Underfoot. Leanne Banks

out. Look at that hair,” the nurse said.

      Trina glanced at the mirror and felt disconnected from the image of her body and the baby’s head. Still not completely birthed, the baby began to cry.

      Trina watched in awe. “It’s crying.”

      “Let me get the shoulders,” the doctor said and seconds later, he held her screaming baby in his hands. “It’s a girl.”

      Relief and elation rushed through her. She couldn’t take her eyes off the baby. “It’s a girl. My baby’s a girl. She’s okay, isn’t she?”

      The nurse weighed the baby, wiped her off, put a little socklike cap on her head, wrapped her in a blanket and handed her to Trina. “Eight pounds and eleven ounces.”

      Trina’s heart overflowed at the sight of her baby, the weight of her in her arms. “You’re gorgeous,” she said. “You’re a sweetie pie and I’m going to make your life as happy as I possibly can and I won’t make you go to private girls’ school if you don’t want.”

      She glanced up at the doctor and the nurse, who, she was sure, were angels in disguise. “Thank you so much,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “Thank you.”

      “My pleasure,” Nurse Beamer said.

      “But I was a pain.”

      “No more than most,” the nurse said with a smile. “I couldn’t wait to see you with your baby in your arms.”

      Trina looked down at her baby and touched those tiny, tiny fingers. “I’m so glad I have you,” she whispered to her daughter. “But I never want to do this again, so I’m never ever going to have sex again.”

      CHAPTER THREE

      ONCE UPON A TIME Trina had been in control of her life. She’d successfully distanced herself from her overbearing mother and managed her romantic life so that she enjoyed casual dates, but nothing that interfered with her plan to remain single and free of domestic responsibility. Yes, there’s been a blip in keeping her love life under control by the name of Stan Roch when she’d been nineteen, but she’d taken care of that and put it behind her.

      Once upon a time, although she normally kept her apartment neat and clean, she’d only been in charge of her own laundry and she only bought food she needed, which she could eat on her own schedule.

      Once upon a time, she’d been on the fast track to her second promotion at the designer shoe company, Bellagio, Inc. She’d been someone management knew they could depend on to be prompt, levelheaded, poised and always ready with a brilliant idea.

      All that had changed as a result of her temporary insanity fifteen months ago. As she rushed into her office late brushing food particles from her suit, she prayed no surprises would greet her.

      “Good morning, Dora,” she said to the PR group’s assistant. “How are you? Any pressing messages?”

      Dora, who Trina was convinced was determined to replace her, took a casual sip from her latte. “Yup. There’s a meeting with marketing for the new season that started five minutes ago.”

      Trina began to sweat. She stared at Dora. “This wasn’t on my schedule. Why did they start without me?”

      Dora shot her a faux sympathetic glance. “Because Alfredo Bellagio called the meeting.”

      “Crap. Is he actually on site or just speakerphone?”

      “On site.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I offered to take notes for you during the meeting.”

      I’ll bet you did. She felt her stomach tighten with pressure. The beginning of a panic attack. She’d never had panic attacks until fifteen months ago.

      “Where are they meeting?” Trina asked.

      “Umm, let me see,” Dora said, slowly perusing the few papers on her desk.

      Trina resisted the urge to give Dora’s hair a strong yank. She was convinced that beneath Dora’s silky black locks lay a pair of horns. “I guess I can call Marc Waterson’s assistant. She would know.”

      Dora immediately lifted a piece of paper and offered it to Trina. “No need. Here’s the message Ben left for you.”

      Executive room, she read and rushed into her office to pull her laptop from the case then checked her desk for any further messages that Dora the devil may have delayed delivering. Nothing.

      Mentally reassuring herself that her tardiness was no big deal, she took the elevator up to the executive floor and gave a nod to the gatekeeper.

      She turned the doorknob as quietly as possible and entered the conference room that held at first glance about a dozen Bellagio executives and key employees who all looked at her.

      Trina gave a falsely confident smile and murmured, “Good morning.”

      She despised being late, especially for business meetings. It immediately put you behind the game, and Trina had always tried to stay on top of her game.

      Bellagio was predominantly dominated by men of Italian descent with years of chauvinistic conditioning. She’d known from the beginning she would be putting herself in an uphill battle to get where she wanted to go. The chemistry of the people at the company, and the fact that they took innovative, even ballsey measures to increase their market share had been irresistible. Plus, she loved the product. Great shoes. Bellagio shoes did amazing things for a woman’s legs, rear end and her self-confidence, and for her, they were free.

      Taking a seat at the large table next to her PR chief, she opened her laptop and booted it up. A cute peppy blond woman resumed speaking, pointing to a Power-Point presentation with pie charts indicating public opinion polls, studies and demographic profiles.

      She typed a few notes as the woman began to display proposed ads for Fall and Winter shoes. After concentrating on the ads, she suddenly noticed the ad company’s logo in the corner of the screen.

      Her stomach immediately drew into a tight knot of panic. Eager to get the attention away from her tardy entrance, she’d only taken a cursory glance around the room. She looked more thoroughly, her gaze taking in each person.

      Leaning forward, she looked past her PR chief, past two marketing execs to VP Marc Waterson as he cocked his head to one side and there he was.

      Trina’s breath stopped in her chest. Panic roared through her. Oh, my God, please help! She had known that eventually she would see him again. She’d prepared for a hundred scenarios, even this one, but her brain locked up.

      Walker Gordon rose to his feet beside perky girl wearing his confident, reassuring half smile. His shoulders were broad and his black suit fit his lean, muscular body well. He was obviously still working out, she observed sourly. He was so well-groomed he almost could have been a model, but Trina knew that the sexiest thing about Walker wasn’t his body. It was the way his mind worked.

      He was a fascinating mix of conservative and risk-taker. He came across as both solid and innovative and he didn’t rely on his charm to get a deal.

      “We’re excited about this ad campaign, and about the prospect of working more with Bellagio,” Walker said. “Thank you for letting us bid for your business again. We’d love to have your feedback.”

      He gave a nod of respect to Alfredo Bellagio and glanced around the room. His gaze lingered on her for a long moment and she suddenly felt self-conscious. She knew what he saw. Her hair had grown past her shoulders and was in dire need of a cut and style. Despite early mornings and nonstop days that sent her crawling to bed by 10:00 p.m., she still hadn’t quite gotten rid of fifteen pounds she’d gained. Feeling his scrutiny, she wondered if he saw the dark circles she tried to hide. Had she put on concealer this morning? Everything had been a blur.

      “What is the model wearing underneath her trench coat and how can I get her number?” a guy from marketing cracked, breaking the silence.

      Trina