Do-Over
Authors: Dorien Kelly
Dear Reader,
When I decided to give writing a serious shot, I joined a group of like-minded (translation: deranged) people. That first night, I introduced myself as “Dorien Kelly, recovering attorney.” Everybody laughed, but I was only half joking. I was suffering from a vile case of career burnout.
It took me a while to accept that the practice of law was no place for a woman who had a slight problem with authority figures. The word
flip
frequently popped up in my annual reviews. Now I see that I was fated to write
Do-Over,
one of the first books for Harlequin’s new Flipside line!
My smart-mouthed heroine, attorney Cara Adams, is much more in love with the law than I ever was. And just so my former co-workers don’t get me in their litigious sights, I should add that nobody in my law firm was as whacked-out as the partners in Saperstein, Underwood. Close, though… Unfortunately, neither was there anyone as hot as Mark Morgan, Cara’s law school nemesis, wandering the halls.
Those days are gone for me, and best revisited between the covers of a book. That’s the coolest thing of all—the attitude that used to get me in trouble is now fodder for fiction! Drop by my Web site for a visit. You’ll find me at www.dorienkelly.com, busy proving that career do-overs can happen!
Dorien Kelly
“I’m moving in here,”
Mark said as he took a seat behind her old boss’s desk.
“Is that so?” Cara said in the same tone she’d use to say,
Drink some strychnine.
He didn’t answer. In fact, it was as though he’d forgotten that she was in the room.
This
was her competition? Just now, the NYC-minimalist suit and tie had more life than their wearer.
“Morgan? Pay attention. They stuck you in this office because they figure it will be easier than having you move again when you make partner. My advice to you is not to get too comfortable. I’ve put in six long years to get that chair,” she said. “No way are you weaseling ahead of me.”
He watched her with the kind of calm she’d kill to possess. “You know, we could always share. Wanna sit on my lap?”
“Jerk.” She turned and retreated. Somewhere just beneath the low rumble of a passenger jet flying overhead, Cara was quite sure she heard a pack of gods up on Olympus, laughing their asses off.
Dorien Kelly
For Margaret Stewart,
fellow survivor and wonderful friend!
Dorien Kelly is a former attorney who is much happier as an author. In addition to her years practicing business law, at one point or another she has also been a waitress, a law-school teaching assistant and a professional chauffeur to her three children. She won’t shake that chauffeur job for another seven years…not that she’s counting.
When Dorien isn’t writing or driving her kids around, she loves to travel, dabble in gourmet cooking and avoid doing the laundry. Winner of the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart Award and the Georgia Romance Writers’ Maggie Award, she lives in Michigan with her husband, children and two incredibly spoiled West Highland white terriers named Ceili and Seamus.
Books by Dorien Kelly
HARLEQUIN DUETS
86—DESIGNS ON JAKE
94—THE GIRL LEAST LIKELY TO…
HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION
922—THE GIRL MOST LIKELY TO…
Dear Reader,
When you’re stressed out with the holidays and looking forward to stealing a little time for yourself, we’ve got the perfect solution! Pick up the latest Harlequin Flipside novel and take a well-deserved break. Our fun, witty and exciting romantic comedies will be sure to chase away the blues. Of course, if you’re the type who loves the hustle and bustle, then the burst of energy you’ll get from the book will make your day, too!
This month we’re featuring
Do-Over
by Dorien Kelly. Have you ever
hidden
your true potential just to attract a guy? This heroine did it once, just once, and has regretted it ever since. She’s always wanted to go back and do it differently. Looks as if she’s getting her chance, because guess who’s back in town….
We also have brand-new author Natalie Stenzel with
Forget Prince Charming.
Our heroine has discovered—the hard way—that those good-looking princes aren’t always the best dates. So she’s determined to find herself a “frog.” But she can’t catch any frogs if she can’t see past her gorgeous neighbor!
These Harlequin Flipside books blend romance with a good dose of wit and cleverness and are sure to bring a smile to your face. Be sure to check us out online at www.harlequinflipside.com.
Enjoy!
Wanda Ottewell
Editor
Mary-Theresa Hussey
Executive Editor
Cara’s Rule for Success 1:
The first to arrive at the office knows all…
and the last is dead meat.
O
N
F
RIDAY
, May 16, Cara Adams slept in. It was admittedly a sluglike act on the part of a woman who was the most determined and most senior associate in the Bloomfield Hills, Michigan law firm of Saperstein, Underwood, Clark and Kielman. Still, oversleeping didn’t rise to the level of a career-killer.
That was Cara’s calming mantra as she took a shower so brief she scarcely got wet, cursed her empty clothes closet, then dredged the least rumpled black suit from the top of the dry cleaning bag. Once she was dressed, she didn’t bother to glance in the mirror. Niceties like makeup and earrings could wait until she was in her office. She was in survival mode.
Most days, the drive from her apartment to work was an autopilot affair, conducted in less than ten minutes. Today, however, was shaping up to be a day unlike all others. A monster traffic jam clogged Woodward Avenue, the major artery running from Detroit to all points north. According to the radio announcer, a truck had lost a load of ball bearings at the only intersection
that would have given Cara a way around the mess.
“This should have been Friday the thirteenth,” she muttered while checking her watch against her car’s clock to see which made her less late. It really didn’t matter. Either way, she was screwed. She lowered the driver’s side window, figuring she might as well enjoy the warm and breezy spring morning, but got a lungful of toxic auto exhaust and messed-up hair for the effort.
“City life. Gotta love it.” Cara raised the window and then tried to tame her always flyaway hair. Caged and mentally pacing, she engaged in the rituals of a Person Stuck in Traffic: frequent changing of radio stations, talking to oneself and finally contacting the outside world by cell phone.
First, she called Leigh, her secretary and source of all firm gossip, but was sucked into an endless loop between Leigh’s voice mail and her own. As Cara listened to her personal greeting for the third time, all she could think was,
Damn, do I always sound so impatient?
Not much liking the obvious answer, she disconnected and direct-dialed Annabeth, the firm’s main receptionist.
“Saperstein, Underwood…may I help you?” Annabeth said in a tone that made it clear that picking up the phone was a major favor.
“Annabeth, it’s Cara.”
“You mean I beat you to work? God, this could kill my reputation.”
“Just disconnect a couple of important calls and you’ll be back in everyone’s bad graces,” she said. “Is Leigh in? She’s not answering her line.”
“I take it you didn’t stay late last night?” was the receptionist’s ambiguous response.
“No.”
For the first time in about six years, so sue me,
she added to herself. “Okay, Leigh’s not available. How about Rory?” she asked, referring to Rory McLohne, unofficial head of her practice group and mentor extraordinaire.
“Nope. Definitely unavailable.”
Weird. Rory was the only person who consistently arrived at the office before Cara did. “Is there some sort of flu bug going around?”
“Not exactly.” Annabeth sounded more smug than bored, which sent a frisson of alarm though Cara. Smugness required a level of engagement the firm’s receptionist generally avoided.
“So what, exactly, is happening?”
“I think it would be better if you waited until you got here to find out.”
Cara’s alarm level elevated. “Just tell me.”
Annabeth’s answering lengthy sigh sounded like the ocean echoing through a seashell. “I’m doing this for your own good.”
The line went dead.
“Annabeth…?
Annabeth?
”
Cara hit Redial, but was greeted by voice mail. She flipped shut her cell phone, then gripped the steering wheel tighter. Since Annabeth’s position at the firm was unassailable, there was nothing Cara could do to pass the time but count the SUVs surrounding her and malign the receptionist, which she did with great eloquence.
Annabeth Kielman had attended college on the five-year plan. When she ended up two years short of graduation, her parents hauled her home. And now
she sat, resentfully employed at Daddy’s firm. It was acknowledged that Andrew Kielman would not allow his daughter to be fired. Even his bank account wasn’t deep enough to cover setting Annabeth loose. So, until she agreed to finish school, Saperstein, Underwood was saddled with her.
Exactly twenty-five minutes after she’d entered the knot of traffic, Cara was freed. As she pulled down the tree-lined drive to her office, her anxiety eased. No matter what craziness awaited, once she’d spoken to Rory, she could handle it. She pulled into her usual spot, grabbed her briefcase from the back seat and made her way into the building.
With luck, the prop of the briefcase would make people think she’d worked at home last night. She hadn’t, though. Instead, feeling tired and blue—which seldom happened…okay, maybe lately, more than it should—she’d plugged one chick flick after another into the DVD player and watched them. Alone, of course.
Her last date was a hazy, New Year’s Eve blind date memory, best forgotten by all. Not that she regretted choosing her career above men. The few times she’d mistakenly chosen men above her career had been disastrous, her law school encounter with Mark “the Shark” Morgan being the most bleakly memorable.
Cara shuddered. She chased the hated name from her mind and wondered whether it would take something like a wreath of garlic worn about the neck to make the Shark stay gone.
She pushed through the set of glass doors that led to the firm’s entry. Annabeth sat behind the tall, granite-topped, semicircular reception desk. The mahogany wall behind her was emblazoned with the firm’s name
in matte brass letters. Beneath that were individual brass plaques bearing each of the sixty attorneys’ names, arranged in order of seniority. As she did each morning, Cara glanced at her name and felt a sense of wonderment that she’d come this far in the world.
In your face, Morgan,
she thought.
“Morning,” she said to Annabeth, who smirked in return. As opposed to other mornings’ smirks, this one seemed to have some meaning behind it.
“Nice touch,” Cara commented, gesturing at the receptionist’s narrow, spiked, black leather collar, which was in startling contrast to her preppy ivory silk blouse. “You look like it’s rush week for a biker babe sorority.”
Annabeth grinned and brushed her fingertips against her spikes. “Thanks. I picked it up at that S-and-M shop in Royal Oak.” She reached under the desk. “Wanna see the whip and bustier that came with it?”
Cara knew the shop. Her best friend, Brianna, owned a marginally tamer vintage-clothing store nearby. “Maybe later. How about giving me the news now?”
“Maybe later,” Annabeth echoed, then raised her brows as she scrutinized Cara. “This is a new look for you, too…kind of a cult of the living dead thing, if you know what I mean.”
“Okay, so a little blusher might help.” One of the curses of being a natural redhead was that she’d cornered the market on SPF 40 sunblock.
“Whatever. Actually, I was wondering why you’re wearing a comb-over. Having trouble with hair loss?”
Cara ran her free hand through her still-mussed
hair, giving up any effort at a center part. “Come on, what’s the big news?”
“Hmm, where to start?” Annabeth murmured. “How about with your—” She was cut short by the ring of the phone. “Sorry, duty calls,” she said with a totally false apologetic smile.
Cara left. She knew all about power and leverage, and recognized that Annabeth planned to milk hers until the cows came home. Not that Bloomfield Hills was home to cows. Pricey dressage horses, yes. Cows, no.
Saperstein, Underwood had moved from less conspicuous Troy digs into these posh, new offices only a month ago, but Cara already knew the building by heart. From the weave of the taupe wool carpet under her feet to the limited edition lithographs adorning the hallways and the marble bust of the late and lamented—by some—Mr. Saul Saperstein in its niche outside the main conference room, this was her turf.
And she should know it all, since she spent a good twelve to fourteen hours a day here. No time off for good behavior in the competitive world of business law. The ultimate reward was partnership, and she was so close she could smell its tantalizing scent of freshly printed money.
Cara’s office was right next to Rory’s larger one, and opposite their doors was Leigh’s cubicle. Cara and Rory shared Leigh’s services, an arrangement that worked well, since most of Cara’s work was with Rory. She noticed that, at the moment, his door was closed, which meant either he was on a conference call or talking to one of his girlfriends. She glanced over at Leigh’s desk. Stacks of documents were neatly arranged,
and the In box didn’t look as though it was about to collapse under its own weight.
“Miracles can happen,” she said as she took in the sight.
Cara was behind her own desk and about to check her voice mail when Vic Mancini, the associate directly beneath her in the firm’s pecking order, appeared in her doorway.
“I win,” he said, doing a lawyer’s geeky version of an end zone dance.
Avoiding the sight, Cara focused on the crystal seahorse paperweight her mother had given her. “What do you win, Vic?”
“The bet over whether you’d left with McLohne. When you didn’t show this morning, we started a pool. And to cover myself in case you were actually gone, I called dibs on your office.”
“It’s taken,” she said absently. Then the rest of what Vic had said struck her. Her gaze shot back to his cheerful features. “What do you mean, Rory left?”
“Come on, you know all about it. He packed his stuff in the middle of the night. Word has it he’s gone to Miller, Goodwin and taken First Security and Greenfield Financial with him,” he said, naming two of the firm’s bigger clients.
This had to be some sort of dumb joke on the part of Vic and his cohorts, who were always up to something. They had finally managed to get to work before her and couldn’t resist the opportunity.
“Sure, and I’ve just been named Chief Justice of the Supreme Court,” Cara said as she rounded her desk and pushed past Vic.
He trailed after her as she swung open the door to Rory’s office. At first glance, it appeared that all traces
of the man had been eradicated: no pictures, no plants, no antique putters on the wall.
“You guys are thorough, I’ll give you that.” She circled the room, even looking under the desk to see if everything had been tucked there, but nothing was left of Rory McLohne.
Feeling as though the air had been sucked from her lungs, she braced her hands on the back of a guest chair and willed herself not to lose her composure. “He’s really gone, isn’t he?”
Vic nodded, empathy apparent in his puppy-dog eyes. “Yeah, right down to his coffee mug. I’m sorry, I was sure you knew he’d left. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have…you know…” He executed a pared-down version of his earlier dance.
Rory had left.
Oh God, Rory had really left. Panic churned acid-sharp in her stomach. Her career couldn’t have been any more linked to his. Last night, while she’d been home chowing popcorn in front of the TV, her sure bet of being made a partner this year had dwindled to a long shot.
She had to find some way to survive this, maybe even work it to her advantage. “Where are the senior partners?”
“They’ve been closed in Underwood’s office all morning.” Vic hesitated. “Should I get you a glass of water or something? You’re looking kind of funny.”
She shook her head and spoke the biggest lie of her career. “I’m fine. Really.”
She turned back to the door, where a small crowd had gathered—associates, mostly, with a paralegal or two thrown in for good measure. The vultures had begun
to circle. Cara pulled herself to her full five foot six—plus heels—and pinned on a smile.
“I claim this office, which means you get mine, Vic.” It was a bold move, since she wasn’t yet a partner and as of this moment, knew she’d have to fight longer and harder to get there. Still, she hoped her announcement would distract the throng in the hallway.
The ploy worked. Horse-trading began among the rest of the associates as they jockeyed for position in the new office alignment. While they negotiated their way through side deals and compromises, she quietly slipped back to her current office and closed the door.
Cara stood behind her desk and looked around the office as if it were unfamiliar terrain. With Rory’s departure, everything was about to change. Yet, her law school diploma—summa cum laude (only Mark Morgan, the jerk, had had a higher GPA)—still hung on the wall above the walnut credenza. Her plants still thrived in the light flooding through the office’s windows. And, as always, the phone’s red light signaling waiting messages flashed self-importantly.
Cara reached down and pushed the speakerphone button, then dialed into her voice mail. According to the bland female voice, the first message had arrived at three in the morning.
“Cara, this is Rory.” Obvious, since she knew his deep tones as well as she knew her own voice. “I know by the time you hear this, you’re already going to be pissed off. I didn’t have a choice. I would have taken you with me if I could have. Give me a few weeks to come up with a game plan, then we’ll get together for a drink.”
His game plan already seemed pretty well formed. He’d cruised on to more riches, while she’d been left
to twist in the wind. With an abrupt tap of her finger, Cara deleted Rory’s message, and it felt good.
The next message was from Howard Blenham, now the most senior partner in her practice group. “Cara, when you get in, come see me.”
Always to the point, that Howard. He was also the most anal control freak she’d ever met. Yes, life was going to change, and not for the better. Cara pulled out her chair, sat and swiveled it to face the window.
Below, a woman from the landscaping company was planting golden marigolds and dramatic looking variegated coleus in the flower beds. Cara wanted to be that woman, in her T-shirt and shorts, with the sun kissing her skin. A dark-haired guy pulling out of the lot in a sleek, black convertible two-seater called something to her. She laughed and waved. Oh, Cara definitely wanted to be that woman, because just now, Cara’s life sucked.
