Cara’s Rule for Success 7:
Happiness must come from within…
but in a pinch,
a really fine martini will do.
“I AM A SUCCESSFUL woman.”
The self-affirmation sounded good, but it didn’t seem to be sticking. Cara turned up the Zen music CD, gave herself a stern look in her car’s rearview mirror, and then tried another round.
“I am in control of my life. I am serene and content.”
What utter crap. Dani, her sister, had given her this stupid, “find peace in yourself” book and CD for her last birthday. It must have been intended as a joke gift. If Cara had control of her life, she’d be sitting in her office at ten in the morning instead of hiding in her car. And any shot she’d had at serene had vaporized last night on the conference room couch.
Cara sipped at her lukewarm latte—damning evidence of just how long she’d been skulking in S.U.’s parking lot. She promised herself that when she was done with the drink, she’d go inside and face what she’d done last night.
Or maybe she’d try just one more happy thought.
“I will be fair to others and have faith that they will be fair to me.”
Morgan needed a little work on that final affirmation. Fair play didn’t include hovering over a girl while she was sleeping. And dreaming…of him.
She knew that her fantasies were the result of stress, and that she shouldn’t expect to control her subconscious. Sad truth was, lately she hadn’t kept a very good grip on her conscious mind, either.
With little else available, Cara latched onto one meager ray of optimism: the office appeared to be sparsely populated today. She supposed that might be because the sun was shining, the birds were singing and everybody who had a significant other wanted to be with them. Like Morgan, with his date this morning. All Cara wanted was partnership, and that entailed out-sharking the Shark, no matter how miserable and exhausted it might make her.
She chugged the dregs of her coffee. When she got home tonight, the self-affirmation book was going to hit the trash. Clearly, it was having no impact on her baser instincts.
She was driven by an emotion hotter than the hood of a black car on a summertime Detroit day: spite. Just once, she wanted to see Morgan squirm.
Spite was an awesome motivator, second only to the terror of not being able to cover her upcoming mortgage payments. At first, the reality of what she was doing hadn’t quite sunk in. All she’d had to pay was an initial good-faith, five-percent deposit to reserve her condo unit.
While going through her mail late last night, she’d come across a notice telling her that the condo’s interior walls were up and she owed five percent more. She’d written the check and drained her savings. Worse, her mortgage application seemed to have been swallowed whole by the mortgage company; she lived in dread of having it spat back.
Deciding to buy a luxury condominium had been some really ambitious financial reaching, but almost two months ago, it had made sense. After all, she was going to be a partner by the end of August, right? With the money rolling in, she’d need income tax deductions and all that jazz, right?
Right? Cara stepped out of her car and scowled at the idyllic sky hiding those rotten gods. Yep, spite and panic made her world go round, and the dance was making her queasy.
First stop inside S.U. was her office. The sole phone message was from Bri, reminding her that they were scheduled to look at bridesmaid’s dresses this afternoon. If Cara forgot again, Bri planned to have her cooked in the barbecue restaurant down the street. Cara didn’t doubt it.
“Ready to work?”
Morgan stood in the doorway, looking every sexy inch a Saturday lawyer in blue jeans snug and broken-in enough to be interesting, and a UNC golf team shirt that probably dated from his college days.
This time, she masked her startled response to his arrival. Maybe she was finally numb where he was concerned. Of course, that ran counter to her full makeup application and careful selection of wardrobe this morning.
Cara put on a slightly bored face. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s rude to sneak up on people?”
“My mom? She’s more the type to tell me that champagne goes well with Scottish smoked salmon. Wild, not farm-raised.”
“Interesting upbringing. We’re more of a meatloaf and beer crowd in my neck of the woods.”
“There’s nothing wrong with a good meat loaf.”
Even more interesting than his silver spoon background was how smoothly they were both easing past last night’s major mistake. Today just might be survivable.
“I’ve set up shop in the small conference room,” Mark said. “There are a few things I’d like to get through before one or so.”
“No problem.” At least, none she was willing to bring up with him. If he could feel comfortable in a room with that couch looming as a reminder of their stupidity, so could she. After all, she was successful and serene. Or so some pop-psychology hack of an author had told her to tell herself.
“If you’re ready…” He gestured at the door. “I’ll see you down there.”
After some attenuated foot-dragging, Cara approached the conference room. Look at anything but the couch, she told herself as she entered. Nice thought, but tough to pull off. Not glancing at the sofa was pretty much like sitting in front of a fireplace and trying to avoid noticing the dancing flames.
She looked, and in a nanosecond was mesmerized. The feel of his hands, the beat of his heart, the taste of his mouth with just a hint of some sort of alcohol, all of it surrounded her senses once again.
In a struggle for dominance, her intellect seemed to have snagged onto a bullhorn and was shouting, “Look a-way from the couch,” like a disaster scene specialist trying to unravel a mess.
Her libido was hanging tough, reliving every second of that kiss. Considering how seldom it got to rock and roll, she couldn’t blame it. Still, she could feel the color in her face reaching a flashpoint. She had to turn away…or burn alive.
“Cara? Hey, are you okay?”
“Hmmm?”
Wait…that was Morgan talking to her. She tore her gaze from the prior evening’s crime scene—both a crime that she’d let him start kissing, and that she’d made him stop. He sat at the conference table, rolling a fancy gold pen between his fingertips.
“Oh, there you are,” she blurted.
“Right where I’ve been since you came into the room.”
“I was a little distracted.”
He followed her line of vision to the couch. “I see.”
A subtle, prep school arch of his brows told her just how juvenile he’d found her behavior last night. No shock there. She knew she’d been a poster child for Brats ’R Us.
She settled into a chair directly opposite Morgan and began lining up the binder clips that were scattered on the tabletop. “About last night…um…”
Whatever she’d been planning to say escaped. Hell, why didn’t she just kiss him again? It would be easier than talking.
“Last night?” he prompted. “Before or after you introduced me to the carpet?”
“Before. Definitely before.”
“That’s a start.”
She folded one hand over the other, and pulled together her thoughts. “Look, I’m sorry for pushing you away so enthusiastically, and I’m sorry for starting something I shouldn’t have. I didn’t think things through.”
“And now you have?”
“Yes. Kissing you was fun and all, but…”
He set down his pen and focused solely on her. His smile reminded her of the one she wore when she caught her niece or nephew toying with the truth.
“Just fun, huh?” he asked.
She nodded as sincerely as Sarah or Matt would.
“Not hot? Not even a little exciting?”
Okay, so he had her pegged. “No,” she lied. “Here’s the thing. It really can’t happen again. You’re my enemy, Morgan, and I can’t afford to forget that.”
“Isn’t enemy kind of strong?”
“Not nearly strong enough. If I thought I could convince you to wear horns and carry a pitchfork, I’d ask you to.”
“If you’re that much in need of a reminder, it sounds to me like the problem is with your perception, not my behavior.”
Cara felt a sharp twinge in the region of her heart. It was almost like fear, and thus completely unacceptable. “There’s nothing wrong with my perception. You waltz in here, steal my job and—and kiss me while I’m sleeping—”
He smiled. “You were awake. I saw the whites of your eyes before I advanced.”
“Cute.”
“Not bad for Satan.”
Cara looked back to the binder clips, and with the tip of her right index finger, sorted them according to size. “I just want to pretend the whole thing never happened.”
“Cara, I’m not a big fan of denial.”
“Then think of it as workplace diplomacy,” she suggested.
“So you really believe we can ignore whatever’s going on between us, work side by side on this deal for the next several weeks…and not once think about it happening again?”
“Yes?” That had come out with no certainty. She cleared her throat. “Yes. Absolutely.”
“I don’t like this. It’s not honest.”
She decided to give him one flat-out truth. “In the long run, Morgan, you’re not worth the hassle. And neither am I.”
His reaction was nearly imperceptible, a brief widening of the eyes she wouldn’t have caught if she hadn’t been looking. “Is that so? Okay, we’ll have it your way.”
Her relief was tinged with something bitter-tasting. “Fine.”
He leaned back in his chair and scrutinized her. She had no idea what he was looking for.
“But just in case you change your mind,” he said, “here are my terms. You want me to kiss you again, you’ll have to ask.”
His voice had a spit-in-the-hand, double-dare-you edge to it. Weird, but her spirits buoyed and her blood starting zipping through her veins. “Like that’s ever going to—”
“I’m not done. When I say ask, I don’t mean the classic female routine of a breathy sigh followed by nibbling on your lower lip. I want to hear ‘Mark, you were right, and I was wrong. I’d be the happiest woman in Detroit if you’d kiss me.’”
“Just Detroit?” she scoffed. “Not the whole universe?”
His gaze fixed on her lips. Cara watched as his brown eyes grew darker. She could almost feel the rich heat brush against one corner of her mouth, then leisurely slide across to caress her. Before she realized what she was doing, her lower lip was fast behind her front teeth. She released it, but it was far too late. Damn, he was one insidious bastard.
A very, very satisfied gleam replaced the heat in his eyes. “And when you finally ask me for that kiss, make sure you don’t have anything planned for a long time, Cara, because when I taste you next time, it’s going to be slow, thorough and a hell of a lot more than ‘fun.’”
She was trying to say something—she was quite sure of it—but no words came out.
He looked away for a brief moment and then riffled through the paperwork in front of him. “Okay, since this is the way you want it, let’s get back to business. I took your commitment letter home last night and looked at it. It’s nearly perfect.”
How could he switch it on and off like that? Maybe he truly had shark blood coursing through him. All Cara knew was that she was still locked in that promise of a slow and thorough kiss that would never, ever happen. He, on the other hand, had cut through the lingering emotion with ease.
“Nearly perfect?” she said once she’d managed to pull herself together. “That letter is a work of art—the legal Sistine Chapel.” Having a major point to prove, she’d made sure of it when she’d drafted that letter.
“The chapel’s paint could use a touch-up. I have a few favorite cover-your-ass clauses I want to add.” He slid the document across the table. “I’ve written them in and was hoping you wouldn’t mind doing the typing.”
He was making it absurdly easy to forget about kissing him. In fact, she’d suggest a public flogging if she didn’t have sneaking suspicion that he’d enjoy it.
“I mind typing. A lot.” She snatched up a working girl’s plastic pen and wrote the letter’s file name on the top of the first page, then sent it back to him. “There’s its name. You’ll find it in the Newby file I set up on the on the computer system’s G drive.”
“Fine.” He looked as if he had wanted to say a whole lot more, but decided to exercise some diplomacy. “By the way, we’ve got a conference call scheduled with Nicole Harris at two o’clock.”
Cara bit back a sigh. She already knew from her work on the file that Harris was a loan officer from Merchant. What she hadn’t anticipated was that the woman would also be working on a holiday weekend. So much for earning brownie points from the clients for service above and beyond the call of duty.
“How long do you think it will take?”
“I want to introduce you and go through the letter in detail with her. She’s also going to need to have some grasp on how long it will take to get this deal ready to close.”
“Some warning would have been nice,” she said.
“You got us ahead of the game by working up the draft of the letter last night. Why lose those gains today?”
“No good deed shall go unpunished,” she said, then pushed away from the conference table and stood. Her life was about to become a black hole of suckiness. “I need to make a call and rearrange some things. I’ll be right back.”
Cara gave a small shake of her head as she walked from the room. He’d actually stood as she’d left, as though they were out to dinner at a five-star restaurant. It was quite a feat, the way he managed to touch her and annoy her at the same time.
Once in her office, Cara called Bri. As she waited for her best friend to answer, Cara fussed with the phone cord and tried to figure out how to gracefully be a rat.
Bri finally picked up. “Retreads.”
“Hi, it’s me.”
“Hi! So are you ready to go see world’s ugliest dresses? I swear I wouldn’t be having a traditional wedding if it weren’t for my mom. She’d go ballistic if I even—”
This was like caging a puppy. “Bri, I need to reschedule.”
Cara was treated to death by silence before her friend finally said, “Get real. You’ve already canceled twice.”
“I know, but technically this time I’m not canceling. I just need an extra hour or two before we take off.”
“I have Seth’s cousin covering the store from two until six. And do you know how hard it was to pull that off? I know I don’t seem like the most dedicated store owner, but I have some rules. Being open is one of them.”
Cara scrambled for a compromise. “Maybe I could call Dani and see if she could help?”
“No way. Your sister’s a menace. Remember when you and I went to look at veils, and she covered for me? It took me hours to get the merchandise back the way it’s supposed to be.”
Which was the same reason Cara generally wasn’t allowed in Retreads without Bri’s supervision. The Adams’ orderliness gene was of the dominant variety.
Bri’s exasperated sigh added to Cara’s guilt. “Let’s just forget it for today,” her friend said. “We’d never make it out to the salon in Ann Arbor and be back in time.”
“I’m sorry,” Cara offered.
“I’ve heard that before.”
“I’ll make it up to you.”
“Heard that, too.”
“Well, how about this?” She made a kissy sound into the phone, followed by a heartfelt, “I love you.”
In the doorway, Morgan cleared his throat and pointed at his watch.
“I have to go,” she said to Bri.
“Okay, but understand that you have now abdicated any decision-making power. I’m buying you the most hideous, Scarlett O’Hara, frills-up-the-wazoo dress I can find.”
Morgan was scowling at her.
“You’re the best,” she said to Bri.
“And a parasol,” her friend added before hanging up.
“Bye,” she said to the buzzing phone line, then returned the receiver to its cradle. In the true spirit of Scarlett, she’d wait until later to think about how she’d just stomped all over her best friend.
“I recall you saying that you weren’t dating anyone.”
“What? When?” Cara winced. This guy was too good at throwing her off guard—making her sound like a college Journalism 101 student.
“The other day. Right over there,” he said, pointing at the area in front of her credenza. “I was looking at the picture of your sister’s kids.”
“Oh, okay.” She thought back to the moment, which was easy since when not frazzled, she could recall virtually every word Morgan had said since reappearing in her life.
“Actually, I said that it was tough to find the time to date, not that I never did. But you’re getting a little personal here. We’re just business.”
“According to you. Now humor me—are you seeing someone?”
Cara could almost hear the clock ticking as she decided how to answer. If she said no, she’d sound honest, though pathetic. Everyone else at Saperstein, Underwood—including Morgan—appeared to have a life. This reality was hitting hard, fast and painfully.
If she said yes, she’d be flirting with an indisputable rule regarding attracting the male of the species: The more unavailable you are, the more they want you.
She didn’t want Morgan wanting her. At least, if she was inclined to be sane, she didn’t.
The theme song from Jeopardy kicked in as she weighed her options.
“Cara?”
“Yes,” she said in a rush. “Yes, I’m seeing someone.”
Great, now she was having an affair with a ticked-off bride who was about to buy her a butt-ugly dress. She fought the impulse to bury her face in her hands and howl.
“Would you mind giving me a minute?” she asked instead. “I’ll meet you back in the conference room.”
After Morgan left, Cara let fly an accurate self-affirmation. “I am so totally losing my mind.”
AT ELEVEN THAT NIGHT, Mark sat at a windowside table in a Royal Oak martini bar with his friend Trey, Trey’s wife, Kathy, and some girl named Mimi, whom Trey had set him up with.
“She’s a lot of fun,” Trey had said. If “fun” included disgorging every detail of one’s life from birth forward in an endless monologue, yeah, she was a regular riot. One thing was certain: Her parents had foreseen her favorite topic when they’d named her Mimi.
Mark had already figured out how to time his nods so it would appear to Mimi that he was paying some attention…if she cared. While she talked and Trey and Kathy flirted with each other in a wonderfully unmarried way, he gazed out the front window to the sidewalk café beyond and rehashed the day’s events.
Breakfast with his mom had been kind of disturbing, but necessary. She’d given him the journal her therapist had told her to write both as language practice and as a means of coping with her body’s betrayal. It had felt so intrusive, paging through her thoughts. This was the woman who’d given birth to him. But she’d insisted, and between bites of apple pancake, he’d read.
He could understand her rage, her frustration, how far she’d come since her stroke, and how far she had yet to go. By the time he’d finished the journal, Mark knew that if his father didn’t reappear damn soon and start being supportive, Mark was going to fly to Palm Beach and haul his ass back.
Mimi settled her hand over Mark’s left wrist, returning him to the present. “And I made varsity field hockey in ninth grade, which no one expected.”
“That’s great,” he said, raising his gin and olive in a sketchy toast before taking a much needed drink.
“Isn’t it? And then in my senior year…”
Mark crossed Trey off the list of pals he’d listen to when it came to women. Then he let his mind drift to his new place of work.
From a business standpoint, the day had been a relative success. Cara and Nicole had immediately hit it off, which was both not surprising and not necessarily a good thing. Not surprising because the two of them were very much alike, and not a good thing because he and Nicole had been briefly engaged before they’d wised up. He knew this would bug the hell out of Cara when she found out, which she would, since sooner or later, Nicole would have to come to Detroit for a meeting. Nicole liked to talk, but not as much as chatty Mimi.
“And then I pledged Delta Theta because the sorority house was so much nicer than my dorm room,” she was saying as she shook her bouncy black curls.
Mark nodded and smiled. At least they were up to her freshman year in college. Thank God she was young; they couldn’t have more than four years to go. He sent his mind to a pleasant place, one where a leggy redhead gave him lip, or if he was very lucky…her full mouth.
Mark figured he was as deluded as the next guy, but even he knew it was craziness to think that he and Cara could be within ten yards of each other without the unmistakable fog of sexual attraction settling over them.
“But I said who wants a job where they expect you to work more than forty hours a week? After all…”
Mark again looked out the front window. Only a few customers were braving the sidewalk café. Michigan, even in late May, could have a bite in the nighttime air.
Mimi nudged him again. “I’ve been thinking about going to law school….”
“Great,” he said. God help the profession.
Outside, one lucky guy walked down the street, his arms draped over the shoulders of two women flanking him. Mark watched as they passed by. One companion was tiny with light-colored hair. He couldn’t see the other female as well under the wash of the streetlights, except to know that she was taller and her hair was a richer color. Just then, the trio halted and swung back toward the café.
Mark came fully awake for the first time that night. Was it possible to will an event into being? If not, he had to concede that he’d used up all of his luck for about the next hundred years. The guy and two girls—one a leggy redhead who constantly occupied Mark’s thoughts—pulled out chairs at one of the empty outdoor tables and settled in. If that wasn’t a sign from fate, Mark didn’t know what was. He stood.
Mimi actually stopped talking.
“If you’ll excuse me?” he said.
Trey and Kathy gave a chorus of, “Sure.”
“Where do you think he’s going?” he could hear Mimi asking.
His answer, had Mark stopped to give one, would have been, “Off to probably make an idiot of myself.”
As he neared Cara’s table, he assessed the situation. The guy had sat next to the petite blonde. Though there was no overt evidence of possessiveness, like his arm draped over her chair, it was clear that those two were a couple, and Cara was the single. Mark’s mood improved substantially.
The couple watched him with open curiosity when he came closer. Cara’s back was to him.
He settled his hands on the top of the vacant green metal café chair next to her, and said, “It’s good to see that you leave the office every now and then.”
Cara jumped. “You have to quit sneaking up on me!”
As mean-spirited as it was, he always got a kick out of startling her. It was as though it almost made up for the jolting impact she had on his brain—and other places.
“Your friends saw me coming,” he replied in the voice of reason he generally reserved for stubborn opposing counsel.
She looped her hair behind one ear and tilted her face upward to better see him. Her looks were so incredibly classic, and her expression was so incredibly resigned, as though she was about to walk to the executioner’s block.
“Morgan,” she said, “this is Bri O’Brien and Seth Fowler. They’re getting married in August, so just ignore all the mushiness on that side of the table. Guys, this is Morgan.”
“Mark Morgan,” he supplied since Cara seemed to still be allergic to his first name.
“Nice to meet you, Mark,” Cara’s female friend said. She was cute…kind of a fluffy, Tinkerbell-type, but with an edge.
“Sit down and let me buy you a drink,” Fowler offered.
Mark sat. “Thanks, but I can only stay a second. I’m here with some friends.”
He gestured to his table inside. Mimi’s lips were still moving, setting what had to be a land speed record for speech. Cara watched Mimi for an instant, then looked back at him.
“So was she your morning date, too?” she asked.
“No,” Mark said, not quite able to keep the alarm out of his voice at the thought.
The waitress arrived and settled cocktail napkins in front of everyone. The soon-to-be-weds ordered, then Cara asked for a “gin martini, extra-dry, blue-cheese olive.”
Mark smiled. How different could you get from Mimi’s frothy pink concoction that was as close to a martini as she was to taking a vow of silence?
“I’ll be rejoining my drink inside,” he said to the waitress. She left to fill the order.
“So, two women in one day,” Cara commented in tones sharp enough to cut a diamond. “Morgan, where do you find the time?”
“Actually, I was out with my mother this morning.”
“Your mother?” Cara’s friend said. “I didn’t know that sharks had mothers—” She jumped as though someone had goosed her. Mark managed to hold back a smile as Tinkerbell narrowed her eyes, then did something to make Cara sit just a bit taller in her seat. Then she crossed her legs and leaned forward as she rubbed at one shin. And a fine, silken shin it was.
Mark leaned forward to see if she still wore that toering he used to like so much.
“Got a foot fetish, Morgan?” Cara whispered.
He was afraid that in her case, he might.
“As I was saying,” Bri O’Brien continued, “I thought with sharks it was one of those drop the eggs and off you swim kind of things.”
“I take it Cara told you my law school nickname?”
“Among other things,” she replied. “So what was Cara’s nickname in law school?”
“I’m not sure I recall,” he hedged. Of all the people in his graduating class, he best remembered Cara. But even then, he didn’t know much. Cara had been more accurate than he cared to admit when she’d said that everyone had been fodder to his ambition. Since then, he’d worked hard to change. The memory of his past behavior wasn’t a good one.
“I didn’t really have a nickname, Bri,” Cara said. “Everyone just called me Adams.”
She gave him a soft sideways glance. For the first time, he sensed some empathy there, some real interest. He felt vulnerable, exposed and, oddly, almost okay with it.
Just then, Fowler laughed. “I, uh, think your friend’s calling you.”
Inside, Mimi was staring him down and doing something that looked like a cross between a finger-waggle and a snap. Mark pushed back his chair, its metal legs making a grating sound against the concrete.
“I have to go.”
“Yeah, and I’d make it quick,” Cara murmured.
“It’s been interesting meeting you, Mark,” Bri said. “Very educational.”
Back inside, he was greeted by another curious audience.
“Is that the girl we saw dancing in the window last week?” Trey asked.
“Yes, it is.”
Mimi gasped. “Wow, you mean like those nude dancers across the Detroit River in Windsor? I’ve never actually seen someone who did that for a living.” She craned her neck for a better view. “She doesn’t look all that hot.”
Aware she was being watched, Cara angled in her chair and raised her glass in a toast to his group.
Cara not hot? Hell, he was sweating. Sacrificing yourself to a volcano goddess was tough work, but Mark Morgan knew he was just the guy for the job.