That New York Minute

“There is that.” LeeAnne smiled.

Threads of ideas began to float in Rachel’s mind. She knew better than to try pinning them down when they were this ephemeral. If she let them float a while, they might coalesce into something solid.

Solid. That’s how Tony had described her work. She needed better than solid.

“Takes four years to get a degree,” Burton warned LeeAnne.

“I know.”

“I guess we have a few years to come into some money,” Burton joked.

Oh, boy. Rachel hoped her sister had more of a plan than that. Maybe Rachel could start a college fund for her nieces.

They talked for a while longer. Then LeeAnne glanced at her combined watch and pedometer, which sported the name of a well-known cereal company, one of Rachel’s clients. “I’d better go, I’m trying to get the girls into more of a daily routine before they start nursery school. It’s time for their nap.”

Rachel walked her sister out to her rusting Toyota. They each held one of the twins by the hand.

“So this routine thing is new,” Rachel said as she buckled Dannii into her car seat.

“Yeah, I sound almost like you.” LeeAnne flashed her a grin and clipped Kylie in.

“Don’t knock it—it works.” Rachel kissed Dannii, then closed the door, stuffing a twenty into the door pocket as she did so. “So they start nursery school in September?”

“Yep.” LeeAnne climbed into the driver’s seat and lowered the passenger window so they could continue talking. “There’s a great school right near us. I hope we’re still in the neighborhood.”

Had her sister ever expressed a desire to remain in one place before?

Rachel leaned in through the window and said casually, “You could stay. If Mom and Dad move, I mean.”

“You know I need to be near them. I couldn’t raise the girls without their moral support, not to mention Mom’s babysitting.” LeeAnne looked in her rearview mirror, back at the trailer.

“Dad’s work is steady, right?” Rachel asked. “There’s no reason to move.”

“Only if something too good to miss comes up somewhere else.” LeeAnne let out a breath that was almost a sigh.

“Maybe if you refused to go with them, Mom and Dad would stay put,” Rachel suggested. LeeAnne had grumbled a bit when they were kids, but she’d never been upset by their constant moves as Rachel had. Maybe, at last, she was developing an interest in stability.

Her sister looked skeptical. “I’m not sure that’s what I want. Moving can be exciting. Though maybe not as often as we do it,” she admitted.

“You should think about staying. For the twins’ sake.” Rachel figured she’d better not push her luck. She stepped back and patted the side of the car. “Off you go, sis.”

She watched until the Toyota turned out onto the road. As she headed back inside, a couple of images that might work for Brightwater Group flashed in her mind. Rachel picked up the pace and ran to make notes. If she was going to be number one with the client on Monday, there could be No Idea Left Behind.

CHAPTER FIVE

RACHEL TOOK A TRAIN to Princeton, New Jersey, where Brightwater had its headquarters, presumably so some of the luster associated with Princeton University might reflect on its private colleges. Smart strategy.

She arrived in plenty of time for the meeting. Before her colleagues. If punctuality was a deciding factor for the KBC partnership, she would ace the promotion.

Since the morning was sunny but not too hot, she stood outside to wait. Tony and Clive were next to arrive. They’d caught the same train and shared a cab from the station. Coincidence, or clever planning by Clive? She didn’t think of him as a schemer—six foot four, slow-moving and good-natured, he was the epitome of a gentle giant.

There was no sign of Garrett. Dared she hope that he’d thrown in the towel?

“Good weekend?” Rachel asked Clive, trying to gauge how much time he’d spent reading up about private colleges.

“I had my in-laws staying,” he said. “They’re helping us paint the apartment.”

“How nice.” Didn’t sound like he’d been able to work. She checked her watch … oops, she wasn’t supposed to be doing that so often. Three minutes past nine. Garrett couldn’t be coming; even he wouldn’t dare to be late today. “Shall we go in?” she said cheerfully.

Tony scanned the parking lot. “Any idea how Garrett’s getting here?”

He’d barely finished speaking when a black BMW M5 roared into the lot.

“I think,” Rachel said, “he’s driving.”

Garrett parked right in front of them, in a space that wasn’t strictly a space. He got out of the car empty-handed. No briefcase. No notepad.

Rachel felt suddenly weighed down by her tools of the trade. Un-nimble. At least I was here on time. She waited for him to apologize for keeping them waiting.

“Hi,” he said to Tony.

Tony nodded and glanced at his watch.

“Is that peanut butter on your tie?” Garrett asked Clive.

“Probably,” Clive said equably.

Garrett’s gaze skimmed over Rachel’s black silk blouse and dropped to the hem of the Pick me, I’m the best cerise skirt that ended just above her knees.

“Love the pink, Rach,” he said, his voice deepening. “Your legs aren’t bad, either.”

Good grief, the guy had a career death wish!

That was fine by Rachel. Tony opened his mouth to object to Garrett’s comment, but she held up a hand to tell him she could deal with it.

“Cerise,” she corrected Garrett coolly. “And it’s Rachel. I don’t expect my legs to affect the outcome of this meeting.”

How pathetic did he think she was, to fall for another attempt to disconcert her?

He peered closer. “Don’t underestimate yourself—they’re damn good.”

“That’s enough, Garrett,” Tony snapped.

Garrett shrugged. A twinge of envy surprised Rachel. When she’d let herself think about it, KBC’s decision to fire two creative directors filled her with fear and anger. Consequently, she was on her best behavior. Garrett’s don’t-give-a-damn attitude spoke of a courage she didn’t have.

In their meeting, Mark Van de Kamp, Brightwater’s marketing director, seemed excited about the level of creative talent he was being offered. He gave them a more in-depth briefing about the new colleges—actually a bunch of existing colleges the group had acquired—and their target market. Rachel managed to slip in a couple of what she considered insightful comments.

“Any questions?” Mark asked at the conclusion of his presentation.

Clive jumped in, showing a good grasp of the issues. Some of them, at least.

Rachel stepped up to the plate with one he’d missed. “Mark, there’s been a suggestion that companies like Brightwater exploit the low-income families they claim to serve, encouraging them to take out loans they can’t afford to pay back. How worried are you that what you’re doing will be seen in that light?” With her own nieces in mind, she’d spent half of Sunday researching issues surrounding low-income families and college fees.

Garrett looked surprised—whether at the information or the fact she’d come up with such an unexpected question, she wasn’t sure. Tony seemed intrigued. All in all, Rachel felt as if she’d made a strong attempt to step outside the box.

“Good question.” Mark smiled at her. “Those other organizations have typically offered punitive loan conditions and poor academic quality. Our loan rates will be competitive, and we’re currently lining up endorsements by Action Against Poverty and the NAACP in support of the quality of our programs.”

“Sounds good.” Rachel made some notes on her legal pad.

Logic dictated it was Garrett’s turn to ask the next question.

She set down her pen so she could observe The Shark in action.

For long seconds silence reigned.

“So tell me, Mark,” Garrett said, “If Brightwater was a fruit, what fruit would it be?”

What?

Clive glanced down at the peanut-butter stain on his tie, so Rachel couldn’t read his expression. Tony froze in his seat. Garrett was straight-faced, totally relaxed.

“Hmm.” Mark propped his chin on his hand. “That’s very interesting, Garrett, very interesting indeed.”

It’s a crock! He’s kidding!

Both Tony and Clive took their cue from the client, and nodded.

Excuse me? Am I the only rational person in this room?

Garrett’s glance flicked toward her, as if he could read her thoughts. She couldn’t suppress an eye roll. His eyebrows rose in spurious inquiry.

“I think I’d have to say … a melon,” Mark said.

“Cantaloupe or honeydew?” Garrett shot back.

Oh, puh-lease.

“Cantaloupe, definitely.”

“I see,” Garrett said. “Thanks, Mark, that’s useful.” He smiled at Van de Kamp, and it was such a rare thing, it was as if the sun had come out from a cloud. Rachel could practically see the man basking in its warmth.

GARRETT OFFERED THEM ALL a ride back to the office. While Tony and Clive were signing out at the reception desk, Rachel caught up with him on his way to the parking lot.

“What was that about?” she demanded.

“What?” He sped up, forcing her to almost jog.

“Melons,” she said.

He didn’t slow, but his gaze flicked down over her fitted blouse. “No comment, though I’m sure they’re very nice. I’m more of a leg man.”

She sputtered a laugh … and realized he was paying her legs some considerable attention. “Garrett, be serious. You can’t tell me that’s how you normally take a brief.”

“Oh, dear, have you been doing it wrong all this time?”

She rolled her eyes. “No, I have not. But I don’t get what you—” She stopped. “You’re quitting. Aren’t you?”

He walked faster. “What do you mean?”

“Those comments, way too outrageous even for you. You’re leaving KBC.” She was unable to contain a triumphant grin as she kept pace.

“No, I’m not,” he said, annoyed. Totally unconvincing.

“Hey,” she said, “I don’t blame you. You could get any job you want. Why would you hang around here?”

They’d reached his BMW. Rachel set her overprepared, overloaded briefcase on the pavement.

He stared down at her, her high heels making no impression against his height. “Maybe you’re right.”

Before she could encourage him further, Tony and Clive joined them. Garrett pressed the remote unlock on his key chain.

Rachel clambered into the back of the M5, her shorter stature demanding that she cede the more spacious front seat to Clive.

“Nice car,” Tony said as he settled in next to her.

“So, Garrett,” Rachel said, as he reversed out of his space, “if this car was a fruit, what fruit would it be?”

His gaze met hers in the rearview mirror. “A banana, of course.”

“Useful insight,” she said. “Thanks.”

His dark eyes gleamed.

“You do that fruit thing, too?” Tony asked. “What the hell is that about?”

No one does the fruit thing. It’s Garrett’s idea of a joke. “I used to do it,” she said. “It’s a bit passé.”

A snort from the driver as he turned out of the parking lot onto Brunswick Pike.

“Guys, I want to give you some feedback on today’s meeting,” Tony said.

He was certainly taking this reality TV–style evaluation to extremes.

“Rachel, Clive, you were both great.”

“Thanks, Tony,” she murmured. I guess that means Garrett goes home.

“Garrett, you engaged well with the client. I admit, I don’t get the fruit thing, but it certainly snagged Van de Kamp’s interest. If you can deliver on that stuff, I’m all in favor.”

“I’ll deliver,” Garrett said.

Huh? Shouldn’t he be quitting right about now? What happened to Maybe you’re right? Rachel tried to catch his glance in the mirror, but he wasn’t looking.

“But you were late arriving,” Tony said, “which made us all late for the meeting. And your comment about Rachel’s appearance was out of line.”

“It was a joke, Tony,” Garrett said. “Rachel knew that.”

It wasn’t a joke, it was a sabotage attempt mixed up with Garrett’s professional suicide.

“Did you take it as a joke, Rachel?” Tony asked.

Industry old-timers like Tony were known to suffer the odd lapse in judgment themselves; Rachel figured he was following up more because he had responsibilities under the New York City Human Rights Law than out of genuine disapproval.

She opened her mouth to say, Of course, no problem. Because she was a team player, and this wasn’t about her, and anyway, she knew Garrett was playing some game of his own.

But what game was that, exactly? She needed him to quit.

Inspiration struck, inspiration she could only credit to the presence of the man who’d accused her of being unable to seize the moment.

“Actually, Tony, I was uncomfortable,” she said. She stifled a twinge of guilt at the lie. Garrett was the guy who’d told Piers she was trading sex for no breakup, who’d lied about his mother’s death for competitive advantage. If he needed a push to leave, she was happy to help. Who said she couldn’t think on her feet! Feet that happened to be attached to “damn good” legs.

“What the hell?” Garrett’s outraged expression showed in the mirror.

Even Tony looked taken aback. It wasn’t as if she was a powerless junior; he knew she relished fighting her own battles.

“I’m not saying I feel sexually harassed,” Rachel assured her boss. “Not exactly.”

“Good, good,” Tony sputtered. “Not that I’m trying to discourage you from making a complaint if that’s what you want,” he added, in a confused but valiant attempt at political correctness.

“For Pete’s sake!” Garrett wrenched the steering wheel to the right as he twisted to glare at Rachel. Clive murmured a protest. Garrett cursed and returned his focus to the road.

“Oh, no, definitely not,” Rachel assured her boss. “I think it’s just that Garrett has trouble relating to women. Part of his team skills problem.”

“I don’t have trouble with women,” Garrett said ominously.

“Just last week Natasha was in the washroom in tears after Garrett told her off.” Rachel didn’t mention Natasha had stuck her mascara wand in her eye at the same time as she mentioned her run-in with Garrett. She was pleasantly surprised how easy it was to be devious when you had the right inspiration.

Garrett said, “Natasha left the office to check on her boyfriend’s broken foot—”

“Torn Achilles tendon,” Rachel interrupted.

“—and completely forgot about the Sheraton pitch,” Garrett growled.

“On Friday, after our breakfast, Garrett touched Julie on the shoulder,” she reported to Tony. “I could see she was confused about what it meant.”

“You’re evil,” Garrett said conversationally.

Rachel picked up on the underlying anger and felt almost sorry for him. But she’d done that once before, in the elevator, and look how he’d played her. And the catch-phrase of his … Do it on your terms … No way would he consent to what she was about to suggest. He’d be out the door, voluntarily, before she could say chicken.

She smiled beatifically at Tony. “So I’m offering to educate Garrett.”

“You what?” Garrett snarled.

“I’m willing to make time to get involved with Garrett’s team,” she said. “To monitor his interactions, particularly with female staff, and advise him how to handle situations better.”

“She’s kidding,” Garrett said.

Rachel rather liked that edge of desperation. She knew Garrett would hasten his inevitable departure, rather than have her overseeing him. She’d observed his natural abhorrence for authority. Quit, Garrett, quit.

“You’ll recall I scored a clean-sweep perfect ten in my team’s appraisals of my management skills,” she reminded Tony.

“So you did,” he said. “First time anyone’s done that. You’re a good girl, Rachel. Uh, I mean, a smart woman. But do you have time to help Garrett?”

“Tony!” Garrett near shouted.

“I’ll make time,” she said generously. “Not for my sake, but for women everywhere.” For a moment, she worried she’d overdone it; in the front seat, Clive’s enormous shoulders shook.

But Tony appeared to be in the thrall of an image of multiple harassment suits being filed against KBC.

“Thanks, Rachel,” he said. “That’d be great. You should start right away.”

“My pleasure,” she said, and meant it.

Quit, you ill-mannered, manipulative, motherless Shark!

CHAPTER SIX

GARRETT TOOK THE STAIRS to his condo two at a time, powered by frustration and a buzz of adrenaline that caught him by surprise.

Rachel.

The woman he knew to be as predictable as yesterday’s weather had picked up on his intention to quit KBC, then gone all out to push him into action because it was what she wanted.

He hadn’t known she had it in her.

Garrett rounded the second-floor landing and kept going. Sure, it had taken Rachel until they were leaving Brightwater to click that his remarks were the screw-you salute of someone who didn’t plan to stick around. Even if they were true … particularly the one about her legs, which he’d never noticed before were sensational. But neither Tony nor Clive had worked out where he was coming from. They’d assumed Garrett was being his usual self, the guy who could never be accused of toeing the party line.

As he passed the black-painted number three on the third-floor landing, he wondered how he’d given himself away to Rachel. Quick thinking on her part, to come up with that sexual harassment stuff in an attempt to force his hand. She was a whole lot more devious than he’d given her credit for. Tony couldn’t see she was playing games, it seemed. Eight years of Goody Two-shoes had finally paid off.

Too bad her attempt to manipulate Garrett had triggered his natural resistance. Instead of resigning when they got back to the city, he’d sat in his office mulling over what he wanted to do. To his annoyance, he’d failed to reach a decision.

It was this time of year, that was all. Made it hard for him to Let it go. Tomorrow. He’d quit tomorrow.

Garrett fished his keys from his pocket as he pulled open the door to the fourth floor.

Right away, he saw the woman.

At least, he figured it was a woman, going by the ponytail of brown hair.

She sat huddled on the floor next to his door, a small backpack beside her, her head buried in her arms on jeans-clad knees. A light-colored trench coat pooled around her. There were only two condos per floor; she must be a friend of his neighbor’s, must have turned the wrong way out of the elevator.

“Miss?” he said.

No reply. He hoped she wasn’t drunk, or ill. Or if she was, he hoped his neighbor was home.

He touched her shoulder. “Excuse me, miss?”

She jolted awake with a cry of alarm and lifted her face.

Not a miss. A Mrs.

Mrs. Stephanie Calder.

“What are you doing here?” Garrett asked. Shouldn’t she be whipping up a pot roast in New London?

“Garrett—damn, I fell asleep.” She rubbed her eyes, then blinked up at him. “What time is it?”

“Why don’t you check your watch?” Yeah, it was churlish, but he’d decided years ago never to give his father’s wife anything.

She consulted the slim white-gold Piaget on her wrist. “Nine,” she muttered. “Do you always work so late?”

“Is Dad all right?” He didn’t think he’d ever seen Stephanie in jeans outside the house before. And the ponytail was positively sloppy compared with her usual elegant grooming.

“Your father’s your father,” she said, her voice clipped. “I gather your birthday celebration didn’t go too well last week?”

Celebration wasn’t the word he’d have chosen. Garrett shrugged.

She tsked. “Did your father tell you … anything?”

Crap, his dad was sick. “He mentioned something about me getting a real job.” Garrett feigned casualness.

She groaned under her breath and rubbed her eyes again. Her makeup was smudged; she looked haggard. She stuck out a hand. “Help me up?” Then, before he could refuse, she dropped her hand again. “Don’t worry, I’ll manage.”

Standing proved a strangely awkward process. She rolled onto all fours then pushed herself off the thick carpet designed to cushion the tread of noisy neighbors.

When she was finally upright, the floor seemed to shift beneath Garrett, forcing him to put a hand to the wall.

“You’ve been overdoing the pizza,” he said, eyeing Stephanie’s enormous, round belly.

“The baby’s due in June.” She planted her fists on her hips, as if defying him to disapprove. The movement thrust her belly out even farther. “I’m seven months along. We would have told you sooner, except we haven’t seen you since Christmas—” he’d spent the holiday with them only because his brother had been home on leave from his naval posting “—and we didn’t know I was pregnant then.”

“And Dad was meant to tell me about this last week.”

“Among other things.” She bent at the knees to scoop up her little backpack. “Do we have to do this in the hallway?”

“Where’s Dad?” Garrett glanced around.

Stephanie slung the pack over one shoulder. “I left him.”

Once again, Garrett’s world tipped on its axis. “You mean, left him out in the car, right?” But he hadn’t seen a Hummer parked in the street.

“I mean, left our marriage.” She plucked the key from his suddenly nerveless fingers. “Let’s go inside.”

In the condo, Garrett used the time spent disarming the burglar alarm and turning on lights to try to get his head around this bizarre new development. Nope, he couldn’t do it. “Does Lucas know about the baby?”

“Of course.” Stephanie set her pack down next to the sofa and sat. “I wrote to him a few months back.”

Garrett wondered what his brother had made of the news. He’d tried to convince Lucas that Stephanie was the enemy, back when their dad had married her, but Lucas had been twelve years old and he’d wanted a mother. He hadn’t seen the wrongness of their dad marrying again so quickly after Mom died, without consulting them, without listening to Garrett’s protests. The wrongness of Dwight expecting them to welcome Stephanie and her clumsy attempts at stepmotherhood.

“Aren’t you too old to be doing this?” He waved at her stomach without looking. “Is it IVF?” He couldn’t imagine his dad submitting to the invasive process.

“I just turned forty-five—it’s within the bounds of possibility.” She cupped her hands over her stomach protectively. “Though it was certainly unexpected. Your father and I tried for a long time to have a baby. When this happened … the symptoms … I thought I was menopausal.”

Too much information.

Garrett headed to the kitchen area. “Coffee?” he said over his shoulder.

“Do you have decaf?”

“No.”

She sighed. “Okay, but make it a weak one. You’re supposed to cut back on caffeine in pregnancy—though since it took me four months to figure out I was pregnant that didn’t quite happen.”

Away from that telltale stomach, Garrett pulled his thoughts into order. Okay, Stephanie was pregnant, a little fact that everyone except Garrett had known. Due in June. At which point he would have a half brother or sister.

“Is it a boy or a girl?” he called.

“I don’t know.” Stephanie spoke from the other side of the island, making him jump. “I want it to be a surprise—your father wanted to know but it turns out the mother’s wishes prevail in this sort of thing.”

She sounded almost amused. Probably hadn’t been too many times her wishes had prevailed since she’d married Admiral Dwight Calder. Wait a minute …

“Did you say you left my father?” How he could have lost sight of that detail?

“That’s right.” She eyed the amount of coffee he was scooping into the press with misgiving.