bottom drawer and pulled the medallion out of my purse. Flipping it over and over in my palm, I was still perplexed. I placed it next to my mouse pad, then powered on my computer. I scanned my emails, and my heart sank when I saw the high bid on a Rolex box go beyond my means. Since I’d given my mother almost all of my money for the house, I was back to hunting for parts for my build-it-from-scratch Rolex project.
I noticed two emails from Liam and took great delight in deleting them unread. There wasn’t anything he had to say that I wanted to hear. Or read. Or whatever.
Gulping down a huge hit of coffee, I grabbed a legal pad and pen, then dutifully marched toward the elevator. The executive offices were on the top floor.
When the elevator opened, I was greeted by the sight of a beautiful spray of flowers in the center of the waiting area, which was designed like a wagon wheel. Each spoke went to a different attorney’s office or conference room. Thomas Zarnowski, the founding partner, was mostly retired now. I missed him. He’d hired me seven years ago and actually liked me.
Ellen Lieberman, the first and only female partner, had her office and conference area to the left. Calling her a female partner was a bit of a stretch. Her long, curly hair turned gray years ago; she favored shapeless, flowing dresses with four slits—one for her head, one for each arm, and one for her unshaven legs to share. She lived in Birkenstocks, often wearing them with thin socks. I never went to her house, but I had this picture in my mind of a cluttered condo with lots of books, a single chair, a TV tray, and sixty cats.
Vain Dane’s office was directly in front of the elevators. His secretary had a huge desk, and she sat behind it like a sentry. I smelled the flowers as I passed by, then just as I reached the secretary’s desk, I smelled Acqua again. My heart fluttered just remembering my future fiancé.
“You may go in, Miss Tanner.”
“Finley is fine,” I told her for the umpteenth time. I could tell she was mentally tossing the suggestion in the trash as I started down the long hallway leading to Dane’s opulent office.
The strong scent of leather greeted me as I gently knocked on his partially open door.
“Come.”
Sit. Speak. Plastering a smile on my face, I walked in clutching my legal pad to my chest.
Dane looked annoyed. He didn’t get up from his custom upholstered leather chair. He just sat there, fingers steepled, glaringas I slowly walked forward. Behind his massive desk was a wall of windows, and I wondered how much of a running start I’d need to break through the glass and plunge to a painful but relatively quick death. My suicidal thoughts were cut short when Caprelli stood and turned in my direction.
Somehow—and no, I don’t know how—my heel caught one of the loops in the carpet, and for a flash of a second, I lurched forward before tossing my legal pad and grabbing for the first solid thing my hands encountered. That thing was Caprelli. I regained my balance and maybe 20 percent of my dignity as he guided me to one of the chairs across from Dane’s desk. “Thank you,” I mumbled as my cheeks grew hot.
Caprelli handed me my legal pad, and I adjusted myself on the edge of the seat. Grabbing the pen I’d tucked behind my ear, I sat poised and ready. For what I had no clue. It wasn’t as if I could take shorthand, and Dane didn’t usually farm out work to me. At least not since the Evans estate debacle.
“Finley Tanner, this is Anthony Caprelli.”
“We met earlier,” I said, offering my hand, “though not formally.”
“Tony,” he said as his large, masculine hand swallowed mine.
My heart rate increased when I lifted my eyes to his. They were dark and rimmed with perfect lashes. His complexion was dark as well, very Mediterranean and marred by just a few lines around his eyes that managed to make him even more attractive.
“Finley.” My own name came out in the froggish croak
I noticed two emails from Liam and took great delight in deleting them unread. There wasn’t anything he had to say that I wanted to hear. Or read. Or whatever.
Gulping down a huge hit of coffee, I grabbed a legal pad and pen, then dutifully marched toward the elevator. The executive offices were on the top floor.
When the elevator opened, I was greeted by the sight of a beautiful spray of flowers in the center of the waiting area, which was designed like a wagon wheel. Each spoke went to a different attorney’s office or conference room. Thomas Zarnowski, the founding partner, was mostly retired now. I missed him. He’d hired me seven years ago and actually liked me.
Ellen Lieberman, the first and only female partner, had her office and conference area to the left. Calling her a female partner was a bit of a stretch. Her long, curly hair turned gray years ago; she favored shapeless, flowing dresses with four slits—one for her head, one for each arm, and one for her unshaven legs to share. She lived in Birkenstocks, often wearing them with thin socks. I never went to her house, but I had this picture in my mind of a cluttered condo with lots of books, a single chair, a TV tray, and sixty cats.
Vain Dane’s office was directly in front of the elevators. His secretary had a huge desk, and she sat behind it like a sentry. I smelled the flowers as I passed by, then just as I reached the secretary’s desk, I smelled Acqua again. My heart fluttered just remembering my future fiancé.
“You may go in, Miss Tanner.”
“Finley is fine,” I told her for the umpteenth time. I could tell she was mentally tossing the suggestion in the trash as I started down the long hallway leading to Dane’s opulent office.
The strong scent of leather greeted me as I gently knocked on his partially open door.
“Come.”
Sit. Speak. Plastering a smile on my face, I walked in clutching my legal pad to my chest.
Dane looked annoyed. He didn’t get up from his custom upholstered leather chair. He just sat there, fingers steepled, glaringas I slowly walked forward. Behind his massive desk was a wall of windows, and I wondered how much of a running start I’d need to break through the glass and plunge to a painful but relatively quick death. My suicidal thoughts were cut short when Caprelli stood and turned in my direction.
Somehow—and no, I don’t know how—my heel caught one of the loops in the carpet, and for a flash of a second, I lurched forward before tossing my legal pad and grabbing for the first solid thing my hands encountered. That thing was Caprelli. I regained my balance and maybe 20 percent of my dignity as he guided me to one of the chairs across from Dane’s desk. “Thank you,” I mumbled as my cheeks grew hot.
Caprelli handed me my legal pad, and I adjusted myself on the edge of the seat. Grabbing the pen I’d tucked behind my ear, I sat poised and ready. For what I had no clue. It wasn’t as if I could take shorthand, and Dane didn’t usually farm out work to me. At least not since the Evans estate debacle.
“Finley Tanner, this is Anthony Caprelli.”
“We met earlier,” I said, offering my hand, “though not formally.”
“Tony,” he said as his large, masculine hand swallowed mine.
My heart rate increased when I lifted my eyes to his. They were dark and rimmed with perfect lashes. His complexion was dark as well, very Mediterranean and marred by just a few lines around his eyes that managed to make him even more attractive.
“Finley.” My own name came out in the froggish croak
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