Read Online Waiting for Cary Grant by Mary Matthews - Free Book Online

threatening to knock her over. The determined clerk, walking with his chin set against his chest, braved the wind, and continued on past their rooms, keys in hand, oblivious to their screams to turn around.
    He triumphantly turned the master key to an unfamiliar suite. Stephanie and Harlan looked at each other. The clerk’s inebriated cheeks flushed red and stared expectantly at Harlan for a tip. In response, Harlan pulled out his empty bathrobe pockets. The clerk’s eyes laughed as he shut the door.
    Infuriated, Stephanie drew her robe around her and plopped down on one side of the bed. Harlan did the same. They looked up at the ceiling. Its mirror revealed their irritated faces.
    Candles flickered on a low table at the foot of the bed. A silky white comforter enveloped their bodies with its soft feathery contours. A fireplace raged from a stone setting. And a champagne bottle lay snug in its golden ice bucket.
    Harlan leapt up from the bed, uncorked the bottle, and poured two glasses.
    “This is nice. To calm my woman down.” He clinked his glass against hers.
    “Whoever she may be. I’ll drink to that. I guess being in the honeymoon suite with you isn’t the worst thing that could happen.”
    “Thank you very much.”
    “What would people think Harlan? The two of us? Together?”
    “Stephanie, no one would ever think of the two of us. Except the two of us.”
    “I’m not agreeing to this room,” she said.
    “Excuse me. Did I ask you to agree? I think you’re giving me answers to questions I’m not asking.” Harlan walked to the door.
    “How dare you? I’ll walk out,” Stephanie said. The Southern French wind banged against the door like a jealous lover left alone in the night.
    You put people in a prison and they act like prisoners. You put people in a mental hospital and they act like mental patients. You put two opposing lawyers in a honeymoon suite and they act like opposing lawyers.
    Not really. HA.

Chapter Nineteen
    M elvin Seams struggled with the styrofoam covering on his box of Advil. His head throbbed.
    “Why hadn’t that bartender cut him off? Bartenders should be more responsible. He thought as he punctured the styrofoam with a pen. Now, if only he could deal with the ridiculous cotton filling, he could get a pill out and maybe find some relief.
    As he put the bottle down, his hand knocked over his coffee. “Fuck!” He yelled. No one else was there to hear him. He looked at the liquid spill across Stephanie St. Claire’s desk top. It wasn’t her desk anyway. It was his. And he wasn’t that bitch’s servant. Who the hell did she think she was? What an arrogant female.
    He chuckled at thought of her in France. In a small village, at a deposition with that arrogant creep Harlan Michaels, an urbane woman like Stephanie St. Claire must be miserable. How satisfying.
    He went through her files. The bitch was actually doing a good job. Without him. She’d taken ten cases to arbitration. She won all ten. The bitch. How dare she be so aloof, so smart, and so cute.
    He would show her. He’d make her try the multipiece wheel case against Harlan Michaels. Then she would see how smart she was. That would show her. She would be begging for help then. And maybe he would help her. If she begged really sweetly.
    In the meantime, he’d make things even more perplexing and difficult for her. And make things even easier for himself. In one fell swoop, he reassigned twenty-five cases of Stephanie’s. He chuckled. As soon as she came back from the hellacious tour of Europe with Harlan Michaels, she would start to worry that she wasn’t really profitable. He chuckled again. It was only a matter of time. And Stephanie St. Claire would be on her knees, in front of him, begging for help.
    “Hi Big Guy.”
    Melvin looked up and savored the sight of her in her black, sweat drenched leotard outfit smiling at him. Now, this was his idea of an associate attorney. Candy Wilcox, tall, blonde and eager to please.