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  I took some more deep breaths, exhaling slowly as I waited for my anger to subside and for my fantasy of beating Gallagher over the head with a blunt object to work its cathartic magic. After a minute or two, my hands were still trembling, but just a bit, and Peter’s ring shone bright and reassuring on my finger. I took a final deep breath, squared my shoulders, and headed through the door.

  I crashed immediately into Dahlia Crenshaw.

  “Ooof,” I said.

  “Oh! I’m sorry. Are you okay?” I didn’t have time to answer before Dahlia burst into tears.

  “I’m fine,” I said, leading her back into the safety of the ladies’ room. “But you’re clearly not. What’s going on?”

  She sank onto one of the stools in front of the vanity. “You have to ask?”

  “Gallagher?”

  “I hate that man.”

  “He’s a rat,” I agreed. “But you can’t let him get to you.” Easier advice to give than to take, as I well knew, but suggesting that she fantasize about beating her boss over the head with a blunt object seemed unprofessional, at best. I crossed to a stall, ripped a length of toilet paper from the roll and handed it to her. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

  “Why don’t you quit?” I asked.

  “I’d leave in a heartbeat if I could, but the money’s good and the firm pays for my night classes—I’m getting my nursing degree, did you know? I can’t afford to quit. After all, it’s only my pride I’m sacrificing here.” She said this with a bitter smile, and fresh tears began streaming down her cheeks, streaked with black from her running mascara.

  I perched on the counter beside her. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Dahlia shook her head. “You could kill him for me,” she joked with false bravado.

  I laughed. “I’d kill him for myself. He sure hasn’t won me over. I don’t know how you can stand it.”

  “I can’t,” said Dahlia in a forlorn voice, the bravado gone. She turned to the mirror and began dabbing at the tracks the tears had left. “So much for waterproof mascara.”

  “No mascara could stand up to these working conditions.”

  “Working for Gallagher is bad enough. But it’s even worse knowing that everybody thinks we’re having an affair.”

  I felt a wave of shame wash over me. That was exactly what everybody thought, including myself until a moment ago.

  I was a bad liar, so I didn’t even try to convince Dahlia that the rumors weren’t out there. “Look, people are so desperate for a bit of intrigue, they’ll believe anything. But that’s a rumor that can be squashed.”

  “I hope so. I mean, it’s not like he didn’t come on to me when I first started working for him, but I nipped that right in the bud, and I’m too good at my job for him to get rid of me. But how could anyone think I’d have anything to do with him? And why does he always have to be such a jerk, yelling and obnoxious? Didn’t anyone ever teach him any manners?”

  “He does seem to have missed out on the common courtesy gene. I wish I knew how to solve that one.”

  “You can’t,” said Dahlia. She sighed. “Sorry to unload on you like this.”

  “No problem. I’ve had a few nervous breakdowns in here, too.”

  “You? Impossible. You’re always so poised. Calm, cool, and collected.”

  If she only knew. “Hardly. Anyhow, are you feeling better?”

  “Better? Not really. But I’ll be fine.” She dabbed at her face a final time and rose from the stool. “And I should get back. This new deal seems to have him particularly worked up. Do you know that two different people have already called from Thunderbolt for a team list?”

  “They probably want to send some more materials over,” I said, but I had to stifle a groan as I followed Dahlia out the door. The last thing we needed was another influx of documents and spreadsheets. It was hard to believe it was only Monday. And it was depressing, too. An entire week ahead and not a break in sight.

  Little did I know what the week held in store.

  chapter three

  M y own assistant, Jessica, was at her desk outside my office when I returned.

  “So,” she said, “judging by the stack of stuff you left for me, I’m guessing that you were here all weekend, weren’t you?” “Yup.”

  “And this was your first weekend with your new roommate, too. When are you going to get a life?”

  “At this rate, never.”

  “And how is Il Duce?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  “Please, no Tony Danza jokes. I’m running on empty here.”

  “I had a feeling about that. I left a little fuel for you in your office.”

  “You are my new best friend.”

  “You might want to wait and see what I brought you before getting rid of your old best friend.”

  I was incredibly lucky to have Jessica as my assistant. An aspiring actor, she was absurdly overqualified for her current job with a degree in drama from Yale, and she’d saved my skin on more than a few occasions. Unfortunately, she was also a bit of a health nut. Instead of the bagel and cream cheese I’d been hoping for, the bag she’d left on my desk contained a distressingly wholesome-looking bran muffin and some carrot juice.

  I reached into the small refrigerator under my desk and pulled out a can of Diet Coke. Carrot juice just wasn’t going to cut it this morning. I picked up the phone, cradling it against my shoulder and dialing Jake’s extension with one hand while I popped open the can of soda with the other. I probably could have walked over to his office, but it was on the other side of the floor and that seemed like too much work.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey. So, are we ready?”

  “I think so. Mark’s dealing with the copies.”

  “He’s a machine.”

  “Yes, and he’s our machine, thank God.”

  “Good point.”

  “So, what did Gallagher want with you?”

  “Nothing much. Just to warn me to keep the thoughts in my pretty little head to myself.”

  He chuckled. “Don’t let him get to you.” That seemed to be a recurring theme today.

  “Who, little ole me? Worry my pretty little head with silly details about a silly ole deal?”

  “Cute, Scarlett.”

  I switched back to my own accent. “Let’s just say, if Gallagher suddenly dies a mysterious death—”

  “We’ll know who to bring in for questioning.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Rachel,” he said. “Seriously. Do you want me to say something to him? Or to somebody else?” Jake had come into my office on Saturday shortly after I’d slapped Gallagher’s hand from my arm and told him that no, I had no interest in joining him for lunch at an intimate restaurant he knew nearby. I’d still been sufficiently upset that it hadn’t taken much coaxing to get the story out of me.

  “What could you say?” I asked. “Everything he’s said and done can be explained away. It’s all too subtle, and it’s all his word against mine. And he’s a rainmaker—he brings in more fees in a month than I bring in all year, so I think I know where the partners’ loyalties lie.”

  “I don’t care how much money he brings in. He shouldn’t be allowed to get away with this sort of thing.”

  “I’ll just deal with it, and once I make partner, I’ll never have to deal with it again.”

  “Well, let me know if you change your mind….”

  “Thanks, Jake. I appreciate it.”

  “No problem. See you at ten?”

  “At ten,” I confirmed and hung up the phone. “Pretty little head, my foot,” I muttered, washing the words down with a swig of soda.

  I turned to where I’d left my briefcase on top of the credenza, unlatching it and drawing a battered spiral-bound notebook from an inside pocket.

  The notebook contained a hundred sheets of ruled paper, but it was already more than half-filled, which wasn’t surprising given that
I’d been making regular entries for years. I opened to a fresh page and printed the date at the top. Then I quickly summarized my interaction with Gallagher, “pretty little head” and all. I tried to describe it objectively, which was challenging given the rage still coursing through my veins. I wrote steadily for several minutes before pausing to look over my account. Satisfied that I’d captured everything important, I flipped through the preceding pages.

  The previous entry was from Saturday afternoon and described the first incident with Gallagher. The page before that held a description of my most recent meeting with the partner assigned to be my “mentor.” He’d insisted on conducting my last performance review over drinks and had swilled down three Glenlivets while I nursed a seltzer and fought off his attempts to steer the conversation toward my love life, rather than my professional development.

  The notebook was my version of an insurance policy, started at the urging of my friend Luisa, a lawyer. I wanted to succeed on my merits, but it hadn’t taken long to realize that there was a lot more than merit to succeeding on Wall Street, especially as a woman. If I ever found myself getting the shaft for reasons that I suspected had more to do with my gender than anything else, I had a detailed record of all I’d put up with over the years. None of my experiences met the legal definition of sexual harassment, but as a whole the handwritten pages told a compelling story.

  I’d returned the notebook to my briefcase and was cranking through the e-mails overflowing my in-box when the intercom buzzed. “Peter’s on line one,” Jessica told me.

  “Thanks, I’ll take it,” I said and picked up the phone, still typing with my free hand. “Hi.”

  “Good morning.”

  “Not so far.”

  “That’s the attitude, Sparky.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I wanted to check in and see if maybe you could sneak out for a nice romantic lunch today.”

  I hadn’t told Peter about Gallagher’s far less welcome invitation—it would only upset him, and he was already concerned about how hard I’d been working—so he couldn’t have known the unfortunate associations lunch invitations held for me just then. Nor was there any way I was going to be able to sneak out for a nice romantic anything. In fact, sneaking out for a decent night’s sleep was probably going to be a problem, and I told Peter as much.

  “That bad, huh?” Peter ran a tech start-up, and while he worked hard, he was his own boss and set his own hours. It wasn’t always easy for him to understand how little control I had over my own schedule.

  “Just business as usual. Listen, I’ll call you when I know how things are shaping up. Maybe we can try to grab a late dinner?”

  “That would be great. I feel like I see less of you than I did before we lived together.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said lamely. “But this deal can’t last forever.” At least, I certainly hoped it couldn’t. “I’ll talk to you later?”

  “All right,” he agreed.

  My other line was ringing, and I checked the caller ID. “That’s Jake. I’ve got to run.”

  I’d hung up before I realized Peter was still talking. “Love you—” he was saying.

  I felt guilty, but only partly because I’d had so little time for Peter of late.

  The other part was because I was annoyed that I felt guilty. A nasty little voice in my head was saying that Peter should know well enough by now what my job was like, that he couldn’t expect me to drop everything whenever he called. Just because he had a key to my apartment didn’t mean that he had a key to my entire life.

  And the very existence of that nasty little voice made me feel all the more guilty.

  chapter four

  J ake, Mark and I took the single flight of stairs up to the designated conference room a few minutes before ten. “Where should I sit?” asked Mark nervously, setting the stack of bound presentations on the table. Client meetings were still pretty new to him—he’d joined the firm only a few months ago after graduating early from an undergraduate finance program, opting to start work immediately rather than use the extra time to travel or take a few electives.

  “I wouldn’t just yet,” I advised. “I’m sure Gallagher has some master plan about how he wants to position us.” Like kneeling at his feet, awaiting his next command. Jake smiled as if he knew what I was thinking, and he probably did.

  Gallagher arrived a moment later, deep in chummy conversation with his companion—Nicholas Perry, presumably. Next to Perry, Gallagher looked especially mousy, as Perry was well over six feet and bore a striking resemblance to George Hamilton, albeit dressed in a pin-striped suit rather than a Zorro costume.

  Jake stepped forward and introduced himself, shaking Perry’s hand.

  “Hello, Jake,” Perry said.

  “And this is Rachel Benjamin and Mark Anders.” I had the feeling that Jake didn’t trust Gallagher to get the names of his minions right and had preempted the introductions accordingly.

  “Nice to meet you.” He turned to Gallagher. “This is quite a group you’ve assembled here, Glenn.” There was something oily about his tone, or maybe it just seemed that way because he looked so slick, from his shining tasseled loafers up to his sleekly barbered hair.

  Gallagher shrugged—he saved his chumminess for old college pals—and glanced at his Rolex. “Ready to get started?”

  “Let’s do it,” agreed Perry with a glance at his own Rolex.

  Sure enough, Gallagher did have strong ideas about seating. In my case, it was at the end of the table farthest from Perry. For once I was happy to be marginalized.

  “We’ve run the numbers,” he told Perry as we took our places. “And the bond department is raring to go—we should be able to get this done in a couple of weeks.”

  “The faster the better,” said Perry.

  Gallagher began walking him through the materials we’d put together, with Jake, Mark, and I adding the occasional clarifying detail when called upon. The mechanics of the proposed buyout were fairly straightforward. Perry would purchase all of Thunderbolt’s shares, financing a small part of the acquisition with fifty million dollars put up by his investor group. The remainder would be financed by bonds that Winslow, Brown would issue and sell. The bonds, in turn, would be backed by Thunderbolt’s future earnings. Perry’s investor group would then own a company worth five hundred million dollars after putting up only ten percent of its value.

  It was risky but perfectly legal. And Winslow, Brown would net a cool three or four million dollars in fees for a few weeks’ work, a healthy chunk of which would be deposited directly into Gallagher’s pocket. It was good to be a partner, and especially good to be a senior partner.

  “The only thing standing in the way is getting the new union contract signed. Did you wrap up the negotiations?” Gallagher asked Perry.

  “We finalized everything over the weekend. Kryzluk, the chapter president, is a bit bull-headed, but the last thing he wanted was layoffs—he had to cave on benefits.” He said this as if the decline in Thunderbolt’s business was a plus, because it meant that the union had to yield on its demands to ensure that employees kept their jobs.

  “Good,” said Gallagher, who probably didn’t spend much time pondering the fate of industrial laborers in a rust-belt town. Concern about that sort of thing would be a liability in his line of work.

  As I listened, however, my unease only increased.

  The whole deal smelled. As I’d tried to point out earlier, Thunderbolt was in bad shape. I didn’t understand what Perry or his anonymous co-investors were thinking—sure, the buyout would leave them in control, but with massive interest payments that the business couldn’t support with its declining revenues.

  When Gallagher paused to draw a breath, I spoke without thinking. “Are there any new contracts in the pipeline?” There must be a reason that Perry was so interested in owning the company—the man may have been slick, but I doubted he was stupid.

  My question met with an awkward moment
of silence. Then Perry turned to me, peering down the length of the polished mahogany table as if noting my presence for the first time.

  “I don’t think we need to worry about that,” he said with finality.

  Gallagher shot me a look that suggested he wished looks could, in fact, kill before changing the subject. A few minutes later he was chummily walking Perry down the hall to the elevators.

  Gallagher had, of course, guaranteed Perry we’d have a revised set of numbers ready the next day, which meant that the rest of today and much of the evening were shot. I knew I couldn’t face diving back into work without a short break—preferably one involving food—and Jake and Mark concurred. We agreed to reconvene in ten minutes for a quick lunch and headed downstairs to our offices.

  I was at Jessica’s desk, retrieving messages, when I heard the panicked voice of Bert, the guy who manned reception, from across the floor.

  “Ma’am? Ma’am? You can’t go in there! I need to make sure you’re expected—”

  Jessica and I both turned to stare. The woman Bert was trailing ignored his protests. “Don’t worry—I’ll find my way, thanks.”

  She was average height and in her late forties, with the sort of face people describe as striking rather than pretty. Her dark hair was pulled back into a neat chignon, and she was wearing a smart navy pantsuit. We watched, curious, as she surveyed the open space of the floor, its center crammed with the low-walled cubicles that housed junior bankers and assistants, and the offices for more senior bankers lining the perimeter. Her eyes landed on Dahlia, seated at her station in front of Gallagher’s own corner office.

  “Hello, Dahlia,” she called, threading her way through the maze of cubes.

  “Naomi!” Dahlia’s tone was surprised. Bert hesitated but seemed to take the greeting as proof of the intruder’s legitimacy. With a shrug he retreated to reception.

  “It’s been a long time,” said Naomi as she reached Dahlia. “I don’t think I’ve seen you since Glenn and I signed the divorce papers. Is he in?”