Kathleen O'Reilly - Pillow Talk

Mickey raised a hand, sans ring. “I could, too.”

Beth stood firm. “Not me. I want to get married.”

Jessica raised her glass. “To the solo state of mind. Junk food and chick flicks forever. A bachelorette pact, single forever.”

Mickey and Cassandra clinked glasses. “Hear, hear.”

By the look on her face, Beth knew she was defeated. After a long moment of silence, she joined in. “Screw ’em all.”

Cassandra laughed, that throaty laugh she had perfected over the years. “Honey, life isn’t long enough.”

Sometimes marriage was overrated, but Jessica knew the truth. They had been single for so long that it was now easier to attack the institution of marriage than to face failure. Jessica hated failure.

“Marriage is nothing more than a woman’s subjugation to a man’s need for dominance. Ha. They try and dominate me, I’ll pin the laser on them.” Mickey worked at a research lab and had never yet met a man, or anyone for that matter, with a higher IQ.

Jessica speared another olive. “You know, there are some advantages to marriage. Actually, ever since the government tinkered with the tax structure, it doesn’t cost as much as it used to. For instance, I would probably jump into the next tax bracket, assuming he’s a white-collar professional; however, I’d get a credit of almost eight thousand. Not a great investment, but I suppose if he’s willing to cook every now and then, it could be worth it.” Jessica hated to cook.

“Or you could take all that money you’d put in extra taxes and buy your Porsche.”

That earned a smile. Only 2.1 more years and then the Porsche would be hers. Unless she got the promotion to vice president at Hard-Wire Networks, a computer networking equipment manufacturer. Not likely, but possible. The raise would put her in Porsche-attainment status within nine months.

“Now you’ve done it,” Mickey said with a sigh. “She’s going to have an orgasm, right here.”

Of course, if Adam Taylor had his evil way, she wouldn’t be polishing a Porsche, she’d be polishing her résumé. The impending buyout made her nervous, made her cranky and worst of all, made her sneeze. First her nose tickled, then twitched, and finally she began to wheeze.

Mickey started to laugh.

Jessica blew her nose and sniffed—for effect not necessity. “Orgasm? Not all of us have Cassandra’s talents.”

Cassandra’s smile spoke volumes. “All you have to do is exercise.”

Mickey waved a languid hand and assumed a Southern drawl. “I abhor exercise. I need my cabana-boy to do it for me.”

“He could be my cabana-boy,” Cassandra said with a nod to the other side of the garden.

Yes indeed, when it came down to men, they were all such frauds. Jessica, Mickey and Beth turned to look. Mickey and Beth got that gooey look. Jessica simply wanted to hit something.

He was here. Adam Taylor.

And didn’t that just put a cherry on top of the day? Tall, impossibly handsome in a dark suit, and worst of all—intelligent, witty, sharp. That brought her thoughts to a halt. Sharp like an executioner’s ax.

She shouldn’t have been surprised; the groom worked at Adam’s firm, after all.

Life really wasn’t fair. Work had been hell for her since he arrived, a consultant brought in by JCN, the international computer conglomerate, to prepare a report on Hard-Wire’s buyout potential. An “operational efficiency expert.”

Yeah, you could call ’em all the pretty terms you wanted, but you still couldn’t disguise that chainsaw. She picked up an olive and popped it in her mouth.

He turned and saw her, favoring her with a cool, appraising gray-green stare. Jessica was grateful for her sunglasses. She could look as if she was calm and in control. But then her nose began to twitch and she sneezed. Twice. She searched her pockets for a tissue, but came up empty. Great.

When she looked up, Mickey was still eyeing Adam with appreciation. Jessica felt inclined to enlighten them all. “He’s okay, if you like the rich, strong, arrogant jerks.”

“You know him?” Mickey asked smoothly.

Jessica bit into her last olive. “Adam Taylor,” she mumbled between bites.

They had all listened to Jessica’s horror stories of Mr. Adam “The Ax-Man” Taylor, but she’d never described him physically. It seemed a betrayal to her lifelong ambition of job security and Porsche ownership. Adam was the enemy.

“He wants you,” Cassandra said, swirling her glass.

“In your dreams,” Jessica answered, not wanting to discuss her own dreams about Adam. Mr. Taylor. The Ax-Man.

“If you smile, I bet he’ll come over,” Beth said, trying to make the world a happier place. And failing.

“Not if I leave first.”

“Jessica, Jessica, I never thought I’d see you playing the coward. Tsk, tsk,” Cassandra teased.

The coward remark was really a low blow, but not enough to divert Jessica from her plan. “I needed to leave early anyway.”

Mickey raised a brow. “And that’s why we all came in one car?”

She was outnumbered. Three to one. “You’re supposed to be my friends.”

“Friends don’t let friends run away,” Cassandra said, pushing her in the direction of her worst nightmare. And her steamiest dream.

“He can’t be that bad. He’s got a nice smile,” Beth said, still permanently fixed in Pollyanna-land.

“Tell that to Red Riding Hood’s grandmother.”

“Go on. What can it hurt?” Mickey said, completely practical.

Jessica popped another olive in her mouth and adjusted her sunglasses, the picture of aloof sophistication. She spoiled it all with a sneeze.

CHARLES WAS a stuffed-shirt prick, but Adam had learned long ago never to burn a bridge. They had worked together on the Symtheson-Hardwick buyout, growth in revenue: $4.7 million over five years, total jobs lost: 537. The consulting firm they worked for, Kearney, Markham and Williams, considered that a very good deal indeed.

On most days, Adam ignored the consequences of his work. He was a consultant. Get in, make recommendations, get out. He was good at what he did and life treated him right.

He sipped his champagne and glanced around for a beer. He’d never liked champagne, but always took a glass at social functions. Of course, most of it ended up watering the potted plants.

Charles caught his eye and Adam pasted a “How the hell you doing?” smile on his face. He had more friends than the president, every one his best buddy, but he couldn’t remember the last time he felt the desire to talk with anyone about subjects other than the market, the weather or golf. Golf was the worst. He shot a seventy-three and hated the game.

He moved into virtual consultant mode and strolled over to where the happy couple was eyeing each other with pure rose-colored lust. Envy seared him, hot and fast. For a moment he dropped his guard, and thought about his house in Alabama. His empty house. He closed his eyes and counted to eleven. By the time he reached the end of the exercise, the consultant was back.

He clapped Charles on the shoulder. “You lucky dog,” he said, more truth than not.

The groom slipped an arm around his new wife. “Hands off, Taylor. According to the laws of this fine state, she’s all mine.”

First compliment the client and then on to more trivial topics. “And you picked a gorgeous day to marry a gorgeous woman.”

Annie blushed, and planted a soft kiss on Adam’s cheek. “Thank you, Adam.”

Charles lifted his glass. “Blue skies, my friend. All blue skies. Hey, I see you’ve been assigned Hard-Wire. Sweet deal. Read the report. Lots of opportunity for efficiency there.”

Translation: We could trim fifteen percent and the company would never miss it.