Slightly Irregular (2 page)
Read Slightly Irregular Online
Authors: Rhonda Pollero
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Suspense, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Sleuths, #General
Copyright © 2012 by Rhonda Pollero
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Gallery Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
First Gallery Books trade paperback edition April 2012
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Designed by Jaime Putorti
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Pollero, Rhonda.
Slightly irregular / Rhonda Pollero. -- First Gallery Books trade paperback edition.
pages cm
1. Legal assistants--Fiction. 2. Law firms--Fiction. 3. Missing persons--Fiction. 4. Beauty contestants--Crimes against--Fiction. 5. Dating (Social customs)--Fiction. 6. West Palm Beach (Fla.)--Fiction. I. Title.
PS3616.O5684S58 2012
813'.6--dc23
2011048288
ISBN 978-1-4165-9073-6 (pbk)
ISBN 978-1-4391-0099-8 (ebook)
To Katie Scarlett, who reminds me to love; for Bob, who reminds me to laugh; for Amy, who reminds me to sit in the chair; and for Donna who reminds me to hyphenate everything.
SLIGHTLY IRREGULAR
I looked, I liked, I bought.
Freedom was three hours
away. Technically, only two hours and fifty-one minutes of work time, if I subtracted any time I’d be away from my desk. So, five minutes to answer my summons from the fourth floor; two minutes to go through the motions of straightening my office—we have a cleaning crew and it isn’t me; then two minutes to gather my belongings, hit the elevator, stroll through the lobby, walk out the front door, and unlock my practically brand-new, champagne pink Mercedes CLK convertible. Since it was Friday, I might even be able to shave a few minutes off my exit plan.
Fridays are the only days of the week when Maudlin Margaret Ford, firm receptionist and all-around pain in the ass, did not get her feathers in a twist when I ducked out a few minutes early. Any other day of the week and she’d be sounding the alert to the senior partner. I could practically hear her voice in my head. “Mr. Dane! Finley left the building at four fifty-five!”
Margaret was passive-aggressive—with an extra order of aggressive on the side. She was a fifty-five-year-old woman with no life outside the law firm of Dane, Lieberman and Zarnowski. Technically speaking, it was now Dane, Lieberman, Zarnowski and Caprelli. It’s a small but prestigious firm just off Clematis Street in West Palm Beach, where, until a few months ago, I was exclusively a trusts and estates paralegal.
The elevator door finally blinked open, and I stepped inside the small compartment. A one o’clock command to the executive floor rarely results in anything good about to happen. A summons used to have me shaking in my Jimmy Choos, but not so much now that Tony Caprelli occupied one of the partners’ suites, and he was the one who’d requested my presence.
I sighed and fiddled with the cloisonné clip holding my blond hair off my face. Before leaving my office, I’d carefully checked my lipstick, added some Stila gloss, and smoothed the front of my vintage Lilly Pulitzer dress. The pale periwinkle and spring green dress with ribbon and lace accents was—if I did say so myself—one of my finest bargain moments. I’d come across it on antiquedressing.com, and talk about a find. Classic Lilly, circa 1960, with the metal zippers and original labels, is well beyond my meager means (made more meager since I was now carrying a hefty mortgage and most of my credit cards were near their limits). The catch? The hem was faded and dirty. A disaster for most women, but since I’m just shy of five-four, it was a snap for me to have the seamstress at my cleaner’s turn up a new hem without destroying the line of the dress.
I’d turned bargain hunting into an art. Short of an inspection by Tim Gunn and Heidi Klum, no one, not even my best
friends, would ever know that I was a walking, talking tribute to gently worn, factory damaged, and slightly irregular. And I wanted to keep it that way.
The elevator opened into a circular lobby.
The
secretary sat sentry at her desk. She glanced up at me over the tops of her reading glasses, then pressed the button on her Bluetooth.
“Miss Tanner is here to see you,” she said. “Yes, thank you.” She lifted her head and met my gaze. “You may go in.”
I quelled the urge to salute her, but c’mon, the woman was so stiff she’d be a natural at Buckingham Palace. We’d worked together for more than eight years and never evolved past the point of addressing each other by last names.
“Thank you, Mrs. Greenfelder,” I acknowledged before pivoting to the right and heading toward Tony’s office.
My heart rate climbed with each step. Tony had joined the firm a little more than a month ago, and in that short amount of time, he’d generated quite a bit of interoffice buzz. And while everyone else was buzzing, I was actually training to work at his side.
No, I didn’t like balancing the continuing education classes on litigation, evidence, witness preparation, or police procedure with the renovations on my new cottage. But I did like Tony. And not in an employer-employee way. The guy was hot and polished and, well, perfect. He was over six feet tall, with dark brown hair and eyes the color of rich imported chocolates. He wore tailored suits, monogrammed shirts, and a top-of-the-line Rolex. A perfect man with a perfect watch. What more could a woman want in a man?
A date.
I sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. Therein lies the rub. I’m almost thirty, not thirteen. I know when a man is interested
in me. I’ve caught Tony watching me when he thought I wasn’t looking. His fingers have brushed the back of my hand a few too many times for it to be accidental. He’s interested. But he’s also my boss. There are times when sexual harassment laws totally get in the way of good old-fashioned get-to-know-you dating.
Maybe I should slip into the ladies’ room quickly, paint
ASK ME OUT
in liner on my lids, and then spend the whole meeting with my eyes closed. Naw, too desperate. Then again, I am on the precipice of desperation. Since I’d dumped Patrick after wasting two years of my life on him, the only men in my life were the ex-convict who was still doing some minor finishing work on my house, and Sam, my dear, dear friend, who had worse luck with men than I did.
Oh, and Liam.
Kinda.
A shiver ran along my spine as I conjured his image. Liam McGarrity is everything I never wanted in a man. Very little polish and way too much testosterone. But one look into those piercing blue eyes and I start to think I can rework him into the man of my dreams. The practical part of me knows better. The libidinous part of me doesn’t care.
The only way I’ve been able to avoid the lure of those incredible eyes has been to keep my distance and screen my calls. So far, I’ve been successful, but who knows what will happen the next time we have to work together? Liam does a lot of the PI work for my firm. I won’t be able to avoid him forever. I’ll worry about that when …
“Sorry,” Tony said as his hands bracketed me, keeping me from falling on my butt.
He smelled good, so good that for a second his cologne rendered me mute. Or maybe it was the feel of his large hands gripping my arms. My sweater had slipped, so the heat from his palms was against my bare skin.
“Is everything okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, stepping back so I could pick up my sweater and the pad I’d dropped when I’d accidentally run right into him. “Sorry, I must have zoned out there for a minute.”
Zoned out?
I grimaced inwardly.
Zoned out? Really? What kind of dumb blonde thing is that to say to your boss-slash-lust interest?
“Not a problem,” Tony said, stepping aside to allow me to enter his office first. He looked good enough to eat in a dark well-cut suit, crisp creamy shirt, and dark blue tie. Very
GQ
. Very much the opposite of shaggy, rumpled Liam. Both men are sexy, but they’re polar opposites in appearance. Both men, however, sent my pulses racing and my libido into hyperdrive.
Tony had a great office. Used to belong to Mr. Zarnowski, but he was gone now, too bad for me. Zarnowski had liked me, unlike Vain Victor Dane, the managing partner who always treated me like some annoying insect bite he couldn’t scratch but couldn’t ignore. Or Ellen Lieberman. The woman—a term I’m using in the broadest possible sense—thinks I’m a slacker because I didn’t go to law school. She seems to forget that I didn’t
want
to go. I never wanted to be like her—working seventy hours a week with no life. And in her case, no access to proper hair care. She wears her red-and-gray curls pulled back in a rubber band—doesn’t even bother with a scrunchie from the dollar store. Her dresses are little more than sacks with slits, and her signature look includes those god-awful Jesus sandals
from Birkenstock. Ellen might be a great contracts attorney, but she is devoid of discernible estrogen. Still, Ellen was kind of taking me under her wing. I was her pet project of sorts. I didn’t doubt that her awkward attempts at friendship were sincere. I just figured it was a new tack to get me to further my career.
I started to clear a spot for myself on Tony’s couch when he reached out and placed his hand over mine. “No need. This is going to be quick.”
Turning slightly so we were face-to-face, I smiled up at him. “What do you need?”
“You.”
The room spun for a second as my brain tried to wrap itself around that word. “E-excuse me?”
He took my hands in his and gave a gentle squeeze. “I have tickets to
The Magic Flute
tomorrow night.”
“Nothing like a Saturday night with Mozart.”
Humor flashed in his eyes, and when he smiled, I was treated to a look at the near-legendary dimple on his right cheek. “Right, your mother was a singer with the Met.”
“Yes, she was. Now she’s a professional widow, divorcée, or bride-to-be, depending on when you catch her.”
“Sorry?”
Reluctantly, I pulled away from his grasp. I waved one hand in the small space between us. “Bad joke. My mother is very fond of getting married. She just has a problem
staying
married. That said, she made sure my sister and I were exposed to opera from birth.”
Why had I offered that up? Nerves, I guess. Still, it made me sound like a babbling fool. Not exactly the impression I was going for. I regrouped.
“How do you feel about
The Magic Flute
?” he asked.
“I liked the Kenneth Branagh movie version. Very stylized, like a Target commercial.”
Tony glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to be at the courthouse in like ten minutes. Is there any chance you’re free tomorrow night? I know it’s short notice, but—”
“Short notice is fine.”
“Great,” he said on a relieved rush of breath. “Can you be at my place at about six?”
“Absolutely.”
He reached into his jacket pocket and handed me a piece of paper with an address on it. I gave it a cursory glance, then tucked it under the blank pages of my legal pad.
Tony walked around to his desk and crammed some files into his briefcase. As he came around again, he gave my hand yet another squeeze. “Thanks, Finley. See you tomorrow night.”
