Leanne Banks: Trouble in High Heels

Driving to the office, he strode directly to Hollingsworth’s office and tapped on the door. His boss’s assistant looked up at Jackson and frowned as if she weren’t going to let him inside, so he went ahead and opened the door.

“ Jackson?” Mr. Hollingsworth mouthed, cradling a telephone receiver to his ear.

“Excuse me, sir-”

Hollingsworth held up a finger. “I look forward to meeting with you. Friday at 10:00 p.m. We’ll have your favorite cigars.” Hollingsworth laughed. “Sure, see you then.”

Jackson felt movement behind him.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hollingsworth,” the assistant said, frowning at Jackson in disapproval. “Mr. James got past me before I had a chance to stop him.”

“That’s okay,” Hollingsworth said, studying Jackson for a few seconds. “This time,” he added. “Come on in, Jackson. You can close the door behind you. Hold my calls.”

Jackson closed the door and walked to his boss’s desk. He cleared his throat. “Mr. Hollingsworth, I’ll put my accounting background against anyone’s in the firm, but I can’t fulfill Lori Granger’s latest request,” he said with a bitter taste filling his mouth.

“Have a seat,” Hollingsworth said, motioning to the leather chair in front of his desk.

Jackson reluctantly sat. He was still stifling the urge to scream.

“Did she ask you to commit a crime?”

Jackson blinked and shook his head. “No, no,” he said.

Hollingsworth stood and walked to the side of his desk. He lifted the lid of his humidor. “You see what’s in this humidor?”

Jackson looked inside. “It’s empty.”

“Right. I hate cigars. They’re nasty, and the odor clings to everything. But Friday this humidor will be filled with the finest Jamaicans money can buy, because a client with a multimillion-dollar account will be walking through that door. He’ll light a cigar, and so will I-even though I hate them. Dealing with top clients means you’re willing to work with their eccentricities. If these people weren’t rich, they’d be called freaking weirdos instead of eccentrics. Now, I’m not going to ask what Lori Granger wants you to do. I’m just going to tell you that this is part of playing with a big fish.” He leaned forward and clapped Jackson on the shoulder. “We believe you can handle this account.” With a smile reminiscent of Jack Nicholson’s I-couldn’t-care-less grin, he waved the hand toward the door. “Now have a nice day.”

Nodding, Jackson rose and strode from the office to his vehicle. He got inside and felt himself boil with frustration. At least he understood the rules. He could expect zero backup from the partners, and he was expected to fulfill Lori Granger’s most insane wish as if he had a magic wand. Hey, he’d dodged a roaring, snorting bull, mad with the urge to kill, before. He should be able to manage a female mad with the urge to marry.

Swearing under his breath, he started the vehicle and shifted it into gear. Who was he kidding? This job was going to be a bitch if ever there was one.

Needing silence and sense, he drove to his house and walked inside. His black Lab, Sadie, greeted him by rising and walking toward him. “How ya doing, girl?” he asked, petting her silky coat. He really hadn’t had room in his life for a pet, but when he’d found Sadie abandoned and emaciated from lack of food, he hadn’t been able to leave her. After they’d come to an agreement on her chewing habits, she’d become an easygoing buddy for him.

Hanging his suit coat on the back of a chair, Jackson lifted his phone and checked his voice mail. One message from his mother, another from his brother, another from a tenant. The tenant needed a faucet. No problem. Jackson could take care of that tonight. His mother and brother needed money, he suspected. Whenever both of them called, they didn’t come out and ask for money, but they needed it. Since his father came and went as he pleased, Jackson sent money to fill in the gaps, with the understanding that his mother use it strictly for herself or his teenage brother, Adam.

Grabbing a beer from the refrigerator, he unbuttoned his shirt and pulled off his tie. He sat down in a wooden kitchen chair, put his feet on the chair across from him, and looked out the window. The view wasn’t anything to scream about, just a couple of trees and brown grass singed from the unrelenting hot sun, along with the back of a neighbor’s house. It soothed him because it was normal. He could use a lot of normal after the last few days.

He took another long drink from the can and let the silence and sanity seep inside him. He took a deep breath and felt his muscles loosen. Grabbing a notepad, he began to scribble notes, questions. Within twenty minutes, he formulated a plan for how to help Lori Jean Granger find a suitable husband, all the while trying to drown out the sound of the theme song from Mission: Impossible in his mind.

The following morning, Lori made sure she was ready early for Jackson, since he’d called her assistant and told her to expect him at 10:00 a.m. sharp. She was still stinging from the fact that he’d caught her in such an embarrassing position the morning before. She had no doubt that Jackson was mentally tough and she would have to stay on her toes at all times to keep up with him. He’d already let her know he was no pushover.

Grimacing at the prospect of meeting with him again, she checked her watch: 9:55 a.m. The doorbell rang. What an anal man, she thought, at the same time conceding that most good accountants probably were detail-oriented. It was a necessary trait for the job. She wrinkled her nose. The fact didn’t make working with him any easier.

She opened the door and caught a look of surprise on his face. “What?” she asked, immediately feeling defensive. “You expected me to have another hangover? I’m not a drunk.”

He shook his head. “I didn’t say you were a drunk. I was surprised Mabel didn’t answer the door,” he said and entered the foyer.

“Oh.” She felt as if someone had pricked her balloon. She met his level gaze and felt unsettled. “I’m assuming you’ve decided to work with me on my husband hunt.”

He cleared his throat and narrowed his eyes in irritation. “Against my better judgment.” He jerked his head impatiently. “If you’re dead set on it, let’s get on with it.”

“I’m definitely dead set,” she said, sensing his supreme disapproval of her and trying not to feel on edge because of it. Walking with him toward the study, she told herself she didn’t care what Jackson thought of her as long as he helped her accomplish her goal.

He held the door open for her, then waited for her to sit before he took his seat across from her. Pulling out a pad of paper and a pen, he sighed and scratched his head. “I have some questions I need you to answer. Do you have an age preference for your husband?”

She blinked. “I hadn’t really thought about it. If he were going to be a real husband, I don’t think I would want to marry someone too old. Older than me, though.” She shrugged. “But since I’m only going to be married to him for a few years, it doesn’t really matter, does it?”

“Unless he dies,” Jackson muttered.

“Which would make me a very young widow-” Lori broke off. “I wonder what the requirements are if I’m widowed. If I married someone really old, maybe-”

Jackson groaned. “If you married someone really old, you’d have to contend with his heirs.”

Lori made a face. “Oh, well, scratch that idea.”

“Age preference,” Jackson repeated.

“Twenty-eight to forty,” she said.

He scratched her answer on his pad of paper. “What about education?”

“What about it?”

“Do you care if this guy has a college degree or not?”