Buch lesen: «That New York Minute»

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“You said you don’t do chicken soup. You didn’t say you don’t do kissing.”

Rachel’s mouth was no longer quivering … her lips were full and nicely shaped and more tempting than he could believe.

“I don’t do kissing, either,” she said firmly. “Not with you.”

Too bad Garrett couldn’t get the idea out of his head.

“I don’t think you should write off the possibility. I already like your legs.” It wasn’t her legs he was eyeing right now … he found the V of her yellow blouse. “Maybe I’d like the whole—”

“Don’t you dare say hog,” Rachel warned.

“Shebang,” he said, grinning.

Dear Reader,

Last year, I visited New York City. I’d forgotten how incredible it is, how its streets make you feel so alive. Yet despite being frenetic, it’s easy to get around, and friendly.

New York is the setting for some great movies—An Affair to Remember, Sleepless in Seattle, Two Weeks’ Notice. The city has also inspired many books … including That New York Minute.

In That New York Minute, Rachel Frye and Garrett Calder, rivals in a Manhattan advertising agency, are complete opposites—such fun for the writer, helping them find their way to each other!

But they have one thing in common: each needs someone who’ll stick with them no matter what.

My visit to NYC will stay in my heart forever … but not for the obvious reasons. You see, I’d planned to travel there with two of my best friends and fellow authors, Sandra Hyatt and Karina Bliss. We were particularly excited because Sandra was up for an award at the conference we would attend. But a volcanic ash cloud forced the cancellation of my friends’ flight; to our mutual devastation, they never made it to NYC.

A few weeks later, Sandra died suddenly of a brain bleed. It was a terrible shock to her family and friends, and a reminder to us all to make time for those we cherish (as, indeed, Sandra always did). I will never get to visit the Big Apple with Sandra, but she will always be in my heart.

You can read more about Sandra, and the Trust established to honor her memory, at www.sandrahyatt.com.

I hope you enjoy That New York Minute. To share your thoughts, please e-mail abby@abbygaines.com. To read an After-the-End scene, visit the For Readers page at www.abbygaines.com.

Sincerely,

Abby Gaines

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ABBY GAINES writes contemporary romances for the Mills & Boon^® Cherish^™ line, and Regency romances for the Love Inspired Books Love Inspired Historical line. Those might sound like two completely different genres, but Abby likes to say she writes “stories that leave you smiling”—wherever and whenever they are set. Her Mills & Boon Cherish novel The Groom Came Back won the 2010 Readers Crown Award, and her novella One in a Million won the 2011 Readers Crown. That New York Minute is Abby Gaines’s eighteenth book for Mills & Boon.

Abby loves cooking, reading, skiing and traveling … though not all at once! She lives with her husband and children—and a labradoodle and a cat—in a house with enough stairs to keep her semi-fit and a sun-filled office whose sea view provides inspiration for her writing. Visit her at www.abbygaines.com.

That New York
Minute

Abby Gaines

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To the memory of

Sandra Diane Hyde

(1965–2011)

As Sandra Hyatt, a wonderful writer of romance

As a wife and mother, the heart of her family

As a friend…irreplaceable

CHAPTER ONE

HE’S BREAKING UP WITH ME.

Rachel Frye took a swig of champagne. No longer the appropriate drink for the occasion, but she needed something to do with her hands. Something other than clasping them together on the table while she begged Piers not to end it.

Given they were sitting in one of Manhattan’s coolest bars, a little dignity was called for.

“Don’t get me wrong, you’re really attractive and smart. I enjoy spending time with you.” Piers leaned forward with the earnestness that Rachel found ninety-nine percent charming and one percent temptation to tell an off-color joke. “But, you know … Oyster?” He pushed the silver plate they were sharing across the highly varnished table for two.

“Thanks,” Rachel muttered, as her mind scrambled for compelling arguments as to why they shouldn’t break up just yet. She picked up one of the mollusks remaining from the dozen they’d ordered. She’d suggested Crush, a new champagne and oyster bar, for this date because she’d been considering sleeping with Piers tonight.

Also because it was around the corner from her Madison Avenue office, but still. When a woman suggests to her boyfriend of three months that they start their evening at a place serving well-known aphrodisiacs, the last thing she expects is to get dumped.

She’d unbuttoned two buttons of her blouse, for goodness’ sake!

“It’s just, I get the feeling we’re not on the same page,” Piers said.

Rachel realized too late that slurping an oyster from its shell wasn’t dignified. She swallowed hastily, the salty mass gliding past the lump in her throat.

Was this about sex? Piers had wanted to sleep with her on the first date, something Rachel would never contemplate. Nor the second. Nor the third. Was it unreasonable to want to believe they might have a future together before she jumped into bed?

“Actually, I think we have a lot in common,” she said, as she set the empty shell back on its bed of crushed ice. They were both hardworking, capable people. And Piers had the kind of family she’d like to have come from: his father was the second-generation owner of an upstate accounting firm, and his mother ruled the local bridge club with an iron, yet friendly, grip.

“You glanced at your watch when I walked in tonight,” he said. It sounded like an accusation.

“I … was checking the time,” she said uncertainly. She dabbed at a drop of oyster juice on her chin with her napkin.

“Rachel, I was two minutes late. It’s not a crime.”

“I never said it was. I never even thought it. That’s why you’re dumping me? Because I looked at my watch?” Ugh, she needed to rein in that shrillness.

She turned away from Piers’s concerned gaze to take a deep breath.

And encountered another gaze, this one altogether unsympathetic.

Garrett Calder, her fellow creative director at Key Bowen Crane, New York’s largest independent advertising agency, was watching her from his black leather bar stool.

Rachel had noticed him at the bar when she walked in, noticed the bottle of Dom Pérignon champagne—which would set him back at least two hundred bucks in a place like this—in front of him. She’d assumed he was waiting for someone, but he was still alone and she realized there was only one glass on the bar.

She knew the guy was a loner—small wonder, with that scowl on his face—but drinking a bottle of champagne by himself?

“—and it feels like you’re clinging,” Piers said, finishing a sentence she’d failed to hear.

She jerked back to face him. “I don’t cling!” She was loyal and committed, sure. But those were good things. “I admit, punctuality is important to me, but I never meant to make you feel, uh, pressured.”

What was wrong with him, that a glance at her watch could terrify him into thinking she wanted a pledge of undying love?

Which she didn’t. Not yet. She just wanted to be certain the relationship would last more than five minutes.

“We shouldn’t rush to break up at the first obstacle,” she said, “when there’s every chance we can get past it.”

Piers was an actuary, a man who calculated risk to the nth degree, and she liked the way his analytical approach spilled over into his personality. There was a lot she liked about him, frankly. His low-key sense of humor, his easy conversation. She was attracted to him physically, and they’d done some serious making out to prove it.

Though now, when she eyed his receding hairline, she saw it for what it was. Imminent baldness, not a sign of dependability.

Nothing wrong with bald. Hair was unarguably a nice-to-have, but it was nowhere near the top of the list.

“When I’m late,” Piers said, “I get the feeling that you worry I’m not going to show up. When we’re together, I feel like you’re always watching me, to make sure I’m still interested. That’s a lot of pressure, Rachel.”

She forced a laugh. “Piers, I’m a businesswoman with a high-level job and an excellent salary.” She felt as if she was interviewing for the role of Steady, Nonclinging Girlfriend. “I hardly think I’m that insecure.”

She didn’t assume a guy was a no-show after five minutes. It was more that she started to wonder just how reliable he was. She knew it was illogical, so she tried not to let Piers’s occasional tardiness color her opinion of him.

She reached across the table for his hand. A nice hand. Neatly squared fingernails. Pale, but that was okay. “I don’t think we should be too quick to end a good thing. How about,” she continued, lowering her voice to what she hoped was husky, “we go back to my place and … work this out.”

Wariness flickered in his eyes. Then his gaze dropped to those two buttons she’d undone—about time—and the hint of black bra she knew he’d see there.

Rachel wriggled her shoulders just a little.

He let out a sigh. “You are a very special woman, Rachel,” he admitted.

That was more like it! He’d simply had cold feet. Rachel pushed her chair back. It scraped loudly on the wooden floorboards. “Let’s go,” she said.

Piers stood. “Just so you know, I have an early start tomorrow. I won’t be able to stay the night.”

She paused as she reached for the jacket she’d slung over the back of her chair. “That’s okay, I have a meeting first thing, too.” The most important meeting of her life, in fact. But was now the time to be discussing work? “We can do dinner tomorrow, instead of breakfast.”

If her meeting went the way she anticipated, they’d be celebrating her inevitable promotion come dinnertime. She grinned at the thought, and her worries about her love life eased.

Piers helped her into her jacket, then pulled some bills from his wallet. When he frowned, Rachel knew he was calculating the seventeen-and-a-half percent tip he liked to leave.

Shouldn’t he be tossing money onto the table willy-nilly, in his haste to get out of here and into her bed?

Rachel turned away. And once again met Garrett Calder’s gaze. His scowl had gone. He raised his glass to her in a toast that was intended to be ironic, if the tiny, mocking curve to his lips was anything to go by.

What was that about? She didn’t know Garrett well—no one did—but he always managed to unsettle her, even when she was at her most together. Not because of the stupid nickname they gave him in the office: The Shark. That little piece of hyperbole didn’t bother her at all. What disturbed her was the blend of intelligence and aloofness in his eyes, the suggestion that he knew everything and he didn’t give a damn.

Now he looked as if he knew exactly what had just transpired between her and Piers. Knew they were headed to her bed.

She willed the sudden heat in her cheeks to subside. There was no way Garrett could have overheard their conversation. None.

At last, Piers wedged some neatly folded bills beneath the pepper grinder, and they could leave. The bar’s layout and teeming Thursday night crowd meant they had to walk past Garrett. As she drew level with him, she gave him a polite nod.

“Let it go, Rachel,” he said.

She stopped, unsure if she’d heard him correctly over the hubbub of reveling office workers. “Excuse me?”

Piers bumped into her, jolting her toward Garrett. Who leaned back against the bar, as if he didn’t want her in his space.

“Begging never works,” he said, his enunciation careful and unfortunately crystal clear to both her and, she was certain, Piers.

Her heart lurched in her chest. Mortification … and fear.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “You’re drunk.”

An exaggeration, maybe, but he sure wasn’t sober. The bottle next to him was empty.

“Who is this guy?” Piers asked.

“No one. A colleague.” She tugged the lapels of her jacket together, because Garrett’s eyes were definitely straying in that direction. Maybe, when she got her promotion, she could fire him.

The delightful fantasy didn’t last more than a moment. Garrett was too good at his job. Which was how he got away with acting like a jerk.

The bartender removed Garrett’s empty Dom Pérignon bottle and began peeling the foil from around the cork of a second bottle.

“Oh, look, Garrett, your date’s arrived,” Rachel said. “Let’s go, honey.”

Piers looked startled at the endearment, but he took her elbow.

“Just so you know,” Garrett said, “offering a guy sex so he won’t break up with you smacks of desperation.”

The bartender paused in his loosening of the wire cage around the champagne cork and looked Rachel up and down. Was it her imagination, or did he register the black bra and give her a knowing look? Piers let go of her.

“Whatever’s driving you to drink alone, Garrett—” her voice shook “—keep it to yourself.” That was the way he usually operated. Could he have picked a worse time to attempt something resembling a conversation?

“Sleep with him, by all means,” Garrett said, with a generous, alcohol-fueled sweep of his arm toward Piers. “Though, personally, I think you could get a guy with more hair.”

Piers’s hand went protectively to his head.

“But whatever you do, do it on your terms,” Garrett said. “Not his.”

“Uh, Rachel, I’m going to take a rain check,” Piers said. “My early meeting …” He kissed her cheek—were his lips always that dry?—and was gone.

“Wait!” she called.

Too late.

The champagne cork popped; the barman poured the first gush of frothing liquid into Garrett’s glass.

Garrett picked up the glass and raised it, once again, to Rachel. “You’ll thank me in the morning.”

CHAPTER TWO

GRATITUDE WAS NOT RACHEL’S primary sentiment as she waited for the elevator in the Key Bowen Crane building lobby at seven o’clock the next morning.

Exhaustion and frustration, on the other hand, were flourishing.

She’d lost a perfectly good boyfriend—okay, maybe not perfect, but who was?—thanks to Garrett. After the way Piers had almost sprinted out of the bar, she didn’t believe for a moment that he was only “taking a rain check.” When she’d phoned him later, he hadn’t picked up.

She and Piers could have made it work, dammit, if not for Garrett’s stupid accusation that she was using sex to stop Piers from dumping her.

Kind of hard to get past that. Unfortunately, it had taken Rachel a few hours of tossing and turning to conclude the relationship was beyond salvage.

As she yawned, a ding signaled the arrival of an elevator. It would take at least another twenty seconds before the doors opened. This building was one of the earliest Manhattan skyscrapers and it still had the original elevator cars. Gorgeous … so long as you weren’t in a hurry.

The elevator doors wheezed open, and Rachel stepped into the wood-paneled interior. She pressed for the fifty-sixth floor, hit the door-close button and stepped back to enjoy the rare experience of having the space to herself.

Only to have a laptop bag wedged unceremoniously between the almost-closed doors, forcing them to rumble open again.

To her horror, Garrett Calder followed the bag into the elevator.

“You!” she blurted.

A grunt and a jerk of Garrett’s chin acknowledged her as he set his laptop on the floor. He jabbed the button to close the doors.

Charming. Rachel resigned herself to a long ascent. Not that she wanted social chitchat with Garrett, not after last night. She stared straight ahead, focusing vaguely on the safety certificate which, from numerous rides spent avoiding eye contact with other New Yorkers, she knew expired in November.

Garrett leaned against the wall to her left, facing Rachel. No idea of elevator etiquette. Mind you, most of her female colleagues would be delighted to have such an excellent view of him. No question he was good-looking, if you liked your men tall, dark and brooding. And with a thick head of hair, damn him.

She’d noticed before that he took up more than his fair share of space. How did he do that? He was tall, but there was no excess bulk to him. Nor could Rachel attribute it to his larger-than-life personality—last night was the chattiest she’d ever seen him. Unfortunately.

The recollection had her shifting in her high heels. She realized he hadn’t selected a floor destination, and stretched a hand toward the panel. “Fifty-four?” That was the floor they both worked on.

He winced and pressed his fingers to his right temple. “Could you please stop shouting?”

His deep voice held a faint croak, suggesting he might actually have finished that second bottle of bubbly. There was no sign of mockery in his dark eyes. In which case … maybe he’d forgotten their conversation. Maybe it was lost in the depths of his hopefully agonizing hangover. She was torn between relief at the thought, and annoyance that he could destroy her relationship without remembering a thing about it.

“Which floor?” she asked, louder.

His eyes, dark as coal, narrowed. “Same as you.”

Rachel’s hand dropped. “You’re going to fifty-six?” To the partners’ floor?

Garrett ignored her.

She registered that he was wearing a tie—charcoal gray, an elegant contrast with his dark shirt and perfectly cut black suit. Something shifted, as if the elevator had jolted in its slow, straight course.

No way. She knew exactly how this morning was supposed to pan out. She would attend the partners’ breakfast along with the other candidate, schmoozing her heart out with the Key Bowen Crane partners. At the end of breakfast, she would be named partner designate, poised to cement her place in Madison Avenue’s largest independent ad agency. The other candidate would also be named partner designate, though only one of them could ultimately win the partnership, along with the coveted role of chief creative officer.

Rachel knew it would be her. Just yesterday morning, Jonathan Key, chairman of KBC, had said with a no-need-to-worry wink that he was sure she could guess who her competition was.

It wasn’t—couldn’t be—Garrett Calder. He’d been at KBC for mere months, and was renowned for moving on the minute he got bored. Not partner material.

Surely there weren’t two other candidates? The walls of the elevator seemed to close in. Rachel sucked in a sharp breath—better—and checked the illuminated number above the door. Tenth floor. Hurry up.

“So, Garrett, when were you invited to the breakfast?” she asked, trying to sound relaxed.

A glint in his eyes suggested she’d fallen somewhere short of the mark. Landed somewhere right around tense. “A couple of weeks ago. I told Tony I wasn’t interested, but last night I decided I might as well come along.”

Mention of last night made her pause. But this was too important not to pursue.

“What, uh, changed your mind?”

“You did.” That glint turned diabolical. Telling her that, hangover or no, he remembered every word.

“I suspect that second bottle of champagne dulled your memory,” Rachel said briskly, trying not to blush. “I did not encourage you to attend this meeting.”

“‘Do it on your own terms,’” he quoted.

She racked her memory for when she would have said something so self-absorbed. “You said that.”

“Did I? Damn, I’m good.”

Rachel gritted her teeth. “The whole idea of partnership is working with others—it’s not about your own terms.”

He didn’t reply, but one dark eyebrow rose lazily.

Garrett was lazy. He arrived around nine most mornings, when other people had been there since seven-thirty. Outrageous that he should think he could turn up to the partners’ breakfast on a drunken whim, and snap up the job she’d been working toward for so long.

“Has your boyfriend cashed in that rain check yet?” he asked.

She clamped her lips together. Then, unable to resist, muttered, “What made you think we were talking about … what you said?” Not that she was about to tell him he was right.

“Been there, done that,” Garrett said. “By which I mean, I’ve been the offeree before. I’ve never begged someone to stay, but I recognize the body language.” He shook his head, all phony sympathy. “Like I told you, begging doesn’t work.”

Rachel’s eyes smarted. She blinked hard, twice. “Here’s some advice right back at you. What happens in the bar stays in the bar.” Switching gears, she said crisply, “So, Garrett, you’ve been at KBC, what, six months?” But she was well aware it was longer than that that she’d been subjected to his suspiciously bland expression whenever others acclaimed her work.

“Eleven,” he said wearily, as if he was already bored with the topic. Or maybe a three-syllable word was too much effort this morning.

“That’s got to be a record for you. Come on, Garrett, you don’t want to be a partner.” He was renowned for his refusal to settle in one firm.

Her insistence had a shrill edge, and he winced. “If I agree I don’t want to be a partner, will you shut up?”

As if he would be so agreeable. He hadn’t earned his nickname—The Shark—by backing down from a fight. No, that moniker was born of his reputed killer instinct for winning pitches. It had become one of those self-fulfilling prophecies—Rachel suspected he had an advantage over rivals intimidated by being up against The Shark.

Not today. She wasn’t about to be intimidated.

He probably made the name up himself. Which was good marketing, she’d admit. Perhaps she should start calling herself … The Terrier.

Didn’t have quite the same ring to it.

A glance at the numbers above the elevator door revealed they were at the twenty-fourth floor.

“I guess Tony had his reasons for inviting you to attend this morning,” she said, “but, Garrett, you won’t win. Why put yourself through that?” Perhaps she could convince him to get out on fifty-four.

He didn’t say anything. Tension flattened his lips and he obviously had a pounding headache. Drawing his dark eyebrows together in that thunderous way wouldn’t help the pain. He must realize, in his heart, that she was right. He was an outsider, and everyone knew that outsiders seldom won. Rachel’s shoulders relaxed. She could almost feel sorry for him.

Maybe that’s why he was drinking alone last night. Out of a sense of inadequacy.

She ignored the fact that the word didn’t gel with anything about him.

“It’s not about you,” she assured him. “I’ve been at KBC eight years. Around here that counts for something.”

His expression lightened, as if he’d heard her entirely reasonable explanation and discounted it. Rachel shifted uneasily as he scanned her, top to toe, lightning fast.

“You must have joined when you were twelve.” His tone was chatty.

Garrett Calder didn’t make idle conversation.

“I was eighteen,” she said warily. “I started in the mail room.”

“She Worked Her Way to the Top,” he intoned.

“You bet I did.” Her response was clipped—he didn’t get to mock her achievement.

“So, it’s your eight years versus my eight gold CLIO awards,” he mused, sounding a whole lot more cheerful. “Think they might count for something?”

Eight gold CLIOs! It was practically obscene, how successful he’d been in the advertising industry’s equivalent of the Oscars. But those awards came while he was working at five different companies. And he’s made more enemies than friends. Making partner was about loyalty and long term. Rachel was about loyalty and long term.

She dismissed his awards with a pff. “Style over substance.”

The Shark bared his teeth. It might have been a smile. Then again, he might have been anticipating dragging her beneath the surface and chomping on her drowned body.

Rachel folded her arms across her chest, realized she looked defensive and dropped her hands to her sides. Surely we must be nearly—nope, only the thirty-sixth floor.

“I have an excellent track record, and that’s how I’ll get the partnership,” she assured him.

“Right,” he said encouragingly.

He clearly meant Wrong.

“Do you know something?” she demanded.

He closed his eyes. “You’re shouting again. And I’m having a bad week. Bad enough that I might take off this stupid tie and gag you with it.”

He was a jerk. Jerks didn’t make partner at KBC. It was different at some other agencies, but not here.

He’s a jerk with eight gold CLIOs.

She shouldn’t bother explaining, but the urge to convince him he was wasting his time was overwhelming. “It’s not just the eight years. I’ve put in more hours than anyone, I’ve won more pitches …”

“You’ve won a bunch of clients too scared to do anything interesting,” he said. “Your work is tame.”

Rachel clenched her jaw to hold back her outrage. Tame! She prided herself on her ability to take clients beyond their expectations.

“Do you want to know what your weakness is?” Garrett asked.

“No.”

“It’s those eight years,” he said. “You’re relying on past experience, but everything can change in a heartbeat around here.” He folded his arms, and on him it didn’t look defensive. “In a New York minute, you could say.”

She’d never liked the song “New York Minute,” with its suggestion that everything—business, family, life—could be turned on its head any moment.

“Your weakness is that you don’t think on your feet,” Garrett said. “Reacting to those moments of insight, freeing yourself from reliance on what others have told you, is what drives creative power.”

As if she would trust the impulse of a moment over a carefully crafted solution. Her hands fisted at her sides. “You don’t get to waltz in here with your Dom Pérignon hangover and your eight CLIOs and your custom-made suits and your fancy cologne—”

“I don’t wear cologne.” He spread his hands, palm out, as if declaring himself innocent of some heinous crime.

Wow, The Shark sure knew how to zero in on the main issue.

“Uh-huh. So you just happened to sleep on a bed of—” she sniffed “—pine needles and citrus peel.”

Ever so slowly, one corner of his mouth kicked up.

The effect was more potent than any full-throated laugh. It was that stupid Shark thing, Rachel thought crossly. It gave him an aura of power.

“Whatever it is you’re smelling, Rach, it’s all me,” he said. “Cologne is for sissies.”

No way a man could smell this good without help. “Rachel,” she corrected. “Strange, I don’t remember that sissies line from your award-winning Calvin Klein Fragrance campaign.”

“That was last year. I believed in cologne last year.”

Typical of his here today, gone tomorrow style. “Whereas I prefer to take a long-term, truth-based approach,” she said. Which did not mean she was tame.

Garrett gave her a pained look through half-closed eyes. “Integrity in advertising,” he said. “Interesting concept. But not, I fear, a partnership-winning one.”

Floor fifty-one. Nearly there, thank goodness.

“Who else do you think will be here this morning?” Garrett asked abruptly.

No thinking required. “Just Clive.”

“That’s what I figured.”

Clive Barnes was the only other executive creative director, the same level as Rachel and Garrett. His seniority meant he had to be on the partnership shortlist. But…

“Clive’s a nice guy,” Rachel said.

“You know what they say about nice guys.” Garrett’s white teeth flashed.

Out of loyalty to Clive, who’d been at KBC almost as long as she had, she sent him a disapproving look. But she didn’t consider Clive a threat, either.

The elevator dinged to indicate they’d reached their destination. Finally. She couldn’t wait to get out of here and spend a few minutes alone, restoring the calm confidence she would need during breakfast. She stepped toward the doors, but they didn’t open.

Garrett pressed the open button. Nothing happened.

“Come on,” Rachel muttered.

Garrett was already stabbing at the intercom. It rang three times—prompting more wincing from the hungover Shark—before an operator answered.

“We’ll have you out of there in a jiffy, sir,” the woman chirped, once she ascertained how many people were in the elevator and that no one needed medical treatment. “Well, when I say a jiffy … hmmm … okay, we have a software glitch, but don’t you folks worry about a thing!” She hung up.

Rachel groaned.

“Just go with the flow,” Garrett advised her. “Live in the moment.”

She turned her nerves on him. “I don’t know why you bothered to come in when you’re so, ahem—” sarcastic, fake throat-clearing “—unwell. Get real, Garrett, and get out of here. You don’t have a serious shot at this partnership.”

He eyed her for a long, silent moment. “You remind me of someone,” he said. “Someone I don’t like.”

Ow. That definitely qualified as a shark-nip. One she deserved, if she was honest—she shouldn’t have let him rile her.

But you should never show weakness to a shark.

“Your opinion won’t matter when I get the partnership,” she said. “I’ll be your boss.”

His hands slid into his pockets and he leaned back against the wall. Instead of being scared off by her splashing about, she had the distinct impression The Shark was beginning to circle.

“Protesting too much, methinks,” he said.

He couldn’t really believe he would beat her, could he?