No Peeking.... Stephanie Bond

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СКАЧАТЬ Violet agreed. “If there’s nothing else, Ms. Kingsbury—”

      “Violet, you’ve worked for me for two years. Please call me Patricia.”

      “Patricia,” Violet amended with a smile, “if there’s nothing else—”

      “I put my grocery list on the table. And would you mind taking a few things back to the mall for me, dear?” She pointed to a mound of bags on a settee.

      “Not at all.”

      “Here’s my credit card. Just have everything reversed and if there are any problems, call me.”

      “I’m sure there won’t be any problems,” Violet said pleasantly, then gathered the list and the bags in her arms and waddled toward the door. “I’ll drop off your credit card tomorrow morning.”

      “Tomorrow afternoon is fine, dear, when you come back to walk Winslow. He’ll be ready to toodle again by then.”

      Violet maintained her smile. “Great. See you then.”

      Being relegated to a dog coach wasn’t so bad, she told herself as she steered her hybrid SUV onto I-75 northbound. Ms. Kingsbury rarely had difficult requests, and she’d given Violet many referrals. With this job, one learned to take the bad with the good.

      After battling six lanes of traffic for thirty minutes, Violet reached a subdivision where three empty up-scale houses were for sale. She’d been commissioned to go through and knock down cobwebs, adjust the temperature, put fresh flowers in vases and generally ensure that when an agent stopped by with a potential customer, there were no surprises—such as the bankrupted former owner of the house living in a closet. Or a raccoon in the kitchen. Or a fallen tree sticking through the bedroom ceiling.

      She’d seen it all.

      Armed with Gerbera daisies, a broom and a Taser, she sped through the houses, opening doors and checking every nook and cranny. After an uneventful sweep, she jumped on I-75 southbound and fought traffic again to reach a tobacco store, where she picked up the box of cigars she’d special-ordered for Dominick Burns last week, then turned her car toward her office in midtown. A few blocks away her cell phone rang. It was Lillian. Hoping nothing was wrong, Violet touched the hands-free microphone on her visor. “Hi, Lillian, what’s up?”

      “You have a visitor. Dominick Burns?”

      Violet frowned. “I’m scheduled to stop by his office in Buckhead this afternoon for our weekly conference.”

      “He said he was in the area and that he’d wait.” Lillian lowered her voice. “He’s rather handsome. And he asked for a vodka tonic.”

      Violet rolled her eyes. “I don’t have a bar in my office. Get him a cup of coffee and I’ll be there in five minutes.”

      She checked her hair and makeup in the mirror, telling herself she’d do the same for any client. She smoothed a couple of errant hairs that had escaped her standard neat ponytail—the ponytail that Dominick Burns teased her about. Her black pantsuit also was standard, with a white shirt that changed with the season—nice T-shirts for spring, sleeveless shells for summer, three-quarter-length sleeves in fall, and a turtleneck for winter. She had already moved into her turtleneck drawer. Comfortable black loafers completed the look that allowed her to blend in almost anywhere. Her “uniform” wasn’t as glamorous as what Dominick’s girlfriends probably wore, but she looked professional, and that was all that mattered.

      It wasn’t as if Dominick was interested in her.

      Violet wheeled into the parking garage and pulled into one of the four spots assigned to her live/work condo, with its tiny storefront on the first level that faced Juniper Street and separate living quarters above. Lillian’s VW bug sat in another Summerlin at Your Service spot. Straddling the remaining two spots was a black Porsche convertible parked at a jaunty angle, as if the driver simply couldn’t bother parking straight, or taking only as much space as needed. The front vanity plate read XTREME. Violet climbed out of her car and tamped down irritation.

      The man was extremely cocky, that was certain.

      Of course, when she walked into her office, she was reminded why.

      Dominick Burns was, as her Grammy would say, as fine as frog hair.

      He leaned on the edge of her assistant’s desk, his long legs stretched out in front of him. His dark brown hair was ridiculously sun-streaked and wind-tousled for December. His deep blue eyes were surrounded by the longest, darkest lashes imaginable. Ruggedly tanned and dressed in holey jeans, a gray Emory University sweatshirt and worn leather sneakers, he looked more like a carefree student than the thirty-something head of a multimillion-dollar company.

      Judging from the way they were laughing, he and Lillian, a petite fortyish woman with a pink streak through her spiky black hair, were sharing a grand joke. They hadn’t even heard the bell on the door that announced her arrival. For some reason, that annoyed Violet. She had the uncomfortable feeling they might be laughing about her.

      “Hello, Mr. Burns.” Despite her blasé response to Nan, her heart stuttered in her chest when he turned his smiling indigo eyes in Violet’s direction.

      “Vee, how many times have I told you to call me Dominick?”

      “And how many times have I asked you not to call me Vee?”

      He shrugged. “A couple hundred.” Then he looked at Lillian. “In case you haven’t noticed, your boss is a little uptight—”

      “Here are your cigars,” Violet interrupted, handing him the box. “Perhaps we can continue this in my office?”

      Dominick grinned at Lillian. “I think I’m in trouble—and I like it.”

      Violet didn’t respond, just walked toward her office, mentally shaking her head. The man was a big kid.

      He gamboled into her office and she reiterated silently the word big. He took up what little extra space the room had to offer outside of her desk, two chairs and row of file cabinets. “So you work on this level and have a condo above?”

      “That’s right. It’s small, but it works for me.”

      “Nice location, near Piedmont Park.”

      “Another plus,” she agreed, then gave him a wry smile. “And there’s decent parking—as long as clients don’t take up two spaces.”

      “I won’t be here long,” he said with a grin, sipping his coffee as he glanced around at the stark decor. He nodded to her desk, which was marred only by a neat stack of manila folders. “It’s so neat. Do you actually work in here?”

      “Yes.”

      She turned to set aside her bag and when she looked back, the folders were strewn across her desk in disarray. Dominick was looking at the ceiling and whistling like an innocent little boy.

      “Nice,” she said dryly.

      He laughed. “Come on, Vee, loosen up.”

      “Mr. Burns,” she said coolly, “I’m good at my job because I’m a detail-oriented person. Now, what can I do for you today?”

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