Beyond Breathless. Kathleen O'Reilly

computer and began to work, shutting out Hummer limos, great sex, the uncomfortable dampness between her thighs, and Andrew. Well, not quite Andrew.

      The quiet in the car grew to ear-blasting levels. The flick of fingers on the keyboard, the rustle of papers, and the sound of two people desperate to avoid a conversation.

      Her in-box wasn’t even cleared when the driver announced they’d arrived.

      “So soon?” she said, a poor joke, but she wasn’t feeling happy. Explaining to her boss about missing Newhouse wasn’t going to be easy. Rain, sleet, snow or power outages. Nothing would deter Bond-Worthington.

      Until today.

      Jamie pulled out two twenties from her wallet, not enough to cover her share, but it was all the cash she had on her. “You can bill me for the rest,” she told him, because she didn’t like debts, not to credit card companies, not to people.

      “I can take care of it…” he started, but apparently noticed the militant gleam in her eyes. “So how do I get in touch with you?” he asked, trapping her neatly.

      Reluctantly, she pulled out her business card, and he tucked it away in his breast pocket. “I won’t abuse it. Swear.”

      “You’re a nice man,” she started.

      He held up a hand. “Not the ‘nice man’ speech.”

      “It’s a compliment.”

      “Then why don’t you want to go out?” he asked, a perfectly logical question, which told her he hadn’t bought her earlier “I’m involved” lie. He’d probably thought no man could be involved with such a bitch.

      And if the dog collar fits…So why did he want to see her again?

      She noticed the torn stockings lying in the corner and sighed, a very visual clue why he wanted to see her again. Now seemed the time to share the cold, hard truth.

      “I watch one hour of TV every day, the national news and Lou Dobbs. I’m on a first name basis with the delivery man from Golden Noodle. I rarely see the sunrise because I’m already at work, and I don’t like chick-flicks.”

      “You watch Lou Dobbs, too?”

      “I’m not who you think I am—I’m not a woman who has sex in a Hummer with a stranger. At least not normally,” she muttered after a pause.

      “You think that’s the only reason I want to see you again?”

      She chose not to answer, instead lugging her briefcase out of the car. Andrew would be a hi-def memory. Something to tuck away into the ten most memorable mistakes she’d made in her life. In a Hummer.

      With a regretful sigh, Jamie walked away. Mistakes were not to be repeated. Ever.

      LATER THAT AFTERNOON, the world righted itself. The trains ran, and Jamie returned to Lower Manhattan. The elevator ride to the thirty-eighth floor of Two World Financial Center would have been easier with a knife sticking out of her gut. With each passing floor, Jamie’s dread grew by percentages unheard of in the financial sector.

      A power outage was normally a valid excuse for dealus interruptus, but Jamie was senior client relations manager extraordinaire, the legendary sales specialist who brought in the infamous Joe Tableone because she knew exactly what forty-year-old bottle of Scotch he coveted. Thomas Harris Winchell III had been persuaded to try out Bond-Worthington for a year, simply because she promised he’d never go back—well, that and a free bump to their Platinum level of customer service. Three years later, he was still a satisfied Bond-Worthington client. No, when it came to client relations, nobody could touch Jamie McNamara.

      But today there was no joy on Wall Street, because Mighty Jamie had struck out. Okay, so she was being overly dramatic, but the truth was that she’d been somewhat confident when bragging about her ability to bag Newhouse for the firm. Modesty never got you anything, but a seat at the back of the room.

      The elevator doors slid open with a discreet whoosh, and Jamie walked the sensible gray carpet, down cubicle alley to Walter’s office. Her eyes stayed glued ahead, the better to ignore the knowing looks shooting in her direction.

      “McNamara, how did it go?”

      Jamie stopped and turned to face a cheerful intern, Sanji Dykstra. Sanji was both genuine and happy, a breed apart from the usual blood-thirsty crop of Ivy Leaguers betting their fortunes at a brokerage house.

      His round, coffee-colored face and brown, guileless eyes would doom him to failure in the industry, but he had less than eighteen months to graduation, and she didn’t have the heart to crush his dreams.

      Jamie shot Sanji a thumbs-up. “I’ve got him just where I want him,” she answered, and continued the long, solitary walk.

      Then another head popped up from the alley. A blond, coiffed one, with hair way more manageable than the traditional McNamara do.

      “What happened to your hose, Jamie?” asked Lindsey Feldenberg, another intern, not quite as guileless as Sanji.

      “A cat jumped on my leg. Very weird. Probably a reaction from some chemical fumes in the area. Made it freak. Nasty business. I had to ditch the hose. Torn to bits,” she ended.

      “I don’t see any claw marks,” Lindsey said, blinking her big, blue eyes, but her voice was ice cold. “Nothing but lily-white skin.”

      Lindsey didn’t like Jamie, and she’d made it very clear from the first day. Jamie was the competition and Lindsey thought she could outperform her. Lindsey had even told her that while calmly sipping from her coffee.

      As an intern? Ha. When pigs fly.

      Jamie had kept her mouth shut, but Lindsey’s constant innuendo’s were starting to draw blood.

      “My skin is very thick. Claws don’t leave marks.”

      Lindsey looked like she might argue, but then realized the uselessness of that action, and sat down with a slightly muffled, “Bullshit.”

      Jamie smiled sweetly. “Gesundheit.”

      Walter’s office loomed ahead like the dark basement in a horror film. She considered running back to her desk for the spare set of hose she kept in the bottom drawer, or possibly a sharp pencil to stab in her eye, but she’d gotten this far, and Lindsey, the eagled-eyed wonder would make a big to-do, and Walter really didn’t care if she walked around in a bathrobe as long as she brought in the deals.

      Helen, Walter’s secretary, guarded the heavy paneled doors with a Fort Knox-like zeal. She was five years from retirement, and had been Walter’s secretary since he started. With her tight gray curls and trembling mouth, she could have worked in a bakeshop, or been someone’s kindly grandmother, but when crossed, Helen grew long, wicked fangs and could outglare even the nastiest nasty.

      Which was why Jamie loved her.

      “Afternoon, Helen. He asked for me to stop by when I got back.”

      “Yes, dear. He’s on the phone with the auditors. Be careful. He’s in a particularly foul mood today.”

      Damn, damn, double damn. “You told him the meeting got cancelled?” asked Jamie.

      Helen nodded. “Hit him right after lunch with the bad news, just like you asked.”

      “Thanks for helping,” Jamie answered, then took a deep breath, preparing to wrestle the lion in his den. After a quick run-through of all possible excuses, she opened the door, entering the world of high-luxe.

      The vice presidential offices at Bond-Worthington were old-school. Mahogany paneling, the requisite trophy wall littered with degrees, and padded leather chairs that both rocked and rolled. A VP at B-W wouldn’t be caught dead with an art print or a family photo, or any bit of evidence to indicate you didn’t eat, breath, sleep and ruminate solely for the firm. There were rules on Wall Street, and Jamie had learned early on to follow them to the tenth decimal place.