Read Online Thugs and Kisses by Sue Ann Jaffarian - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sue Ann Jaffarian
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from the doorway.
I looked up from the document I was reading, or trying to read. “Well, so are you.”
“Yes, but I’m working on trial prep, not avoiding a painful situation.”
“Sweetie, I’ve done trial prep,” I told her. “It is a painful situation.”
We both laughed, then I stopped short. Something I just said had jarred a rock loose in my thick skull: trial prep. There was a possible trial brewing, and it was a matter that Steele was involved with.
“Joan, Steele didn’t call in all day today, at least not to me. Did he call you?”
She shook her head. “Maybe he’s embarrassed about Rachel. Maybe he did do something to make her quit.”
“Oh, please.” I rolled my eyes. “When have you ever known Steele to be embarrassed about anything? Remember that incident with Trudie? He wasn’t embarrassed about that in the least, and that was a 9.5 on the shame scale.”
Joan blushed as she remembered the short-lived Woobie career of Trudie Monroe, one of Steele’s conquests and short-lived secretaries. Trudie and Steele were caught with their drawers down when vandals broke into the law firm.
“Joan, doesn’t it seem strange that Steele didn’t call either one of us, especially with Silhouette heating up?”
Steele was a corporate attorney, but often he got involved with high-profile litigation matters involving business issues. The current brouhaha was between Silhouette Candies, our client, and Sweet Kiss Confections, another candy company started up by a former owner of Silhouette. The issue involved trade secrets, proprietary information, and unfair competition—all right up Mike Steele’s alley. The litigation attorneys on the case were Carl Yates, a name partner, and Fran Evans. That jarred another rock loose.
“Both Carl and Fran asked if I’d heard from Steele today,” I told Joan. “And Jolene said she’d tried to call him, but he didn’t answer.”
“That’s definitely not like Michael Steele,” she agreed.
I got up and walked the few steps down the hall to Steele’s office. Joan followed on my heels. Switching on the light, I went straight to Steele’s chrome-and-black-lacquered desk and checked out his phone. The message light was blinking. I pointed at it.
Joan looked at the light, then at me. “But he could have picked up his messages and then received some more.”
I hesitated. “Of course, you’re right. It doesn’t prove anything.”
We went back to my office, and I closed up shop while Joan waited. Together, we left for the night.
As soon as I got home, I kicked off my heels, grabbed my address book from my tote, and headed straight for the phone in the kitchen. The thing with Steele was bothering me. I had to make sure about the messages.
Mike Steele and I might butt heads more times than not, but there was one thing we did have in common—mutual trust. He may be an ass, but he’s an ass I can take to the bank on his word and his actions. And he felt the same about me. Since Steele lived alone and didn’t have any family in the area that I knew of, I had an emergency key to his home and kept track of all of his passwords and codes, including the one for his office voice mail. He had entrusted this vital information to me after he’d been assaulted in the office just over a year ago, during the time of the Trudie Monroe debacle. I kept the passwords in two places: in my address book, carefully scattered throughout, and taped under a desk drawer at the office. The key to his Laguna Beach condo was upstairs in a desk drawer. I could have retrieved the voice mail password at work, but I didn’t want Joan to know about it. It’s not that I don’t trust Joan; I do. But Steele also trusts me to keep quiet about it.
I called the office voice mail number and punched in Steele’s extension. When prompted, I poked out his code on my dial pad. In short order, I was in his voice mail. He had twenty-three new messages and seven saved messages. Fortunately,
I looked up from the document I was reading, or trying to read. “Well, so are you.”
“Yes, but I’m working on trial prep, not avoiding a painful situation.”
“Sweetie, I’ve done trial prep,” I told her. “It is a painful situation.”
We both laughed, then I stopped short. Something I just said had jarred a rock loose in my thick skull: trial prep. There was a possible trial brewing, and it was a matter that Steele was involved with.
“Joan, Steele didn’t call in all day today, at least not to me. Did he call you?”
She shook her head. “Maybe he’s embarrassed about Rachel. Maybe he did do something to make her quit.”
“Oh, please.” I rolled my eyes. “When have you ever known Steele to be embarrassed about anything? Remember that incident with Trudie? He wasn’t embarrassed about that in the least, and that was a 9.5 on the shame scale.”
Joan blushed as she remembered the short-lived Woobie career of Trudie Monroe, one of Steele’s conquests and short-lived secretaries. Trudie and Steele were caught with their drawers down when vandals broke into the law firm.
“Joan, doesn’t it seem strange that Steele didn’t call either one of us, especially with Silhouette heating up?”
Steele was a corporate attorney, but often he got involved with high-profile litigation matters involving business issues. The current brouhaha was between Silhouette Candies, our client, and Sweet Kiss Confections, another candy company started up by a former owner of Silhouette. The issue involved trade secrets, proprietary information, and unfair competition—all right up Mike Steele’s alley. The litigation attorneys on the case were Carl Yates, a name partner, and Fran Evans. That jarred another rock loose.
“Both Carl and Fran asked if I’d heard from Steele today,” I told Joan. “And Jolene said she’d tried to call him, but he didn’t answer.”
“That’s definitely not like Michael Steele,” she agreed.
I got up and walked the few steps down the hall to Steele’s office. Joan followed on my heels. Switching on the light, I went straight to Steele’s chrome-and-black-lacquered desk and checked out his phone. The message light was blinking. I pointed at it.
Joan looked at the light, then at me. “But he could have picked up his messages and then received some more.”
I hesitated. “Of course, you’re right. It doesn’t prove anything.”
We went back to my office, and I closed up shop while Joan waited. Together, we left for the night.
As soon as I got home, I kicked off my heels, grabbed my address book from my tote, and headed straight for the phone in the kitchen. The thing with Steele was bothering me. I had to make sure about the messages.
Mike Steele and I might butt heads more times than not, but there was one thing we did have in common—mutual trust. He may be an ass, but he’s an ass I can take to the bank on his word and his actions. And he felt the same about me. Since Steele lived alone and didn’t have any family in the area that I knew of, I had an emergency key to his home and kept track of all of his passwords and codes, including the one for his office voice mail. He had entrusted this vital information to me after he’d been assaulted in the office just over a year ago, during the time of the Trudie Monroe debacle. I kept the passwords in two places: in my address book, carefully scattered throughout, and taped under a desk drawer at the office. The key to his Laguna Beach condo was upstairs in a desk drawer. I could have retrieved the voice mail password at work, but I didn’t want Joan to know about it. It’s not that I don’t trust Joan; I do. But Steele also trusts me to keep quiet about it.
I called the office voice mail number and punched in Steele’s extension. When prompted, I poked out his code on my dial pad. In short order, I was in his voice mail. He had twenty-three new messages and seven saved messages. Fortunately,
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