs to his bedroom. It was just as he’d left it this morning. Neat and orderly. The way he liked it. He’d nixed the decorator’s suggestion for a useless pile of extra pillows on his king-size bed. He didn’t like clutter. He never had. He didn’t like messes because he’d had to clean up too many.

      His mind wandered to Sal’s assistant, what was her name? Jillian? Jerri? He shrugged, remembering her kooky comment about pets. What had she meant? He shouldn’t care, but he was curious. She’d been right. She’d been right about Brooke, right about Sal and somewhat right about him. He tugged his tie loose and unbuttoned his shirt.

      He’d looked at her résumé again this afternoon. She was qualified for a little bit of everything. According to her résumé, she’d spent several years exploring career opportunities before she’d finished design school and landed at Bellagio twenty-two months ago. Her tendency not to finish much of what she started bothered him. He needed someone who would see this project through until the end. But she’d finished design school, he reminded himself. And she’d completed an apprenticeship. Maybe she’d just needed to find her niche.

      Sitting down on the bed, he pulled off his shoes and carried them to the shoe stand in his walk-in closet. He ditched his slacks, hung them with the rest of his dress pants and reached for a pair of jeans.

      Bellagio had other designers. Hell, he could have pulled someone from Italy if he’d been inclined. Sal, however, had been persuasive, and Marc had been impressed by the assistant’s loyalty and the drawings of the shoes. He knew talent when he saw it. The CEO, Alfredo Bellagio, would leave the decision to Marc. Alfredo had given Marc the assignment of maximizing Bellagio’s opportunities with the reality show at the same time that he kept it under control. With Brooke as the bride, the latter would be a huge challenge. He didn’t need another overinflated Italian ego in the mix.

      He took a swig of beer and headed downstairs. Amazing how he liked the quiet for a few minutes, but then it started to bother him. He thought of what’s-her-name’s comment about his not having a pet. She was right. If he hadn’t made time for a relationship, then how could he make time for a pet?

      Most men his age had wives and children. Marc just never felt as if he’d found the right woman at the right time. Sure, he’d been involved, but either the woman hadn’t been right or the time hadn’t been right.

      It had gotten old coming home to an empty house, so he’d put together a plan, he reminded himself. No luck four months into it, but he was confident.

      His doorbell rang, followed by a quick knock and yell. “Marco! Open up. I’ve got a live one.”

      Marc laughed darkly at the sound of his favorite sixteenth cousin and best friend’s voice as he opened the door. “Do you have to announce it to the entire neighborhood?”

      Gino, three years older than Marc with a wife and three sons, looked offended. “What? Live one could mean anything—fish, business proposition.” He lowered his voice. “In this case it’s wife material.”

      Gino gave Marc a bear hug. “I even have a photo. Give me a beer. I have to make this quick. Sonja is warming up the bed for me if you know what I mean,” he said with a wink.

      “Don’t remind me of what I’m not getting,” Marc muttered, taking another swig of his beer. Four months ago he’d made a decision that it was time for him to get married. Getting sex hadn’t been an issue for him. In fact, it had been too easy. Finding a woman he wanted to stay with for more than two nights—that was the problem.

      Gino had told Marc that he needed a different kind of woman, a less ambitious woman, a woman who wanted a home and husband instead of a world-changing career. So Marc set up a strategy, which he’d put in writing, to find a wife. Gino had put himself in charge of supplying him with dates. In order to give himself a sense of urgency to fulfill the quest within a year or less, he’d decided to remain celibate until he found “the one.”

      Gino had insisted that Marc be required to date each woman twice before eliminating her. Marc also had a goal of dating a minimum of once per week, which he hadn’t always met due to travel and personal emergencies with his grandfather.

      No sex for four months. He was getting to the place where he couldn’t watch razor commercials for women without getting a hard-on.

      “Who’s Miss Wonderful?” he asked, pulling the manila envelope from Gino’s hand while his friend grabbed a beer from the fridge.

      “She’s blond and beautiful, a former Miss Brunswick County.”

      Marc slid his friend a sideways glance. “A beauty pageant winner,” he echoed, looking at a photo of a busty blonde. He had to admit she wasn’t hard on the eyes.

      “A county pageant winner with a double bachelor’s degree in history and psychology.”

      Marc shook his head. “No shrinks allowed. I don’t want a shrink.”

      “It’s just a bachelor’s degree. You’re not thinking this all the way through. She didn’t major in engineering or accounting or premed. Besides, you didn’t hear what her future goals are.”

      “And they are?” he asked skeptically.

      “To make the world a better place by being the best wife and mother she can be.”

      Marc sank into the vision of receiving a full body massage from a busty blonde intent on carrying out her wifely duties to the best of her ability. Ooohhh, baby, yes, a little lower… He felt himself harden. Sighing, he took another swig of Corona. “What was her talent?”

      Gino smiled wickedly. “Gymnastics.”

      Marc swallowed a groan. What could be better than a blonde intent on serving him with trick sex? “Is she available this week?”

      “Name the day.”

      Gino stayed a few more minutes before he went home to take care of Sonja humming under the covers. Marc thought of Gino’s three screaming little bratty boys and felt a weird hollow sensation in his gut. He rubbed at his stomach, but it didn’t go away. Frowning, he turned toward the fruit bowl and grabbed an apple.

      Just one more weird feeling after a crazy day, he told himself, taking another drink. He was fine with his life. He had a condo others coveted. Hell, he lived in the same gated community as Elton John and Whitney Houston if you gave a rip about that kind of thing. He had a job and salary that made others green with envy. He had it all without messes or clutter. If one didn’t count his responsibilities with his grandfather.

      He picked up the remote and turned on his television. The sound of the Braves game instantly filled the room assuaging his strange mood. Sinking onto his brown leather sofa, he opened his notebook computer and did what he did every night. He looked at his schedule for the following day and made a plan of action for each meeting, each appointment, each phone call. Marc was known for making a plan of action for everything. He was rarely caught off guard and when he was, his discipline for planning a strategy always, always got him through.

      JENNY CLIMBED THE STEPS to her second-floor sublet apartment while juggling two bags of groceries. She pushed the key into the lock, which turned out to be unnecessary.

      “Stella?”