Plum Girl (Romance) (22 page)

Twit went on. "Now, this is not final, but for the time being, it's the way I think it has to be. I will pick up where Lunther left off, and sometime—in the very indefinite future—I'll start considering the idea of taking a partner again." He leaned back and gripped the arms of his throne. "Are there any questions about what this means?"

Is this guy a jerk or what?
Here he makes them wait ten minutes to hear a condescending, power trip of a decree, and then asks if everyone comprehended what just happened. Not that Lonnie cared who advanced to partner, but still, she found Twit's superior behavior ludicrous. Bette spoke first.

"Fine by me," her nasal voice declared. "Saves me paperwork." She gave a let-them-eat-cake, close-mouthed smile.

"Yes..." Twit began officiously. "Uh, thank you, Bette, for sharing those thoughts. Are there any other questions about my plans for the firm? Or my intended philosophy of leadership?"
What the hell is he talking about?
Whatever his "philosophy" of leadership was, the staff would certainly know it by now. He'd been their boss, and exercised his leadership, for years.

Unless...

Was it possible that Twit had less say in the running of Twit & Bell than Lonnie had thought? She knew he and Lunther had started the firm together, so she'd always assumed they were equal partners in every way. But if that were true, why was her boss suddenly acting like he'd been elected king for a day? She scrutinized his face, and saw traces of that almost insuppressible merry smile. Then she glimpsed a few of her coworkers. From what she could tell, they were somewhere between surprised and puzzled.

She would've like to have seen Macey's reaction, but she was, yet again, absent from the Tuesday-morning staff meeting.

"I'm just glad you're the one in charge now," B.J. said to Twit. Lonnie turned her head and looked at him strangely, because it seemed like an odd thing to say. Quickly, B.J. qualified, "Hey, you gotta respect a boss who's a die-hard Celtics fan." He pointed at the boss amiably.

"Yes. Well, thank you, B.J.," Twit said, nodding heavily.

"Of course, that's no offense to Lunther or anything," B.J. added, defensively holding his hands up to the room. "He was from New Jersey, so I can understand why he liked the Jets."

"Nets," Matt corrected loudly enough for everyone to hear. B.J. blushed.

"Well, I just want to say," Delia broke in, making her abrasive voice as soft and sweet as she could, "that I realize you have a
temp
helping you out, Beauregard"—
the name's Lonnie, you witch
—"but I'd be happy to give you any extra assistance you need, as you make the transition to... you know... not working with Lunther." Then she flipped her deader-than-normal hair over the shoulder pad of her eighties-looking sweater.

Now Twit blushed. "Well, thank you, Delia. That is certainly considerate of you. I'll have Luna confer with you after the meeting."
Like hell.
He cleared his throat and shifted in his chair, and Lonnie tried desperately to think of anything other than Twit having a hormonal reaction to Delia. Or Twit having hormones at all, if possible.

"So if there's nothing else," Twit announced, and leaned his head back on his chair. "I'll cease my offidating here, and proceed this meeting to its conclusion." Then he shut his eyes, as if in deep reflection. Everyone just sat there, confused.

After a few seconds, Twit crept one eye open and glanced around the room. Then he opened both eyes, and clarified, "Oh... that is to say,
meeting adjourned."
With that, the room cleared out. While Twit sank back into his affected Zen Buddhist posture, Lonnie hustled back to her desk in disbelief.

Immediately, she spotted the pink Post-it stuck to her monitor. She snatched it off, and her pulse quickened a little when she read it.

Lonnie—I must've missed you. Call me, D.

Dominick had stopped by to surprise her and she'd missed it because of that joke of a meeting. How typical. She fell into her chair and grabbed the phone receiver. She dialed Dominick's office number and waited.
Please not the voice mail—

"Dominick Carter." Her heart jolted. She wondered when just the sound of his voice would stop having that effect on her. She could just picture him on the other end, cerebral looking in his glasses, and sexy as hell.

"Hi, it's me," she said simply, but her voice defied her attempt to act casual, and dropped a lusty octave lower.

"Hey,"
he replied, sounding very pleased that she'd called. "Where were you before?"

"Oh, pressing meeting. Twit wanted to let us know that from now on the firm will be under his own despotic rule, and then he asked if we understood English."

"What?" Dominick laughed.

"Well, that's the condensed version," she said brightly. "So what's new with you?"
When can I see you? When can I lick you?
Unconsciously, her body language mimicked her thoughts, as she clutched the phone tighter to her ear and leaned her mouth as close to the receiver as she could.

"Not too much," he said. "I wanted to ask you to lunch today, but I have a meeting. And since I took those two personal days last week, I've got to catch up on a lot. I'm going to be working late, I have a feeling."

Her heart sank. "Okay."

"I'm sorry I won't be able to see you tonight, for New Year's Eve."

"No problem." She tried to sound cheery, even though she really felt somewhat deflated. It wasn't New Year's Eve, which always sucked and was obviously continuing in that tradition. It was just... she knew this thing with Dominick was too good to be true. Here they hadn't seen each other in almost two weeks, and obviously, he was losing interest. Why else would he give her the beginnings of an I'm-going-to-be-busy-for-a-while, don't-call-me, I'll-call-you, blow-off spiel?

"How about tomorrow night?" he asked.

"Huh?" Now she was confused. "W-what about tomorrow night?"

"Want to go out tomorrow night? Well, stay in, actually."

Her heart immediately rose back to the surface. She smiled into the phone and said, "Hmm... What did you have in mind?"

He laughed. "I've got a lot of things in mind, but they don't all have to happen tomorrow night." She clutched the phone even closer and smiled into it. Had any man ever had this strong of an effect on her? She honestly didn't think so. Suddenly, it was all becoming clear. Terry had been her transitional man, and Dominick was the real thing. The
one.

He said, "I was thinking I'd make you dinner at my apartment."
And get laid after.
Okay, so Dominick was a nice guy; that might not be part of his plan. But even if it was, Lonnie had no problem with that. In fact, the thought of his naked, sweaty body on hers seemed like the best idea she'd had in a while.

Yet she wanted to see him on her own turf. She was still a little gun-shy (so to speak), and the comfort of her apartment would help put her at ease. So she offered, "How about I cook you dinner this time? Peach says I have to get over my disdain for our miniappliances."

"Oh... okay," he agreed. "What time should I come over?"

"How's seven thirty?"

"Great. I'll bring wine."

"Okay." She felt her pulse between her legs, and gave him her address.

"What are you going to do for New Year's?" he asked. She knew she should probably make up some great-sounding plans to keep him guessing, but it wasn't her style.

"I don't know, maybe rent a movie," she said. He then suggested that she rent
Mobsters,
claiming it was really good. Her heart turned over in her chest; how
cute
was he? Of course
Mobsters
looked like ten-year-old crap, but still, for some reason, she found his suggestion unbelievably adorable.

"So, I'll see you tomorrow night," she said.

"Absolutely."

"Okay. Bye."

"Wait—red or white?"

"Red."

"My kind of woman."

"You have no idea," she teased.

"Christ, I can't wait till tomorrow night."

"Bye," she said again, and they both hung up at the same time.

Lonnie leaned back in her chair and felt like fanning herself off. She knew this blood-boiling reaction was over-the-top, but what could she do? The attraction seemed to get stronger every time they talked. It wasn't Dominick's looks, although she definitely liked those. It was everything.... It was him. It was them. They clicked. She sighed happily.

"Lucy!"
Well, that didn't last long.
Beauregard Twit's booming beckon was unmistakable. "Lucy, come in here A-SAP!" he called from his office. Lonnie went to Twit's office, knocked lightly on the ajar door, and pushed it open. Beauregard was at his desk, writing.

"Did you need something?" she asked him.

"Yes," he answered matter-of-factly. "What time is it? My clock's broken."

"Oh." That threw her off. "I'm not wearing a watch; I'll go check." Inwardly rolling her eyes, she went back around the corner and looked at the clock on the wall. Then she bustled back to Twit's office to give him the vital data. "It's eleven o'clock."

He clasped his hands together under his chin and looked upward, contemplating the information. Then he said, "Let me know when it's eleven fifteen, will you? Best." He went back to writing. "Best"—which Lonnie assumed was supposed to be an abridged version of "best wishes"—was Twit's favorite closer. Basically, it was his very suave way of saying "This conversation is terminated, now beat it."

Lonnie went back to her desk and started entering Twit's hours in the payroll database. Within moments, her phone rang. "Twit & Bell," she answered. She'd stopped saying "Beauregard Twit's line" after Delia had forwarded Lunther's phones to her, too.

"Hey," Peach said.

"Hi!" Lonnie was glad it was her sister and not Twit wasting more of her time.

"What's going on?" Peach asked, and Lonnie filled her in on her morning so far. Then Peach told her about Iris Mew and the Chestnut Hill charity circuit.

"Oh, I forgot! I asked Dominick over tomorrow night. Is that okay?"

"Yeah, sure. It's about time you guys got your groove on," Peach noted.

"He's just coming over for dinner. I'm not planning anything beyond that," Lonnie explained, as she made a mental note to shave her legs all the way up and pick up more strawberry body lotion.

"Mmm-hmm. Well, whatever. I think that sounds great. And, don't worry about me being in the way—"

"I wasn't."

"—because tomorrow night I made plans with Matt," Peach finished.

That was news. "When did this happen?" she asked.

"Well, I'd given him my e-mail address at the party, but then I hadn't heard anything, so I sorta forgot about it. But today he sent me a message asking me if I wanted to go to the Bruins game tomorrow night." There was a pause, and Lonnie could hear a muffled voice in the background. Then Peach said, "No, you're wearing that one. Hold on, Lonnie." Her voice was farther away when she said, "Cheryl, you have a great figure. People would kill for your heaving bosom, so stop hiding it. You're wearing
that
one."

"Peach?"

"Yeah, sorry. Cheryl's just having cold feet about tonight."

"Why, what's tonight?" Lonnie asked curiously.

"Remember that catering thing we were going to try to set up?"

"No."

"Oh, I thought I told you. At Iris's tea social, I overheard a woman mention her housewarming party next month. So I got the idea for Cheryl to cater the party. Well, first we have to convince the woman to have the party catered. You see?" Peach finished, obviously cheery at the prospect of Cheryl's culinary debut.

"So Cheryl's interested in professional catering now, or...?" Lonnie asked.

"Weelll... ," Peach said, and Lonnie understood the subtext perfectly:
No, but I'm pushing her toward it, for what I deem is her own good.
In some ways, Peach was like their mother, and Lonnie knew that ultimately, they both meant well. That still didn't make it okay. "She loves to cook, and I told you that she freelances her recipes to make a living. So, I asked her: 'Why not freelance your talent?' Anyway, we got in touch with Iris's friend, and she's meeting Cheryl for dinner to discuss the possibilities."

"So, how does Cheryl's 'heaving bosom' factor in?" Lonnie inquired.

"What? Oh, no, that's something separate. This dress looks adorable on her and"—her voice rose higher—"she's just gonna have to trust me!"

"By the way," Lonnie interjected, remembering Twit, "what time is it?"

"Quarter after eleven. Well, a little past."

"Oh! I gotta go," she said hastily.

"No problem. I'll call you later or see you at home."

Lonnie carelessly chucked the receiver back into its cradle and hustled to Twit's office. She pushed open the door, but Twit wasn't there anymore. Could he actually have realized the time on his own? It seemed too much to hope for, but Lonnie just shrugged and headed back to her desk.

Halfway there, she heard a persistent beeping noise. It was strident and relentless, and it didn't take her long to realize it was the fax machine run amok. She darted over to it, and tried to figure out why it was beeping. There was no incoming fax. Then she noticed the tiny green paper out light flashing.

Quickly, she grabbed a hunk of plain white paper that was stacked next to the machine, and slid it into the appropriate compartment.

And she saw something. Under the chunk of paper she'd just grabbed, was a sheet with writing on it. She picked it up and skimmed it.
Oh, no!
It was Twit's confidential fax! It read:

The Office of John Pally, Private Investigator

CONFIDENTIAL

BT: I received your payment. I'll be out of state for a while, but we should be set. JP

Here are the names:

Ann Lee

Sandra Neemas

Courtney Adams

Mabel Wills

Lonnie immediately panicked. It was a gut reaction, but a fairly logical one, considering how many times Beauregard had asked her about the fax. Each time she'd said it hadn't arrived, and it had been sitting there the whole time. The date on top got cut off, so she wasn't sure the exact day it'd come in, but somehow it had gotten lost under the stack of white paper next to the fax machine. Now that she thought about it, it made sense how it could happen. Twit's fax line was always flooded with menus and fliers, so staff members often swung by to sift through the items that came in. That was why Lonnie had to straighten the table regularly. Somehow, this fax must have gotten lost in the shuffle.
Great, now what?
Twit was going to kill her!