she said she wasn't interested in sleeping with him. Hell, he'd even be satisfied with believing himself.
Kitty's heart pounded in her chest as she maneuvered through the maze of bodies on the dance floor. Nausea clung to her, sticky and thick. She wasn't sure how much longer she could maintain any semblance of calm around Ford. Her nerves were frayed to the point of exhaustion.
Selling Biedermann's was something she'd neverthought she'd consider. Just meeting with FMJ to discuss it had been abhorrent. But she'd done it. She'd dug deep to find strength she'd never known she had and she'd done the right thing for the company. And this was how fate had punished her.
Why, oh, why, did it have to be him? Why did he have to be the F of FMJ? Six billion people in the world and the one she never wanted to see again just happened to be the one who held her future in his hands. It was cruelty piled on top of humiliation. It was completely...nauseating.
She flattened her hand against the restroom door and shoved her way inside. The room was thankfully empty. A fact that she only had a second to appreciate before another wave of nausea washed over her. She bolted for the closest stall just as bile mixed with the rich appetizers she'd been so hungry for when she'd first arrived.
Talk about humiliation.
As if throwing up--in public--wasn't bad enough. As Kitty knelt on the bathroom floor with one hand propped on the toilet paper dispenser and the other wedged against the wall, she heard footsteps outside the stall.
"Oh, my, are you all right?" asked a wavering voice from behind her.
The voice sounded kind--benevolently maternal. Kitty wasn't taken in. Too many "kind" women were starving for gossip.
"I'm fine," Kitty managed. She raised her left leg, felt around in the air a bit for the door, then kicked it shut.
"Is there something I can get you, dear?"
Hmm...a cool washcloth? A glass of water? Retrograde amnesia? Any of the above would do.
Kitty shoved the hair out of her face and straightened, wiping at the corners of her mouth with the back of her hand.
"Perhaps I could notify your date that you're not feeling well?"
Nosy and persistent, then. Kitty stood, smoothing down her dress. In her haste, she stepped on her hem and pulled it out. But that couldn't be helped. Praying she looked better than she felt, she left the sanctuary of the stall. Kitty turned to see an elderly woman hovering by the sinks. Though she had to be nearing ninety, the woman was well-dressed and obviously took pains with her appearance.
Kitty remembered something her grandmother had often told her. There's no situation that can't be improved with a fresh coat of lipstick.
Sayings like that had made Kitty roll her eyes as a teenager. Inexplicably, Kitty chuckled. "I think I'll just freshen my makeup."
The older woman smiled. "Always a good idea, if you ask me."
Kitty faced the mirror. Her hair had lost its smooth sheen and now looked tousled beyond repair. Her face was ashen, her lips dry. Even her eyes seemed to have developed dark circles. She could only suppose they'd darkened to match her exhaustion.
And here she'd thought she looked pretty good just a few hours ago when she'd left the condo.
She sighed. By the sink there was a selection of hand lotions and perfumes, along with a bottle of mouthwash and a stack of tiny cups. She filled one of the cups with water to rinse out her mouth.
Spitting as delicately as she could, Kitty said, "This is quite embarrassing. I don't think I've ever thrown up in public before."
"Think nothing of it, dear. Every woman goes through it."
Kitty raised her eyebrows. "Every woman--" she started to ask in confusion.
"Well, not every woman. But when I was pregnant with Jake, my second, I couldn't keep anything down, either."
"Oh, I'm not...That is, I've just been under a lot of stress."
The woman gave her a pointed look. "Is that what they're calling it these days?"
"I'm not--" But Kitty's protest died
Kitty's heart pounded in her chest as she maneuvered through the maze of bodies on the dance floor. Nausea clung to her, sticky and thick. She wasn't sure how much longer she could maintain any semblance of calm around Ford. Her nerves were frayed to the point of exhaustion.
Selling Biedermann's was something she'd neverthought she'd consider. Just meeting with FMJ to discuss it had been abhorrent. But she'd done it. She'd dug deep to find strength she'd never known she had and she'd done the right thing for the company. And this was how fate had punished her.
Why, oh, why, did it have to be him? Why did he have to be the F of FMJ? Six billion people in the world and the one she never wanted to see again just happened to be the one who held her future in his hands. It was cruelty piled on top of humiliation. It was completely...nauseating.
She flattened her hand against the restroom door and shoved her way inside. The room was thankfully empty. A fact that she only had a second to appreciate before another wave of nausea washed over her. She bolted for the closest stall just as bile mixed with the rich appetizers she'd been so hungry for when she'd first arrived.
Talk about humiliation.
As if throwing up--in public--wasn't bad enough. As Kitty knelt on the bathroom floor with one hand propped on the toilet paper dispenser and the other wedged against the wall, she heard footsteps outside the stall.
"Oh, my, are you all right?" asked a wavering voice from behind her.
The voice sounded kind--benevolently maternal. Kitty wasn't taken in. Too many "kind" women were starving for gossip.
"I'm fine," Kitty managed. She raised her left leg, felt around in the air a bit for the door, then kicked it shut.
"Is there something I can get you, dear?"
Hmm...a cool washcloth? A glass of water? Retrograde amnesia? Any of the above would do.
Kitty shoved the hair out of her face and straightened, wiping at the corners of her mouth with the back of her hand.
"Perhaps I could notify your date that you're not feeling well?"
Nosy and persistent, then. Kitty stood, smoothing down her dress. In her haste, she stepped on her hem and pulled it out. But that couldn't be helped. Praying she looked better than she felt, she left the sanctuary of the stall. Kitty turned to see an elderly woman hovering by the sinks. Though she had to be nearing ninety, the woman was well-dressed and obviously took pains with her appearance.
Kitty remembered something her grandmother had often told her. There's no situation that can't be improved with a fresh coat of lipstick.
Sayings like that had made Kitty roll her eyes as a teenager. Inexplicably, Kitty chuckled. "I think I'll just freshen my makeup."
The older woman smiled. "Always a good idea, if you ask me."
Kitty faced the mirror. Her hair had lost its smooth sheen and now looked tousled beyond repair. Her face was ashen, her lips dry. Even her eyes seemed to have developed dark circles. She could only suppose they'd darkened to match her exhaustion.
And here she'd thought she looked pretty good just a few hours ago when she'd left the condo.
She sighed. By the sink there was a selection of hand lotions and perfumes, along with a bottle of mouthwash and a stack of tiny cups. She filled one of the cups with water to rinse out her mouth.
Spitting as delicately as she could, Kitty said, "This is quite embarrassing. I don't think I've ever thrown up in public before."
"Think nothing of it, dear. Every woman goes through it."
Kitty raised her eyebrows. "Every woman--" she started to ask in confusion.
"Well, not every woman. But when I was pregnant with Jake, my second, I couldn't keep anything down, either."
"Oh, I'm not...That is, I've just been under a lot of stress."
The woman gave her a pointed look. "Is that what they're calling it these days?"
"I'm not--" But Kitty's protest died
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