The Red Choo Diaries

But today there was no joy on Wall Street, because Mighty Jamie had struck out. Okay, so she was being overly dramatic, but the truth was that she’d been somewhat confident when bragging about her ability to bag Newhouse for the firm. Modesty never got you anything, but a seat at the back of the room.

The elevator doors slid open with a discreet whoosh, and Jamie walked the sensible gray carpet, down cubicle alley to Walter’s office. Her eyes stayed glued ahead, the better to ignore the knowing looks shooting in her direction.

“McNamara, how did it go?”

Jamie stopped and turned to face a cheerful intern, Sanji Dykstra. Sanji was both genuine and happy, a breed apart from the usual blood-thirsty crop of Ivy Leaguers betting their fortunes at a brokerage house.

His round, coffee-colored face and brown, guileless eyes would doom him to failure in the industry, but he had less than eighteen months to graduation, and she didn’t have the heart to crush his dreams.

Jamie shot Sanji a thumbs-up. “I’ve got him just where I want him,” she answered, and continued the long, solitary walk.

Then another head popped up from the alley. A blond, coiffed one, with hair way more manageable than the traditional McNamara do.

“What happened to your hose, Jamie?” asked Lindsey Feldenberg, another intern, not quite as guileless as Sanji.

“A cat jumped on my leg. Very weird. Probably a reaction from some chemical fumes in the area. Made it freak. Nasty business. I had to ditch the hose. Torn to bits,” she ended.

“I don’t see any claw marks,” Lindsey said, blinking her big, blue eyes, but her voice was ice cold. “Nothing but lily-white skin.”

Lindsey didn’t like Jamie, and she’d made it very clear from the first day. Jamie was the competition and Lindsey thought she could outperform her. Lindsey had even told her that while calmly sipping from her coffee.

As an intern? Ha. When pigs fly.

Jamie had kept her mouth shut, but Lindsey’s constant innuendo’s were starting to draw blood.

“My skin is very thick. Claws don’t leave marks.”

Lindsey looked like she might argue, but then realized the uselessness of that action, and sat down with a slightly muffled, “Bullshit.”

Jamie smiled sweetly. “Gesundheit.”

Walter’s office loomed ahead like the dark basement in a horror film. She considered running back to her desk for the spare set of hose she kept in the bottom drawer, or possibly a sharp pencil to stab in her eye, but she’d gotten this far, and Lindsey, the eagled-eyed wonder would make a big to-do, and Walter really didn’t care if she walked around in a bathrobe as long as she brought in the deals.

Helen, Walter’s secretary, guarded the heavy paneled doors with a Fort Knox-like zeal. She was five years from retirement, and had been Walter’s secretary since he started. With her tight gray curls and trembling mouth, she could have worked in a bakeshop, or been someone’s kindly grandmother, but when crossed, Helen grew long, wicked fangs and could outglare even the nastiest nasty.

Which was why Jamie loved her.

“Afternoon, Helen. He asked for me to stop by when I got back.”

“Yes, dear. He’s on the phone with the auditors. Be careful. He’s in a particularly foul mood today.”

Damn, damn, double damn. “You told him the meeting got cancelled?” asked Jamie.

Helen nodded. “Hit him right after lunch with the bad news, just like you asked.”

“Thanks for helping,” Jamie answered, then took a deep breath, preparing to wrestle the lion in his den. After a quick run-through of all possible excuses, she opened the door, entering the world of high-luxe.

The vice presidential offices at Bond-Worthington were old-school. Mahogany paneling, the requisite trophy wall littered with degrees, and padded leather chairs that both rocked and rolled. A VP at B-W wouldn’t be caught dead with an art print or a family photo, or any bit of evidence to indicate you didn’t eat, breath, sleep and ruminate solely for the firm. There were rules on Wall Street, and Jamie had learned early on to follow them to the tenth decimal place.

“Afternoon, Walter,” she said, shooting for cheerful and confident. She seated herself in front of his desk with one tiny rock of her chair to convey the necessary arrogance.

Walter harrumphed. You could judge his emotional well-being by the way he cleared his throat. Low and guttural was bad. Clenched teeth and a tick meant the coast was clear. Today’s forecast was afternoon storms. He peered out over silver-framed rims, just as a vice president of Financial Opportunities should.

“You let me down, McNamara. Failed me. I needed you to go out and hit a long ball, instead you stood at the plate while Newhouse threw you three breaking balls. Some other execs, you might have been able to stare them down, but Newhouse is one tough cookie.”

“I know, Walter. I’m working to get on his calendar again.”

“But when, McNamara? When?” He got up and stood at the window, pointing to the view of the Statue of Liberty. “See that? That’s New York. Priciest real estate in the continental U.S. And do you know how we can afford a view like this? Performance, performance, performance. Our team is the best, Jamie. We deliver every time we step up to the plate. Every time. You’re at the plate. You need to deliver.”

Jamie cleared her throat, low and guttural. “Got it, boss. The power outage—”

“Admit it. You got caught with your pants down.”

She jerked forward, her conscience working overtime. How could he possibly…Then she relaxed. Of course he didn’t know that it wasn’t her fine Italian wool pants that had been down, exposing the tightest butt her hands had ever explored.

Instinctively, her hips rolled forward.

No, no, no.

“We must prepare for all contingencies,” Walter continued. “Do you know how many times the power has gone down in the city? Two point three annually since 1970. Two contributing factors. Weather and construction. Look at that April sky! Not a cloud in it, but hear those jackhammers pounding away?”

Jamie nodded, mainly to humor him. On the thirty-eighth floor, they heard nothing but the occasional whistling of the wind. It wasn’t time for semantics.

“Construction. Why do you think we keep a backup generator in this building? Our clients count on us; they expect us to be here day in, day out. 24/7. At Bond-Worthington, we anticipate a market movement before it happens. Before it happens.”

“Yes, sir. I understand, sir.” Jamie swallowed and continued to nod, trying to listen, needing to listen, but instead little scraps of memory played in her head.

Andrew.

There was such uncontrolled heat, such—wickedness in their lovemaking. She felt a giggle rise in her throat. It was like a soap opera or something. Jamie had neat, orderly sex, not wild monkey sex.

Primly she crossed her legs tighter.

But that didn’t stop the tingles.

“Don’t let it happen again, McNamara.”

Guilty as charged.

Jamie looked up and met Walter’s paternal gaze. She was his protégée, his pet, and a morning mambo in a Hummer wasn’t going to do anything to advance her career. Hell, at thirty-two, she was well past the optimal dating age, well past the morning mambo age, too. No, her path was well-defined and well-trod. She wouldn’t disappoint. She placed her feet firmly on the floor and stood up, ramrod straight.

“It’s not going to happen again, sir.”

He gave one curt nod. “Knock him dead, McNamara.”

And with that, Jamie walked out, leaving all the tingles behind her.

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