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Authors: Valerie Frankel
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couldn’t quickly conjure a still picture of herself to send.
But her job was to send these images of Daphne. She’d been paid, and her professionalism was above reproach.
Emma closed her eyes and visualized making the transfer. A ghostlike wave would travel from her cranium and into William Dearborn’s. His green eyes, shiny like stones in a brook, would react to the transmission, a cocky grin erupting on his face, stretching his sideburns, dimpling his cheeks. The same cheeks she had held in her hands when they kissed.
Her eyes snapped open.
This would not do. Emma said aloud, “Keep focused.” And, “Remember what’s at stake.” And, “It’s just a job.”
She made, “It’s just a job” her mantra for the remainder of the afternoon. The phrase came out of her mouth with ease.
But she couldn’t get Dearborn out of her head.
Chapter 9
“N ame?”
“Emma Hutch.”
The officious-yet-cute woman with the loose brown bun and tweed mini-skirt checked her clipboard. She flipped pages on it. She tapped it with her pen. Emma and Victor were standing outside of Haiku on the coldest night of the year thus far. “I see the name. You’re Emma Hutch?” Tweedy asked, doubtful.
“You bet I am!” said Emma.
“I don’t think so,” replied Tweedy.
“Check for Victor Armour,” said Victor.
“Are you together?” asked the gatekeeper.
He smiled slyly. “Why do you want to know?” Tweedy gave him a flirtatious smile. “I have nothing to do with that person,” he said.
She checked her list. “No Victor Armour. Sorry.”
The crush of people behind them forced Victor and Emma to the side. They watched as Ms. Tweedy approved and
rejected the aspiring guests one-by-one, occasionally reminding the crowd, “This party is invite only!”
Victor whispered, “Your costume is presenting a problem. It’s too good. Better call Daphne.”
“But she can’t be seen with us,” said Emma, watching a cluster of gawking tourists, a passel of local press, a klatch of slutty women, and a pride of hero-worshipful tech geeks, all of them leaning across the velvet rope, desperate to pass through the black-lacquer doors of Haiku.
Emma said, “You look dashing tonight, Victor.” He really did, in a slim-legged gray suit and blue tie, hair tousled with precision. “I’m proud to have you for my date.”
“You look good too,” said Victor. “If I were a woman, I’d fuck you.” He looked down the length of her, stopping at her fly. “You should have let me pack your panties, though.”
She’d drawn the line there. Emma was more than willing to strap down her breasts, glue on an itchy fake beard, mustache, sideburns, and man wig. She liked her wool suit and the wingtips. But she steadfastly refused to put a stuffed sock in her underwear. She said, “Say it slid down my pant leg and landed on the floor.”
“That would be awkward,” said Victor. “I can’t believe I’m going to meet William Dearborn! You have to call
Daphne.”
Emma dialed Daphne’s cell.
Within three minutes, the client sneaked them in a fire exit, Tweedy none the wiser.
The writing was on the wall as they entered the club, but Emma had no idea what it said. She didn’t read Japanese.
Daphne snapped her fingers. Both Victor and Emma stopped admiring the club’s murals of cherry blossoms and mount Fuji and gave their attention to the client. “William is in the main room, down the hallway there.” She pointed a finger to the left. “In half an hour, there’ll be a demonstration of the software. After that, William will be working the room.
You can hit him then. Excellent disguise, by the way. You are utterly forgettable as a man.”
“Too short,” said Emma, feeling tiny without her heels.
“This is the last time we’ll talk tonight. I don’t want William to see us together, even in your disguise,” said Daphne, who was exquisitely put together in a red halter dress with gold beading. “Did you like the
But her job was to send these images of Daphne. She’d been paid, and her professionalism was above reproach.
Emma closed her eyes and visualized making the transfer. A ghostlike wave would travel from her cranium and into William Dearborn’s. His green eyes, shiny like stones in a brook, would react to the transmission, a cocky grin erupting on his face, stretching his sideburns, dimpling his cheeks. The same cheeks she had held in her hands when they kissed.
Her eyes snapped open.
This would not do. Emma said aloud, “Keep focused.” And, “Remember what’s at stake.” And, “It’s just a job.”
She made, “It’s just a job” her mantra for the remainder of the afternoon. The phrase came out of her mouth with ease.
But she couldn’t get Dearborn out of her head.
Chapter 9
“N ame?”
“Emma Hutch.”
The officious-yet-cute woman with the loose brown bun and tweed mini-skirt checked her clipboard. She flipped pages on it. She tapped it with her pen. Emma and Victor were standing outside of Haiku on the coldest night of the year thus far. “I see the name. You’re Emma Hutch?” Tweedy asked, doubtful.
“You bet I am!” said Emma.
“I don’t think so,” replied Tweedy.
“Check for Victor Armour,” said Victor.
“Are you together?” asked the gatekeeper.
He smiled slyly. “Why do you want to know?” Tweedy gave him a flirtatious smile. “I have nothing to do with that person,” he said.
She checked her list. “No Victor Armour. Sorry.”
The crush of people behind them forced Victor and Emma to the side. They watched as Ms. Tweedy approved and
rejected the aspiring guests one-by-one, occasionally reminding the crowd, “This party is invite only!”
Victor whispered, “Your costume is presenting a problem. It’s too good. Better call Daphne.”
“But she can’t be seen with us,” said Emma, watching a cluster of gawking tourists, a passel of local press, a klatch of slutty women, and a pride of hero-worshipful tech geeks, all of them leaning across the velvet rope, desperate to pass through the black-lacquer doors of Haiku.
Emma said, “You look dashing tonight, Victor.” He really did, in a slim-legged gray suit and blue tie, hair tousled with precision. “I’m proud to have you for my date.”
“You look good too,” said Victor. “If I were a woman, I’d fuck you.” He looked down the length of her, stopping at her fly. “You should have let me pack your panties, though.”
She’d drawn the line there. Emma was more than willing to strap down her breasts, glue on an itchy fake beard, mustache, sideburns, and man wig. She liked her wool suit and the wingtips. But she steadfastly refused to put a stuffed sock in her underwear. She said, “Say it slid down my pant leg and landed on the floor.”
“That would be awkward,” said Victor. “I can’t believe I’m going to meet William Dearborn! You have to call
Daphne.”
Emma dialed Daphne’s cell.
Within three minutes, the client sneaked them in a fire exit, Tweedy none the wiser.
The writing was on the wall as they entered the club, but Emma had no idea what it said. She didn’t read Japanese.
Daphne snapped her fingers. Both Victor and Emma stopped admiring the club’s murals of cherry blossoms and mount Fuji and gave their attention to the client. “William is in the main room, down the hallway there.” She pointed a finger to the left. “In half an hour, there’ll be a demonstration of the software. After that, William will be working the room.
You can hit him then. Excellent disguise, by the way. You are utterly forgettable as a man.”
“Too short,” said Emma, feeling tiny without her heels.
“This is the last time we’ll talk tonight. I don’t want William to see us together, even in your disguise,” said Daphne, who was exquisitely put together in a red halter dress with gold beading. “Did you like the
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