Kathleen O'Reilly - Beyond Breathless

“You think that’s the only reason I want to see you again?”

She chose not to answer, instead lugging her briefcase out of the car. Andrew would be a hi-def memory. Something to tuck away into the ten most memorable mistakes she’d made in her life. In a Hummer.

With a regretful sigh, Jamie walked away. Mistakes were not to be repeated. Ever.

LATER THAT AFTERNOON, the world righted itself. The trains ran, and Jamie returned to Lower Manhattan. The elevator ride to the thirty-eighth floor of Two World Financial Center would have been easier with a knife sticking out of her gut. With each passing floor, Jamie’s dread grew by percentages unheard of in the financial sector.

A power outage was normally a valid excuse for dealus interruptus, but Jamie was senior client relations manager extraordinaire, the legendary sales specialist who brought in the infamous Joe Tableone because she knew exactly what forty-year-old bottle of Scotch he coveted. Thomas Harris Winchell III had been persuaded to try out Bond-Worthington for a year, simply because she promised he’d never go back—well, that and a free bump to their Platinum level of customer service. Three years later, he was still a satisfied Bond-Worthington client. No, when it came to client relations, nobody could touch Jamie McNamara.

But today there was no joy on Wall Street, because Mighty Jamie had struck out. Okay, so she was being overly dramatic, but the truth was that she’d been somewhat confident when bragging about her ability to bag Newhouse for the firm. Modesty never got you anything, but a seat at the back of the room.

The elevator doors slid open with a discreet whoosh, and Jamie walked the sensible gray carpet, down cubicle alley to Walter’s office. Her eyes stayed glued ahead, the better to ignore the knowing looks shooting in her direction.

“McNamara, how did it go?”

Jamie stopped and turned to face a cheerful intern, Sanji Dykstra. Sanji was both genuine and happy, a breed apart from the usual blood-thirsty crop of Ivy Leaguers betting their fortunes at a brokerage house.

His round, coffee-colored face and brown, guileless eyes would doom him to failure in the industry, but he had less than eighteen months to graduation, and she didn’t have the heart to crush his dreams.

Jamie shot Sanji a thumbs-up. “I’ve got him just where I want him,” she answered, and continued the long, solitary walk.

Then another head popped up from the alley. A blond, coiffed one, with hair way more manageable than the traditional McNamara do.

“What happened to your hose, Jamie?” asked Lindsey Feldenberg, another intern, not quite as guileless as Sanji.

“A cat jumped on my leg. Very weird. Probably a reaction from some chemical fumes in the area. Made it freak. Nasty business. I had to ditch the hose. Torn to bits,” she ended.

“I don’t see any claw marks,” Lindsey said, blinking her big, blue eyes, but her voice was ice cold. “Nothing but lily-white skin.”

Lindsey didn’t like Jamie, and she’d made it very clear from the first day. Jamie was the competition and Lindsey thought she could outperform her. Lindsey had even told her that while calmly sipping from her coffee.

As an intern? Ha. When pigs fly.

Jamie had kept her mouth shut, but Lindsey’s constant innuendo’s were starting to draw blood.

“My skin is very thick. Claws don’t leave marks.”

Lindsey looked like she might argue, but then realized the uselessness of that action, and sat down with a slightly muffled, “Bullshit.”

Jamie smiled sweetly. “Gesundheit.”

Walter’s office loomed ahead like the dark basement in a horror film. She considered running back to her desk for the spare set of hose she kept in the bottom drawer, or possibly a sharp pencil to stab in her eye, but she’d gotten this far, and Lindsey, the eagled-eyed wonder would make a big to-do, and Walter really didn’t care if she walked around in a bathrobe as long as she brought in the deals.

Helen, Walter’s secretary, guarded the heavy paneled doors with a Fort Knox-like zeal. She was five years from retirement, and had been Walter’s secretary since he started. With her tight gray curls and trembling mouth, she could have worked in a bakeshop, or been someone’s kindly grandmother, but when crossed, Helen grew long, wicked fangs and could outglare even the nastiest nasty.

Which was why Jamie loved her.

“Afternoon, Helen. He asked for me to stop by when I got back.”

“Yes, dear. He’s on the phone with the auditors. Be careful. He’s in a particularly foul mood today.”

Damn, damn, double damn. “You told him the meeting got cancelled?” asked Jamie.

Helen nodded. “Hit him right after lunch with the bad news, just like you asked.”

“Thanks for helping,” Jamie answered, then took a deep breath, preparing to wrestle the lion in his den. After a quick run-through of all possible excuses, she opened the door, entering the world of high-luxe.

The vice presidential offices at Bond-Worthington were old-school. Mahogany paneling, the requisite trophy wall littered with degrees, and padded leather chairs that both rocked and rolled. A VP at B-W wouldn’t be caught dead with an art print or a family photo, or any bit of evidence to indicate you didn’t eat, breath, sleep and ruminate solely for the firm. There were rules on Wall Street, and Jamie had learned early on to follow them to the tenth decimal place.

“Afternoon, Walter,” she said, shooting for cheerful and confident. She seated herself in front of his desk with one tiny rock of her chair to convey the necessary arrogance.

Walter harrumphed. You could judge his emotional well-being by the way he cleared his throat. Low and guttural was bad. Clenched teeth and a tick meant the coast was clear. Today’s forecast was afternoon storms. He peered out over silver-framed rims, just as a vice president of Financial Opportunities should.

“You let me down, McNamara. Failed me. I needed you to go out and hit a long ball, instead you stood at the plate while Newhouse threw you three breaking balls. Some other execs, you might have been able to stare them down, but Newhouse is one tough cookie.”

“I know, Walter. I’m working to get on his calendar again.”

“But when, McNamara? When?” He got up and stood at the window, pointing to the view of the Statue of Liberty. “See that? That’s New York. Priciest real estate in the continental U.S. And do you know how we can afford a view like this? Performance, performance, performance. Our team is the best, Jamie. We deliver every time we step up to the plate. Every time. You’re at the plate. You need to deliver.”

Jamie cleared her throat, low and guttural. “Got it, boss. The power outage—”

“Admit it. You got caught with your pants down.”

She jerked forward, her conscience working overtime. How could he possibly…Then she relaxed. Of course he didn’t know that it wasn’t her fine Italian wool pants that had been down, exposing the tightest butt her hands had ever explored.

Instinctively, her hips rolled forward.

No, no, no.

“We must prepare for all contingencies,” Walter continued. “Do you know how many times the power has gone down in the city? Two point three annually since 1970. Two contributing factors. Weather and construction. Look at that April sky! Not a cloud in it, but hear those jackhammers pounding away?”

Jamie nodded, mainly to humor him. On the thirty-eighth floor, they heard nothing but the occasional whistling of the wind. It wasn’t time for semantics.

“Construction. Why do you think we keep a backup generator in this building? Our clients count on us; they expect us to be here day in, day out. 24/7. At Bond-Worthington, we anticipate a market movement before it happens. Before it happens.”