The Elevator. Angela Hunt
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Gina’s knees: forty-three thousand dollars for a diamond bracelet. Forty-three thousand that must have been siphoned off the company books. Forty-three thousand—money that should be part of her children’s inheritance—has been wasted on baubles for some tart’s wrist.
How much of his children’s future has Sonny squandered?
A flash of grief rips through her, one of many that has seared her heart in the last twenty-four hours. How could her husband turn his back on the wife who’s loved him faithfully for more than two decades? How could he neglect his precious children? Matthew is supposed to take over the business in a few years, but at the rate Sonny is spending, how much of the business will remain? These are lean days for insurance companies, especially in Florida. The bad weather of the past has devastated the industry.
The investigator included a photograph of Sonny walking down Ashley Street with the woman on his arm, her head brushing his shoulder. Sonny’s face, visible at an angle, is marked by an expression of extraordinary tenderness. The object of his inappropriate attention is not facing the camera, but the photo reveals a tall, lean creature with a striking sense of style, a floppy hat, and a youthful body that has not borne three children and invested its best years in Sonny’s dreams.
Gina moves to the bed, plucks the envelope from her husband’s pillow and stares out the window while she taps the package against her fingertips. A maelstrom is swirling in the Gulf beyond; a killer storm. Before the sun rises tomorrow, its merciless winds and rain will sweep over Tampa and destroy anything that hasn’t been properly secured.
Her husband’s office is in the Lark Tower, Tampa’s oldest skyscraper. His suite is on the uppermost floor, where the intense wind and rain will have unfettered freedom to do their worst. Downtown Tampa is under an evacuation order, but everyone knows Sonny Rossman is a stubborn workaholic.
What might happen if he decides to remain in his office as the hurricane blows in?
CHAPTER 2
Michelle returns the laptop to her dresser, then curls back under the covers to think. So—Marshall Owens is a plant, a test of her company’s legitimacy. Owens has probably noticed the ads she places in the employment section of every Sunday newspaper, ads that suggest her expert counselors will market clients through exclusive insider channels and help applicants obtain interviews with top executives at major firms.
She pounds her pillow, then slides her hand under her cheek. Her agency won’t be the first vetted by an ambitious reporter. She’s read articles that condemn companies like hers, using words like fraudulent and scam. They promise to network and investigate for you, the typical exposé reports, and charge thousands of dollars for services you can perform yourself using free materials and the Internet.
If finding an executive position is so easy, why does she have so many clients? So what if on occasion she does little more than polish a CEO’s résumé? Most administrators haven’t evaluated their biographical materials in years. They wouldn’t begin to know how to portray their skills in the light of an ever-changing employment market. They care only about the bottom line: salary and benefits. They want a job that offers a corner office, a savvy staff and a generous paycheck, but they don’t want to do the legwork it takes to land such a position.
That’s why they come to Tilson Corporate Careers. Michelle and her associates spend hours, if necessary, prying important details from clients and taking copious notes about the applicant’s past employment, skills and responsibilities. They ask for address books, references from previous employers, even Christmas-card lists. Somewhere amid all that paperwork, Michelle and her staff usually find the opportunity that will result in a new position.
She is trying to think of the best way to approach the Tribune reporter when Roy Orbison begins to warble “Pretty Woman” from the depths of her purse. She groans, then reaches for the leather bag on the floor.
A digital photo of Lauren Cameron, her workout partner and best friend, lights the cover of her cell phone. “Hello?”
“Good morning!” Lauren’s voice, as bright and vibrant as a new whistle, hurts Michelle’s ears. “Did I wake you?”
Michelle nestles the phone between her shoulder and chin. “I’ve been up a while.”
“I thought you might be. I’ve been watching the Weather Channel since five. But hey, I wanted to be sure you didn’t forget our date tomorrow. You and me at Lord & Taylor, right? I’ll meet you outside the bridal salon at one.”
Michelle resists the urge to groan. In a weak moment she promised to serve as maid of honor at Lauren’s second wedding, but the thought of standing alongside the bride’s young nieces now seems ridiculous. “Are you sure about this? Your sister’s oldest daughter might be hurt if you don’t ask her to be your maid of honor.”
Lauren makes a small pffing sound. “She’s a child. You’re my best friend.”
“She’s sixteen, I’m thirty-three. The thought of standing with all those little girls and holding a nosegay—”
“I won’t ask you to wear a prom dress. We’ll pick out something sophisticated and you’ll look wonderful.”
Lauren’s lying, of course, the way one girlfriend will always fib when she wants to neutralize the other’s feelings. She’ll probably dress her attendants in yellow, a color that will make the little girls glow like sunbeams while it tints Michelle with shades of cirrhosis. At the wedding, Lauren’s relatives will elbow each other and someone will whisper that the really tall attendant is Michelle Tilson, and yes, the program’s correct. She’s really a maid of honor, because the poor woman has never been able to snag a husband.
Michelle rests her head on her hand as Lauren chatters about her preparations. So much to do, because even in cosmopolitan Tampa, marriage is a sacred estate and must be celebrated with every appropriate ritual. Prevailing attitudes assume that any woman who’s over thirty and still single must be a little odd, while a woman who’s over thirty, single and not looking to be married—well, that scenario is just plain unnatural.
Funny how Michelle never feels like a spinster in the office or at a club. At Lauren’s church, though, with a half-dozen preteens clustered around her elbows, she’ll feel like somebody’s withered maiden aunt.
“…I’m thinking yellow chrysanthemums will be perfect for November. You agree?”
The direct question hits Michelle like a thump between the eyes. “Mums? You don’t mean those plate-size things, do you?”
“You’re exaggerating, as always. But yes, I want this wedding to be bright and colorful. I want to hold the reception outdoors and I thought big yellow mums would be gorgeous against the deep shade of those oaks on the property.”
Michelle rolls onto her back and studies the ceiling. “I don’t know if you should count on those old oaks. We do have a hurricane headed our way.”
Lauren pffffs again. “It’s going to blow right by us. They always do.”
“This one might not. Parker’s really concerned. He’s up in his office now, checking on—”
“They said Charley was going to hit us, but that one turned at the last minute. Besides, my neighbor says the Native Americans who used to live here performed ritual sacrifices or something and swore no major storm would ever hit this area. So far, they’ve been right.”
Michelle can’t stop a wry smile. “Well, if you promise to sacrifice a chicken—”
“The weather wouldn’t dare interfere with my plans. So don’t forget—tomorrow, one o’clock, Lord & Taylor. We’re going to find my maid of honor something scrumptious to wear and soon you can ask me to return the favor.”
A sudden surge of adrenaline sparks Michelle’s blood. “Why do you say that? Did Parker say something the other night?”
“Not to me, he didn’t. But I’m sure he’s getting ready to