Killjoy by Julie Garwood

Andrews really should handle the press conference. Any credit should go to him and his team.”
    “Look, none of us likes doing this,” he snapped. “But this was such a high-profile case, and frankly, most people would appreciate receiving some recognition.”
    “My coworkers and I would rather have raises . . . and windows, sir. We’d like windows too. Are you aware that our offices are located behind the mechanical room?”
    “Space is at a premium,” he said. “And when did you get the idea we were negotiating?”
    Her back stiffened. “Sir, in an evaluation—”
    He cut her off. “You told me you acted alone when you called Andrews.”
    “Yes, that’s correct, but the others were . . . integral. Yes, sir, they were integral in helping me go through those files for names.”
    One eyelid dropped. “You do realize that lying won’t get you a raise, don’t you?”
    “Sir, Mel and Lou and Margo and I are a team. They did help. They just weren’t as convinced as I was . . .”
    The buzzer sounded on his intercom. Carter impatiently hit the button and said, “I’ll be right there.”
    Then he reached for his suit jacket and put it on, frowning at her all the while.
    “Relax, Delaney,” he finally said. “You’re off the hook. I’m not going to make you do the press conference.”
    Her relief made her weak. “Thank you, sir.”
    She stood when he walked around the desk, the wadded panty hose hidden under the jacket draped over her arm. Carter stopped at the door and then turned back with the frown still creasing his brow.
    “Don’t ever use my name again without my permission, Delaney.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “One more thing,” he said.
    “Yes, sir?”
    “Good work.”

Chapter 2

    M ARRIAGE ISN’T FOR THE SQUEAMISH. BOTH HUSBAND AND wife must be willing to let their inner children play dirty if they want their marriage to survive and flourish. They must let their inner children roll around in the mud. Mistakes will be inevitable, of course, but a shower of love and forgiveness will cleanse the union, and the healing will then begin.
    What a crock. Carolyn Delaney Salvetti sat in wide-eyed disbelief as she listened to the garbage the marriage counselor pontificated from his self-help, self-published manual, aptly and ludicrously titled Let Your Inner Child Get Dirty . Was the moron talking about marriage or mud wrestling? Carrie didn’t know, and at the moment she didn’t particularly care.
    Without being too obvious about it, she pushed the sleeve of her silk blouse up over her wrist and glanced down at her Cartier watch. Ten minutes to go. God, could she last that long?
    She took a deep breath, let go of her sleeve, and leaned back in the plush chair, nodding ever so sagely so her husband and the moron would think she was paying attention.
    Marriage isn’t for the squeamish, he repeated in his slow, nasal, baritone drawl. His voice was like a loofah made of steel wool, irritating every nerve in her body.
    The counselor was a pompous, fat, flatulent fraud who insisted on being called Dr. Pierce because he felt his full name, Dr. Pierce Ebricht, was too formal for such an intimate discussion. After all, he was supposed to be helping them bare their guts. After the first session, Carrie had dubbed him Dr. Prick. Her husband, Tony, had chosen him because he was “in” at the moment. The counselor, with his drive-through-window degree, was the newest guru whom everyone who was anyone flocked to for marriage rejuvenation. Dr. Pierce was the Dr. Phil for the rich and famous, but unlike Dr. Phil, the prick was a complete buffoon.
    But then, so was Tony. He sat beside Carrie, his sweaty palms held together as though in prayer, looking so earnest and engaged, like a wooden Howdy Doody the counselor manually manipulated, nodding in quick agreement whenever Dr. Prick paused from reading his bible to look up expectantly.
    Chewing on her lip was the only way she could keep from laughing . . . or screaming.