Unplugged (28 page)

He dragged out a chair and sat down across from me. I darted my gaze toward the office and back. The thought of the checkbook lying hidden under the desk was driving me mad.

“How about you?” I asked. “What brought you here?”

“The job,” he said. “Plain and simple. NeoTech was a good opportunity.”

I took the plunge. “I hear they’re having some trouble, though.”

He jerked his gaze toward me. “Where’d you hear that?”

My heart stopped. “Just . . . around.”

Silence echoed through the room, then, “Geez, I’m sorry, Chrissy,” he said. “I mean, it’s not proven yet or anything.”

“What’s not proven?”

“That Solberg took that money. For all I know, it might just be an error in bookkeeping. I hope so anyway. It’d kill Black.”

“Who would?”

He gave me a look.

“I mean,
what
would?”

“If J.D. had stolen anything. Black thinks he walks on water. He’s worried sick about him. I mean, I am, too, but . . .” He took a deep breath. “I hope this won’t affect our relationship.”

“Umm. No. Of course not.”

He smiled. “Tell me what you’re really doing here.”

I kept my eyes strictly on his, lest they slip back to his office. The checkbook was burning a hole in my mind and blasting alarms in every direction. Surely he heard them.

“You, ummm . . .” I forced myself to pick up a cracker. “You didn’t believe the confession story?”

“Confession’s rare these days.”

“I’m an old-fashioned girl.”

“Not in that shirt.” He gave me an appreciative eyebrow waggle and in that moment I really hoped he hadn’t killed Solberg. Guys that good-looking shouldn’t go around killing people.

“Would you believe I was meeting a friend for lunch?” I asked.

He narrowed his eyes. “Male or female?”

“Female.”

He shook his head and eyed my chest again. “You wouldn’t be that cruel.”

That sounded like a compliment. My temperature rose a couple degrees, but when he stood up, my brain froze.

I scrambled to my feet, though I’m not sure what I hoped to accomplish. “I am cruel,” I said. “And strong. I’m really . . .” He was drawing closer. I grappled with my purse, but I was still holding a cracker in my right hand and was having trouble with the logistics. “I’m really strong.”

“Great, ’cuz I was hoping you came to seduce me,” he said, and kissed me.

It was like putting dynamite in my pants.

He drew away.

“Wow,” I said.

He smiled. “Or . . .” He brushed his thumb across my jaw. “If that wasn’t your plan . . .” He caressed my throat. I swallowed. “That you’d allow me to seduce you.”

My hormones were screaming X-rated suggestions, but my brain was reminding me that he might very well be an embezzler, or a murderer. I was pretty sure he wasn’t gay.

“I just . . .” I cleared my throat. “I felt bad . . . about last time.” He kissed the corner of my mouth. “About the last two times, in fact.”

“There
have
been a lot of untimely interruptions,” he said, and slipped his hand down my bare arm.

Jesus God, how could that feel so good? It was just my arm. What if he touched some of the good stuff? “Yeah,” I said. My voice sounded gravelly. “So I just thought . . .”

He wrapped his arm around my back and pulled me close.

I swallowed. “I just thought I’d drop by to—”

“Good idea,” he said, and kissed me again.

By the time he stopped, I needed a resuscitator.

He leaned his forehead against mine. “Maybe we’d be more comfortable in the bedroom.”

“The bedroom?” I panted.

“You don’t look like a kitchen table kind of girl.”

Which just goes to show that even a guy with a smile like a damned beacon doesn’t know everything. I was about ready to toss him under the sink and have at him.

“I, umm . . .” I cleared my throat and tried to do the same with my mind. “I don’t know you very well yet, Ross.”

“What are you talking about?” He was running the edges of his nails up and down my back. “You’ve already seen me naked. Remember?”

My throat went dry. “As a matter of fact . . .” I said.

“Hardly seems fair.” Lifting his hand, he trilled his fingers over the mounds of my breasts. I shivered down to my toenails.

“Maybe we could even up the odds a little?” He lifted a strap from my shoulder. I felt my head fall back slightly.

It was then that his phone rang. I screamed and jerked back.

He stared at me as if I’d just morphed into an anteater. “Are you okay?”

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” I all but shouted the words.

Somehow I failed to convince him. He took a step toward me. I cowered away.

“The phone. The phone.” I waved rather wildly toward it. “You’d better get it.”

“I’m sure it can wait.”

“No!” I was holding a stiff arm out toward him like a quarterback fending off a nose tackle. “I don’t want to . . . inconvenience you. I have to . . .” I darted my gaze toward the hallway. “I have to pee anyway.”

He blinked, looking confused. “Okay.”

He might have looked a little wounded, too, but I couldn’t seem to get my breath. “Answer it,” I hissed.

He did so, watching me as he said hello. I didn’t wait around to hear more. Instead, I darted into the bathroom, where I pressed myself against the wall and tried to breathe. It didn’t go well. I could still hear him talking. I scrounged up all my courage and peeked around the corner. I couldn’t see into the office from that vantage point, but I swore I could hear the checkbook screaming at me.

I heard Ross laugh and mumble something from the kitchen. I darted into his office, scrambled under the desk, snatched up the checkbook, and shoved it into my purse. I was just dashing back into the hall when he appeared around the corner.

I stifled a scream.

“Chris.” He scowled at me. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I said, and realized I was backed against the wall. “Nothing. I just . . . I remembered something I have to do at home.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No!”

“What?”

“Iron.”

“You have to iron?”

I was shaking my head and nodding intermittently. “I left the iron on.”

“I’m sure it’ll be all right,” he said, and reached for me.

“No. Can’t. Love to. Gotta go,” I babbled, and took off like the proverbial bat, but it was hard to tell if I was leaving hell or heading straight toward it.

20

Haste will get you maced.

—J.D. Solberg,
who knows such things

H
OW WAS YOUR
weekend?” Elaine looked hopelessly determined to be chipper as she fiddled her way through the top file drawer. I assessed her mood with every gram of therapeutic ability I possessed.

It was Monday morning. Solberg still hadn’t shown up, and I’d learned approximately nothing. According to Bennet’s checkbook, he had fifty-seven thousand dollars at United Equity Bank. I had no idea what that meant. Except that he was fifty-seven thousand dollars richer than I was.

If he was the embezzler, he had either stashed most of the stolen money in another account or he had an accomplice.

Or, I thought raggedly, he
used
to have an accomplice.

“It was okay. Kind of dull,” I said, and wished to God that had been true. “How ’bout you?”

“I went out with that plumber.”

“Yeah?”

“And a bodybuilder.”

“Really?”

“And a guy I met on my way to yoga.”

“You were asked out on the interstate?”

“Traffic was stopped on the five.”

I nodded. I don’t usually get propositioned during rush hour. Unless you count “Screw you,” yelled out at forty miles per hour, in which case I’m pretty popular.

Laney dug out the files for my Monday clients and set them on her desk. Howard Lepinski’s was as thick as a novella. “Pete leave?”

“Yeah. He was gone when I got home on Friday.”

“He seemed different.”

“You think?”

“More . . .” She paused for a moment. “Mature.”

“It’s an illusion.”

“He looked good.”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “Laney, you’re not forgetting the sheep poop, are you?”

She laughed. “It’s hard to forget sheep poop.”

I relaxed marginally.

“Besides, I met a nice Armenian guy in Glendale yesterday.”

God help me. “Oh?”

“He seemed really sweet. We were both standing in line at that new Whole Foods. He bought my aloe vera juice for me. I tried to make him take his money back, but he wouldn’t.”

“Uh-huh.” For a moment I imagined Laney trying to shove a five-dollar bill back into some poor sucker’s jeans pocket. He was probably still in an orgasmic haze.

“Were you wearing a skirt?” I asked.

“I was wearing slacks and a cable-knit sweater.”

“I’ve warned you about those sweaters.”

She gave me a smile. It was just a shade too bright.

“He’s taking me out to dinner Thursday night.” She turned back to her files, casual as a cricket. But I saw it coming, could hear the words even before she opened her mouth. “Say, you haven’t heard anything else from Jeen, have you?”

A dozen sorry excuses curled my tongue.

“No,” I said.

She nodded. “Well, I just hope he’s okay.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I mean . . .” She sat down on her swivel chair and smiled up at me. Her eyes were as green as springtime. There was a reason seven of the fifteen boys in English Lit had chosen them as the subject of their Introduction to Poetry papers. “Not that I’m holding a grudge or anything, but it’d be great if he was around when I go out with Coco.”

“Coco?” I asked, and silently evaluated her tone—a little wistful, a little lonely, a lot out of sync.

“The guy at the grocery store.”

“Ahhh.”

“He’s got a horse ranch out near Santa Clarita.”

“Of course he does.”

“Asked me to go riding sometime. You know how long it’s been since I’ve been on a horse?”

I settled a hip carefully onto the corner of her desk. I was wearing a dusky silk skirt and didn’t want to wrinkle it. “So you don’t miss Solberg anymore?”

She was absolutely silent for a moment, then, “I’ve had some time to think about things. And you know . . .” She shrugged. “It never would have worked out. We were completely wrong for each other. It’s best it ended now.”

“Because you don’t share the same number of chromosomes?”

She laughed, then glanced up, lips trembling only slightly. “Hey, there’s Mr. Moniker,” she said, and handed me the first file.

I walked to my office, thinking I should increase her pay. If she had to make it as an actress, she’d starve to death in a week. Which is the precise reason I like to keep a little fat on my hips.

I saw seven clients that day, including Mr. Lepinski.

“How was your week?” I asked him, but I remembered our last session pretty clearly and was quite sure it hadn’t been great. Unless you compared it to mine.

He shrugged and sat down carefully in the chair across from me. “It was all right. I had lunch at the deli near my office last . . . Tuesday. No, it was Monday. I remember because that was the day it rained and I almost got wet walking back. It’s been raining a lot this year. I mean . . .” He shook his head in short little bursts, lips pursed, eyes wide behind round glasses. “Not a lot, not for . . . Seattle or somewhere like that. I’m from Seattle. Did you know that? I was born there.” He nodded, concurring with himself. “In 1954. I weighed—”

“Is that where you met your wife?”

He stopped in mid-sentence, mouth open, blinking. His mustache twitched. “What?”

Sometimes my job is really satisfying. Sometimes it sucks the big one. This was one of those latter occasions.

His face looked stricken, his narrow body wound tight as a paper clip.

“Your wife,” I repeated. I kept my tone firm and casual, as if I didn’t know his heart was breaking in his scrawny little chest. As if I didn’t know I should be removing my diploma and putting up a certified bitch certificate in its place. “Is that where you met her?”

“No.” Another twitch. “I met her here. She was a secretary . . . legal. Legal secretary. She worked for a firm called, ummm . . . I can’t remember now what they’re called, but they were pretty good, I think. If you ever need legal advice, you could give them a call. The young guy—Sam Ritchie, I think his name was—he seemed quite competent and their fees weren’t outrageous. Not like some of those guys. They’re just—”

“Have you spoken to her?”

His eyes looked somewhat magnified through the bulky lenses of his glasses. “Who?”

It was getting harder to grill him, bitch certificate or no bitch certificate. “Your wife. Have you told her that you suspect she’s having an affair?”

For a second I thought he might bolt for the door. For a second I almost hoped he would. But he remained where he was, knobby knees pressed together. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

Me either. “What do you want to talk about?”

“What I
was
talking about,” he said.

“Okay.” I nodded. “But it won’t make things better, Mr. Lepinski. It won’t make her quit, or make the pain go away, or make you realize you deserve better.”

He opened his mouth, closed it, and looked out the window. “Do I?” he asked, and turned slowly back toward me.

He was a myopic little man with thinning hair and a dozen irritating phobias. “Yes,” I said, and knew it was true. “You do.”

T
he rest of the day went just about as well.

The memory of Lepinski weeping into his hands seeped into my bones, dragging me down.

At 1:55 my third client left. I was finishing up some notes when I heard the front door open and close. Voices murmured from the reception area, then, sharp and clear, “No.”