He had his suspicions about what was going on, but he wanted to check it out himself before he did anything else."
"Someone told me he was worried Crystal would jump ship if the uproar became public."
Trigg tossed his sponge in a bucket. "Maybe that's what Fiona was counting on," he said.
I walked into the office at 11:25 to find Jeniffer, bending over a file drawer, in a skirt so short the two crescent-shaped bulges of her hiney were hanging out the back. Her legs were long and bare, tanned from all the days she took off to go to the beach with her pals. I said, "Jeniffer, you're really going to have to wear longer skirts. Don't you remember 'I see London, I see France, I see someone's underpants'?"
She jerked upright and tugged self-consciously at the hem of her skirt. At least she had the good grace to look embarrassed. She clopped back to her desk in her wooden-soled clogs. She sat down, exposing so much bare thigh I felt compelled to avert my eyes.
"Any messages?" I asked.
"Just one. Mrs. Purcell said she's back and she's expecting you at two o'clock."
"When? Today or tomorrow?"
"Oh."
"Don't worry about it. I can figure it out. Anything else?"
"This came," she said, and handed me an Express Mail envelope. I opened the flap. Inside was the contract Fiona'd signed and returned. Shit. I already hated feeling bound to her.
"Also, someone's here to see you. I showed her into your office and took her a cup of coffee."
That got my attention. "You left her in my office by herself?"
"I have work to do. I couldn't stay."
"How do you know she's not back there going through my desk?" I said, knowing that's what I'd be doing if I were in her place.
"I don't think she'd do that. She seems nice."
I could feel my heat gauge rising into the red zone. "I seem nice, too. That doesn't count for much. How long's she been there?" To be fair, I was probably displacing my feelings about Fiona onto her, but I was pissed, anyway.
Jeniffer made a face to show she was thinking real hard. "Not long. Twenty minutes. Maybe a little more."
"Is she at least someone I know?"
"I think so," she said, faintly. "Her name's Mariah something. I just figured she'd be more comfortable back there than if she waited for you out here."
"Jeniffer, in that length of time, she could have ripped me off for everything I own."
"You said that. I'm sorry."
"Forget about 'sorry.' Don't ever do it again." I headed down the inner corridor. I looked back at her. "And get some pantyhose," I snapped. As I passed Ida Ruth's desk, she was studiously avoiding my gaze, no doubt thrilled I was being subjected to a sample of Jeniffer's continuing ineptitude.
My office door was closed. I barged in to find a woman sitting in the guest chair. She'd placed her empty coffee mug on the edge of the desk in front of her. Scanning the surface, I could've sworn my files were ever so slightly disarranged. I looked at her quizzically and she returned my gaze with eyes as blank and blue as a Siamese cat's.
She couldn't have been more than twenty-six, but her hair was a startling silver-gray, as polished as pewter. She wore very little makeup, but her skin tones looked warm against the frosty hair, which was combed back and anchored behind her ears. She had a finely sculpted jaw, a strong nose and chin, lightly feathered brows. The skirt of her gray wool business suit was cut short and sheer black hose emphasized her shapely knees, one of which carried the vestiges of an old scar. There was a black briefcase resting near the left side of her chair. She looked like an expensive lawyer with a high-powered firm. Maybe I was being sued.
Warily, I moved around my desk and sat down. She shed her jacket with ease and arranged it across the back of the chair to avoid wrinkling it. From the shape of her shoulders and upper arms, I knew she worked out a lot harder than I did.
"I'm Mariah Talbot," she said. The black silk tank top rustled faintly as she reached across the desk to shake hands. She had long oval nails painted a neutral shade. The effect was sophisticated; nothing gaudy about this one. The most riveting feature was a gnarly white scar, probably a burn, on the outer aspect of her right forearm.
"Do we have an appointment?" I asked, unable to keep the testiness out of my voice.
"We don't, but I'm here on a matter I think will interest you," she said, unruffled. Whatever my disposition, it wasn't going to bother her. The image she projected was one of composure, competence, efficiency, and determination. Her smile, when it appeared, scarcely softened her face.