“Well, she set an appointment for tomorrow. It seems Lotani is looking for new representation. If we were to take them on, they’d be one of our biggest clients, Maisie.”
She swallowed. “I think Heather might not be serious.”
“That was my first thought.” He sat on the chair beside her. “To be honest, her first message sounded like a prank. She claimed she’d met Ethan yesterday, but he only has a vague recollection of her. But because she also said she knew you, we returned her call.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” Maisie said, unable to savor the small victory of Ethan not having noticed Heather. She was worming her way in anyway.
“I’m glad we did. She’s coming with the Bobs. That’s Bob English and Robert Hollis, the founders of Lotani. Whatever you said to her on the street, she was impressed.”
“I didn’t—”
“Don’t be modest, Maisie. If we sign them, you’ll get a referral bonus. It would work out to quite a bit of money. Six figures.”
That was a lot of money. Enough to cover moving expenses when the owner of her condo found a buyer. She could pay off most, if not all, of her student loans and credit card debt.
But Maisie didn’t trust Heather. The scheming witch was up to something, and it probably had to do with Ethan.
11
M aisie was huddled in the doorway of the building next to Fortune Tower. She’d been staked out there for twenty minutes and counting.
Heather and the two Bobs were likely to show up any second now. Maisie didn’t know if they’d be coming in a taxi or a chauffeured car, so she scrutinized every vehicle that stopped in front of the building.
A dark gray sedan glided up to the curb.
Maisie couldn’t see the occupants, but she counted three people in the back.
The driver got out and sprinted around the car to get the door.
Now Maisie was positive. Heather was the kind of person who expected everyone to roll out the red carpet for her.
A pair of long legs emerged, followed by the rest of Heather.
Holy. Shit.
Heather’s tight black dress was completely inappropriate for the meeting. It was made from two fabrics, one solid black, the other a softer shade. It molded to her waist and hips.
The two men who followed her out of the car didn’t seem to be paying attention. Maybe they’d gotten desensitized.
But Heather would be a feast for the eyes of any heterosexual man. She tossed her head, and the sunlight played with her gleaming blonde hair.
Maisie’s mouth had gone completely dry. She pressed deeper into her hiding place. That fucking dress. It stopped several inches above Heather’s knees. It was suitable for a nightclub, not a business meeting.
But then, LB&B were the ones being interviewed here. Heather could show up in whatever she wanted, and no one would complain.
God, oh, god, why the hell had she told Heather where she worked?
One of the men said something—they were both in their fifties, Maisie guessed—and Heather threw back her head and laughed. Maisie didn’t need to hear it to know it was fake.
The three headed into the building, Heather’s hips swaying provocatively. Guys walking by stared openly.
That dress had probably been very expensive.
Up close, it was probably even sluttier.
* * *
M aisie paced in front of the building. Her heart was pounding in her chest, her throat, her head.
This was a spectacularly bad idea.
If she went up there, her bosses would probably kill her.
But then she imagined Heather in that skintight, low-cut dress, leaning on the conference table, giving Ethan an eyeful.
Maisie’s entire body shook with repressed rage, and she dipped into her purse to grab her cell phone.
“Good afternoon. LB&B Law. How may I help you today?”
It was Mrs. Donahue. Maisie would have recognized that voice anywhere; it populated plenty of her nightmares.
“Hi,” Maisie said, disguising her own voice, making it a little higher and assuming an exaggerated Southern accent. “May I speak with
The Amulet of Samarkand 2012 11 13 11 53 18 573
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