My notary stamp and seal were in the top drawer. I got them and retrieved the power of attorney from my purse. It took just a few strokes of a pen, a little pressure on the stamp, and a pinch of the metal seal-embossing tool and the document was ready for Liv to present it at the bank.
I’d used four and a half of my allotted five minutes. I considered taking a roady of coffee but thought better of it. I didn’t want anything in my slightly shaky hands. Especially not coffee when I was wearing a white skirt.
I breathed deeply and evenly, something I’d learned in the only yoga class I’d managed to attend even though I’d paid for a full year of sessions. Apparently a single class wasn’t enough to convince your heart to stop pounding against your rib cage when summoned to meet with your bosses in the executive offices on the top floor.
Crap, I should have brought a pad. Vain Dane got off on people taking notes. It must have made him feel powerful.
Which he was since his ultraconservative butt had the power to fire me.
Walking past the pin-neat, unoccupied desk of Dane’s executive secretary, I slowly went down the corridor toward the impressively carved mahogany door to Dane’s office. Catching a whiff of Burberry cologne was slightly soothing. The signature scent reminded me of Jonathan Tanner. Even though he’d been gone for more than a decade, I missed him every time I smelled that cologne.
The door was ajar, but I knocked and waited to be granted entrance.
“Come,” Dane’s voice boomed from inside.
Victor Dane’s office was very posh, very masculine, and very, very self-congratulatory. The walls were lined with various diplomas, awards, and community service acknowledgments. The custom shelving held professionally framed photographs of Vain Dane with various celebrities, politicians, and dignitaries, including a nearly twenty-year-old photo of Dane dancing with the Princess of Wales at the Palm Beach Polo Club.
Dane was seated at the edge of his desk, arms folded, expression hard. Ellen Lieberman was seated in one of the leather chairs opposite Dane. She seemed more relaxed and while she wasn’t overtly friendly, I didn’t get the angry vibe from her that was practically dripping from Dane’s body language.
The wall behind Dane’s desk wasn’t a wall. It was a floor-to-ceiling window with breathtaking views of the intracoastal Palm Beach proper and the Atlantic Ocean in the distance.
The silence dragged on so long that I contemplated throwing myself through said window. Not a good plan since Jane needed my help and I knew the glass was impact-resistant and hurricane-proof, so my 107-pound body would just bounce off.
Dane reached behind him, grabbed the phone, and pressed the button. “Margaret, thank you. You can go.”
To hell, I added mentally.
If Dane was the picture of coiffed and polished, Ellen was his exact opposite. He was dressed in casual but expertly tailored navy blue slacks, a gunmetal-gray golf shirt, and navy blue Bruno Magli loafers.
Conversely, Ellen looked like she was on her way to an audition to play a bulimic, red-haired version of Cass Elliot. Some sort of shapeless dress made from a bright paisley print hung from her slight shoulders. If she had a waist, it was lost inside the yards of fabric. Her naturally curly hair, complete with ignored gray streaks, was secured with a black velvet barrette at the nape of her pale neck. Black was apparently part of her accessory scheme. The straps of her sports bra were black, as were the black Oasis sandals. I knew the shoes cost almost a hundred bucks; I just couldn’t understand why anyone would pay that kind of money for something so intentionally unflattering. Well, yes, I did. They were practical and functional. Just like Ellen.
“Sit,” Dane said as he strode around to his thronelike chair and took his seat.
I did as instructed and ignored my nerves begging me to ask for a fake bacon treat in recognition of my
I’d used four and a half of my allotted five minutes. I considered taking a roady of coffee but thought better of it. I didn’t want anything in my slightly shaky hands. Especially not coffee when I was wearing a white skirt.
I breathed deeply and evenly, something I’d learned in the only yoga class I’d managed to attend even though I’d paid for a full year of sessions. Apparently a single class wasn’t enough to convince your heart to stop pounding against your rib cage when summoned to meet with your bosses in the executive offices on the top floor.
Crap, I should have brought a pad. Vain Dane got off on people taking notes. It must have made him feel powerful.
Which he was since his ultraconservative butt had the power to fire me.
Walking past the pin-neat, unoccupied desk of Dane’s executive secretary, I slowly went down the corridor toward the impressively carved mahogany door to Dane’s office. Catching a whiff of Burberry cologne was slightly soothing. The signature scent reminded me of Jonathan Tanner. Even though he’d been gone for more than a decade, I missed him every time I smelled that cologne.
The door was ajar, but I knocked and waited to be granted entrance.
“Come,” Dane’s voice boomed from inside.
Victor Dane’s office was very posh, very masculine, and very, very self-congratulatory. The walls were lined with various diplomas, awards, and community service acknowledgments. The custom shelving held professionally framed photographs of Vain Dane with various celebrities, politicians, and dignitaries, including a nearly twenty-year-old photo of Dane dancing with the Princess of Wales at the Palm Beach Polo Club.
Dane was seated at the edge of his desk, arms folded, expression hard. Ellen Lieberman was seated in one of the leather chairs opposite Dane. She seemed more relaxed and while she wasn’t overtly friendly, I didn’t get the angry vibe from her that was practically dripping from Dane’s body language.
The wall behind Dane’s desk wasn’t a wall. It was a floor-to-ceiling window with breathtaking views of the intracoastal Palm Beach proper and the Atlantic Ocean in the distance.
The silence dragged on so long that I contemplated throwing myself through said window. Not a good plan since Jane needed my help and I knew the glass was impact-resistant and hurricane-proof, so my 107-pound body would just bounce off.
Dane reached behind him, grabbed the phone, and pressed the button. “Margaret, thank you. You can go.”
To hell, I added mentally.
If Dane was the picture of coiffed and polished, Ellen was his exact opposite. He was dressed in casual but expertly tailored navy blue slacks, a gunmetal-gray golf shirt, and navy blue Bruno Magli loafers.
Conversely, Ellen looked like she was on her way to an audition to play a bulimic, red-haired version of Cass Elliot. Some sort of shapeless dress made from a bright paisley print hung from her slight shoulders. If she had a waist, it was lost inside the yards of fabric. Her naturally curly hair, complete with ignored gray streaks, was secured with a black velvet barrette at the nape of her pale neck. Black was apparently part of her accessory scheme. The straps of her sports bra were black, as were the black Oasis sandals. I knew the shoes cost almost a hundred bucks; I just couldn’t understand why anyone would pay that kind of money for something so intentionally unflattering. Well, yes, I did. They were practical and functional. Just like Ellen.
“Sit,” Dane said as he strode around to his thronelike chair and took his seat.
I did as instructed and ignored my nerves begging me to ask for a fake bacon treat in recognition of my
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