“It won’t!” I snapped, and hung up.
Damn. Damn damn damn. Alright, I could do this. I crossed my fingers and typed the website address for my online banking system into my laptop. I might have enough in my bank account. Just enough. As long as I didn’t mind not eating for the rest of the month. Oh well, there was always lurking in Whole Foods, eating food samples, pretending to really consider buying that olive oil as I took another cherry tomato from the sample tray…
I typed in my password, and then a miracle happened.
There should have been less than a thousand dollars in my account. Instead there was a quarter million.
“What…the…hell…” I whispered, staring at the screen.
This had to be a mistake. Some kind of programming bug or computer virus. My hand moving as though I were in a dream, I clicked on the tab for more information. A single transfer one day ago. A two, followed by a five, followed by four zeroes. And then a decimal point, and two more zeroes.
A payment from Devlin Media Corp.
From Grant.
But I had told him not to—
I didn’t do this for the money. And he couldn’t write off what I did, or what we had, by sending a check. I could feel my heart beating faster. I picked up the phone and dialed.
“Mr. Devlin’s office,” his secretary’s brisk voice announced.
“This is Lacey Newman,” I said, trying to match her professional tone even though in my mind, I was dangling Grant over a pit of hungry tigers. “I would like an appointment to speak to Mr. Devlin at the earliest opportunity.” We had to talk this out.
“I’m afraid Mr. Devlin is rather busy at the moment, would two p.m. tomorrow afternoon do?”
“That would do nicely, thank you.” Come to think of it, the extra time would be good. I needed preparation in order to adequately explain to Grant exactly how far he’d crossed the line here.
Twenty-four hours might not be enough, but I’d have to make do.
? ? ?
I was putting the final touches on my presentation for the upcoming interdepartmental meeting, when a knock came at my door before it swung open. I looked up with an indulgent smile: “Tina, you don’t have to knock every single time—”
It wasn’t Tina.
Grant sauntered into my office looking like the cat who ate the proverbial canary. He grinned. “Miss me?”
THREE
Damn, but that man looked good enough to eat. My dreams hadn’t lied to me—he was ripped, almost bursting the buttons of his white starched pressed shirt, black slacks complementing the powerful lines of his legs. A lock of golden-brown hair dangled above those mocking blue eyes, his full lips twisted in a sardonic smirk.
“I—I—I—” I stammered. “I wasn’t expecting you—”
“Yes?” he said, distantly amused. “Presumably you did have something to say, however, so why don’t you get on with it.” He yawned, strolling to the window and examining his cuff link in the light there. “Could you hurry it up a little? I’ve things to do.”
His voice was ice cold, his humor nothing more than a knife. He spoke to me as if I were insignificant.
He spoke to me as if I were a stranger.
I took a deep breath and tried to tamp down my feelings. Professional, I was going to be professional. “What’s with the money in my bank account?”
“Surely you’re familiar with the concept of payment for services rendered,” Grant said cuttingly. I could feel my cheeks burning, but a worthy comeback eluded me.
He turned to me, and looked my body up and down with a distant sort of distaste, as if I were a poorly planned purchase he was glad to have returned to the store. “You performed…a service. You’ve been compensated. End of story.”
“I told you that I didn’t want money—” I choked out.
“It will hardly fit the PR profile if I don’t pay you off with something,” Grant said, cutting me off with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Certainly no one could argue that you didn’t deserve it. Yours was a flawless performance of affection and loyalty—no one could have doubted it.” He smiled, and there was no joy in it, but for a moment I caught a flicker in his gaze, almost caught sight of the old Grant hiding there before he turned his back on me and stared out the window. “Your artifice helped buy time to turn this company around.”
“That’s not the point,” I said, stung without really understanding why. I hadn’t really been performing, I really had loved him—but he wanted the performance, so why was he upset? Why was I insulted? “I can’t accept—”