Jennifer Hillier: Creep

But it was better to be safe than sorry. Ethan pulled out a pair of nonprescription eyeglasses from his breast pocket and casually slipped them on. The trendy black, rectangular frames were just thick enough to create shadows across his eyes, obscuring their shape a little.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the lobby mirror. Perfect.

Disguises were so much fun.

He strode through the impressive lobby of the investment bank, all high ceilings and cornice moldings and marble. Well-dressed employees rushed around looking important, their BlackBerrys glued to their hands, creating an aura of tempered frenzy.

The round mahogany desk in the center of it all had two receptionists. The one with the frizzy hair and fifteen extra pounds smiled at him first. At his approach she sat up straighter, quickly taking her glasses off and primping her permed hair.

“Good morning.” Another big smile showcased a poppy seed stuck dead between her uneven front teeth. “Can I help you?”

Ethan smiled down at her, taking a long look at her freckled cleavage before meeting her eyes. “Good morning, Stacey,” he said, reading the name off the tag pinned to her shiny blouse. “I have an appointment on the tenth floor. I’m Tom Young.”

Stacey’s pale cheeks flushed. “I’ll call up and let them know you’re here,” she said, slightly breathless. “Just a moment.”

He thanked her and stepped away while she murmured into the phone. He was dying to scratch his head but couldn’t risk shifting the wig. Instead he grinned at Stacey, who blushed and pointed the way to the elevators.

The bank hummed with activity. Ethan weaved his way to the back of the lobby and to the elevator doors. An attractive woman followed him in, giving him an appreciative once-over before taking her place in front of him. He took a moment to enjoy the view from behind. Bare legs, no panty lines. Either she was going commando or she was wearing a thong. He chuckled. Both scenarios were acceptable. She exited on the eighth floor, her ass cheeks flexing like two well-oiled pistons underneath her tight business-length skirt.

On the tenth floor, he exited the elevator and another woman at another mahogany desk greeted him.

“Mr. Young?” she said, her voice crisp. Her gray hair was fashionably cut and her suit looked more expensive than his. “Please have a seat. He’ll be with you in a moment. He’s just finishing up a call.”

Ethan walked over to the waiting area but did not sit. The tenth floor was not the highest in the building, but the view of Puget Sound was still incredible, thanks to the floor-to-ceiling windows lining one wall.

The beautiful blue-green ripples of the Sound glistened brightly under the morning sunshine. He wondered absently if Diana St. Clair had ever swum in those waters. He’d never asked her. If he closed his eyes, he could still picture her beautiful body, toned and tight from years of training…

A hearty laugh made him turn. Striding down the hallway was a big man, well over six feet tall with a belly that stretched firmly over his belt. He was flanked on both sides by women who had to jog to keep up with him. A cerulean silk tie complemented a custom charcoal suit, and Ferragamo shoes encased what had to be size fourteen feet. His graying temples did nothing to detract from his handsome features and a charming smile. In fact, the man looked much better than Ethan remembered.

Morris Gardener. In the flesh.

The women tittered with laughter. Ethan didn’t catch what was said, but clearly Morris was a funny guy because both ladies smacked his thick arm and cackled in amusement before walking away.

“Tom Young?” An outstretched hand came toward Ethan, sausage fingers swallowing his palm in a vise grip. “Morris Gardener. Glad you could make it on such short notice. Come on in. Beautiful day, isn’t it? Bet you’d rather be out there than in here. God knows these days are few and far between in the Northwest. Perfect day to throw the pigskin around. You like football, Tom? Used to play back in the day until my knees gave out. Two years with the Packers, Longhorns before that. Right this way. My office is just down the hall. You want coffee, water, muffin, anything? Theresa! We need sustenance, please!” The big man’s voice boomed loudly in the hallway and another woman appeared out of nowhere, smiling cheerfully at them as she passed.

He called, they came. He joked, they laughed. There was no doubting who the big swinging dick was around here. Morris Gardener’s presence seemed to shrink everything around him, including Ethan, who suddenly felt very insignificant.

He forced himself to stand straighter. This was no time to buckle. He was here to scope out the competition and figure out what, exactly, Morris had that he didn’t.

If he couldn’t have her, then neither could Morris. He’d rather see Sheila dead.

All he needed was an excuse.

There was a small stain on Morris’s tie, likely a remnant of whatever he’d eaten for breakfast. It pleased Ethan.

The big man was on the phone again. Ethan took the time to look around the large office, noting the abundance of natural light and the thick carpet that matched the creamy walls and ceiling. Against one wall, two football jerseys were framed and hung. Both were number 75-one in rusty orange for the Texas Longhorns, and one in forest green for the Green Bay Packers. On Morris’s huge mahogany desk sat a football encased in Lucite. The furnishings were surprisingly modern, all clean lines, steel, and dark wood, a contrast to the more traditional décor in the public areas of the bank.

Ethan wondered if Morris had decorated the office himself. The man certainly had great taste in clothes. And he was wearing monogrammed cuff links, for fuck’s sake. A man would only wear monogrammed cuff links if that same man had monogrammed French-cuffed shirts to go with them. Which Morris did. Ethan’s own suit, bought off-the-rack the day before at Macy’s, seemed cheap and bland in comparison.

He fingered Morris’s business card, noting both the thickness and whiteness of the paper. The lettering was raised and glossy, expensive: MORRIS GARDENER, SENIOR PARTNER, BINDLE BROTHERS. How much did a senior partner at an investment firm make? There was no way to ask without sounding like a total asshole.

A framed photo of Sheila was resting on Morris’s desk, turned slightly outward so that visitors could see her pretty face. She was smiling, her dark Asian eyes alight with amusement, full red lips parted to reveal straight white teeth.

She was laughing at him.

Phone still glued to his ear, Morris turned his back for a moment as he reached for something on the bookshelf behind him. In one smooth motion, Ethan turned the photo toward Morris so he could no longer see Sheila’s face. Better.

Morris finally put the phone down and jotted a quick note on his yellow memo pad. “My apologies, Tom. I’m working on a deal with Japanese investors over the phone-not the easiest thing to do even with all our technology.”

“Not a problem, Mr. Gardener.” Ethan slipped the business card into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. “I’m just glad you could fit me in.”

“Call me Morris.” Bits of boisterous conversation drifted into the office from the hallway. “Whoa, I’d better close the door. My team is a chatty bunch and it can be distracting.”

Ethan’s heart rate quickened. “Uh, would you mind terribly if we left it open? I have a tendency to get a bit claustrophobic.”

Morris raised an eyebrow. “Is that right?”

“Only during interviews.” Ethan’s grin was sheepish and he hoped it hid his burgeoning panic.

Morris relaxed in his seat. “No problem, we’ll leave it open.”

“Thank you, sir.”