"There's a call for you, Jackie," Pamela Langley's sultry voice came over the intercom. "Someone named Shiv Willis, on Line 2." Jackson Underwood snatched up the receiver and snapped off the intercom, cutting Pamela off just as she said, "If you're free tonight—"
He stared at the blinking light on the telephone and cursed under his breath. Shiv was never supposed to call on his office line, only on the private number. And he had given his name? His real name? Was he a complete idiot?
This whole affair was turning into the fiasco of the century. Shiv, the fool, had tried to burn the barn down, but had failed miserably, and only succeeded in landing the girl, who now called herself Amber, in the hospital. It was only a matter of time before the whole thing led back to him quicker than a fuse on a truckload of dynamite. It was time to take Shiv out of the picture.
Jack wondered, not for the first time, how he had gotten into a mess like this. Two decades ago, it had seemed so simple: get the girl out of the way, and everything would run smoothly from there on in. He hadn't taken into account how lies and deceptions could complicate themselves over time, and twenty years was a long time for trouble to be brewing unattended. Now there was nothing he could do but see it through and hope that the whole thing didn't come crashing down on his head.
He punched the lighted button on the telephone and snarled, "Underwood."
"Mr. Underwood?" Shiv's voice sounded garbled, as if his cell phone battery was low, or he was in a tunnel somewhere. "Just wanted . . . check in . . . ever-thing . . . fine . . . just some last-minute . . . "
"Where are you?" he barked.
" . . . arking garage . . . "
"Can you hear me, Shiv? Get in your car and drive out of the garage, then call me back—ON THE PRIVATE NUMBER!" He slammed the phone down and sank back into his chair.
The door to his office opened, and Pamela slid in through the crack and shut the door behind her. "Is everything all right, Jackie?" She lowered her eyes and sidled over to the desk. "You sounded a little . . . upset. I bet I know what could make you unupset . . . " She leaned against his shoulder and twirled one finger in the hair at the base of his neck. "C'mon, Jackie, let Pammie kiss it and make it better."
"Leave me alone, Pamela."
"You don't mean that, now do you?" Her sultry voice dropped half an octave. "Whatever's bothering you, I've got the cure."
Jack stared at her, incredulous. How could he ever have found himself attracted to a woman like this? She didn't seem so bad in a dark bar or candlelit bedroom, but in the harsh light of day, when he was sober—well, he must have been out of his mind to hire her, not to mention the other things he had done with her.
"Pamela," he said with forced patience, "I have some things to take care of, and I don't want to be disturbed—by anyone."
"Jackie, Jackie," she cooed. "All this worrying is giving you a frown line." She reached a manicured hand to smooth away the line between his brows, and he grasped her wrist with more force than he had intended. "Ouch! You're hurting me!"
"Out, Pamela," he repeated pointedly. "Now." He paused for a moment, his eyes drifting over the low-cut blouse, the makeup, the three-inch heels; then he sat down, grabbed his checkbook from the top drawer of the desk, and scribbled out a check in the amount of two weeks' pay, plus a sizable bonus. "Pack your desk," he said, handing the check to her. "This is your severance; I want you out of the office within the hour."
A confused look came over Pamela's face. "You're firing me? You can't do that!"
"Sure I can. I need a real secretary—"
"Legal assistant," she corrected.
"All right, I need a real legal assistant. All you've done since you came to work for me is answer the phone and do your nails."
"I've done a lot more than that, and you know it." Her eyes narrowed. "I know a thing or two about sexual harassment. I've got half a mind to lodge a complaint—"
"Half a mind is all you've ever had," Jack countered. "Take your check and go."
She flounced out of the room and slammed the door so hard it rattled the windows behind Jack's desk. He rubbed his aching temples and sighed. Why couldn't he find a real woman, one he didn't have to hire, one who had a brain as well as a body, one like—
Like Cecilia McAlister.
Jack could still see her the way she had been before the cancer drained the life out of her—vital and beautiful, witty and creative and smart. The best dancer he had ever held in his arms. The woman who had made all others—including his three ex-wives—pale in comparison.
All his life Jack had envied his best friend, not for his wealth or his status or his power, but for the wife who had graced his arm at social functions and served as hostess for his campaign parties. Cecilia had deserved better—so much better—than Duncan McAlister.
Ironic, that the only woman Jack had ever loved was the one he couldn't have, at least not in the way he wanted to have her, not permanently, not as his. And so in the end he had settled for protecting her—shielding her from the knowledge of who her husband really was, from an awareness of what a sham her marriage had become.
And he would go on with the deception, even now after her death. He would guard her memory, even though the price included covering for Duncan as well.
His private line rang once, and he picked up the receiver. "Underwood."
"It's me, Mr. Underwood. Sorry about the delay."
Jack let out an exasperated sigh and propped his feet up on the desk. With any luck at all, this might be the last call he ever had to take from Shiv Willis.
Shiv tried to keep his voice calm as he talked to Jackson Underwood, but it wasn't easy. He wouldn't tell him the truth—that after slipping in and out of the hospital in the middle of the night, he had emptied his pocket flask and slept for five hours in the car. It was just dumb luck nobody had spotted him—once he got outside the parking garage, he found the place swarming with black-and-whites. He had managed to evade them and found a deserted alley to park in while he called Underwood back, but his stomach was churning like a cement mixer.
They were onto him. Despite his intimidation of the woman—which he thought had been pretty convincing—apparently she had talked. If she could identify him, he was dead meat.
"Yes sir, everything is just fine," he lied, swallowing down the vile taste of his own stomach acids. "Got it all taken care of."
Shiv listened with half an ear while Underwood droned on; his mind raced to come up with a plan. The best thing for him to do was vanish,with or without the money owed him. Just cut his losses and get out while the getting was good. One thing was certain—he was not taking the fall for a couple of suits.
"I don't want to have to come out there myself," Underwood was saying in a threatening tone. Shiv laughed under his breath. The man would never get this close to his own dirty work. He'd stay right where he was, safe in his high-rent office, and hope the trail never led back to his door. In the meantime, Shiv could make his getaway.
He reassured the man one more time that everything was under control, hung up, and let out a pent-up breath. It was time to tie up loose ends and ditch this rotten job once and for all.