She has it all mapped out. She has everything mapped out now. She’s even started diction lessons with Mrs. Allsop to sound the part and scrape any last traces of Pinckney, Michigan, from her lips. Felicity will be ready.
The meeting breaks up with a lopsided deal and another triumphant smirk. It’s all too easy for Elena apparently, and she can’t be bothered hiding it.
Well. The mockery is deserved.
Felicity’s boss is bowed as he gathers his paperwork and shoots Elena a hateful stare.
She ignores him and clears her throat. “A word, Ms. Simmons?”
Felicity almost drops her own folders and frowns. What could the Tiger Shark possibly want with a lowly associate?
Elena perches on the edge of the boardroom table, her pinstripe skirt riding up just a little, and waits as the room empties out of men in near-identical business suits. Once they’re alone, Elena leans in. “Your client might have won today if you’d run that meeting.”
Despite being in full agreement, Felicity folds her arms. “We didn’t lose. We negotiated a mutually beneficial deal.”
“Mutually beneficial?” Elena’s voice contains mockery laced with humor. “Sure it was. And if you believe that, you’re not the woman I take you for.” She slides smoothly to her feet, pivots, and saunters off with a jaunty sway of hips.
Dear God. Felicity makes a mental note to buy a pinstripe skirt suit if that’s the effect they have.
Back at their own office, Hank asks what Bartell wanted.
“To gloat,” Felicity murmurs. Although, she’s not so sure. Her hormones do a delighted little quiver at the reminder of that badass suit.
Totally straight, she reminds herself. Of course she is.
Twenty-Eight
Felicity’s now older, seasoned—well…jaded—starting to question her partner prospects, and trying to quit stress-smoking. Peering into the mirror of the Ladies Room just off from the Park Hyatt’s main ballroom, Felicity wonders whether her fourteen-hour days are starting to show. She prods the darkening skin under her eyes for answers.
A stall door opens, and familiar, taunting eyes lock with hers in the mirror. Their owner glides over to the marble sink and washes her hands.
“Ms. Simmons, we meet again,” Elena purrs.
It’s a complete mystery to Felicity how this woman is called a shark when she’s clearly pure jungle cat, with the lethal, rapier claws to match. She’s sleek, sensuous, powerful…
Felicity blinks. Now’s hardly the time to reevaluate her sexuality. She has a boyfriend and everything. Tim. No…Tom. Christ!
Elena’s watching her, waiting for an answer.
“Congratulations on your Businessperson of the Year award tonight.” Felicity winces at how stiff she sounds. She reaches for her lipstick and rolls out the crimson. “That’s impressive.”
“It’s meaningless. Bartell Corp is a hundred-foot-high tsunami, impossible to ignore, so they feel obligated to throw awards and other such nonsense at me. I’m more interested in that award you were up for last month. A shame you missed out. You were robbed.”
Felicity detests compliments. The awkwardness of having to appear grateful while she works out why they’re being offered makes her hyperventilate. She’ll be up all night picking over this one. “I’m sure Jason Hampton deserved it more.” She grits her teeth.
Like hell he does. The New York Law Journal’s Rising Star Award? Please. No contest.
The objective truth is that Felicity has had one hell of a year. Even her boss admitted as much as he turned her down for a promotion.
“You don’t seriously believe that he was more deserving?” Elena’s eyebrows lift.
Felicity hesitates. Sometimes it’s hard being careful not to look too ambitious, too smart, too immodest… She glances around, checking they’re alone. “No. I deserved it.”
“There now.” Elena’s eyes glitter. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” She sways into Felicity’s space. “Claim your worth, Ms. Simmons. And when you finally give up on waiting to be appreciated, call me. I can make far better use of your talent than your firm.” She opens her clutch and flips an embossed pearl business card onto the counter.
Felicity’s mouth falls open, but she can’t think of a single thing to say.
“Look, I know those men,” Elena continues, meeting Felicity’s gaze in the mirror. Her expression is intense and knowing but, for once, not mocking. “They’ll never let you into their boys’ club. You’ll never be a partner there. No matter how many hoops you jump through, no matter how impressive your CV, or how you straighten out your Midwest vowels.”
She noticed that? Her lessons with Mrs. Allsop have been coming along well, sanitizing any hint of Felicity’s unflattering origins, which she prefers not to dwell on. In truth, she borders perilously close to sounding like Julie Andrews these days if she doesn’t watch herself. Spit bloody spot.
Wait, never be a partner? Her head snaps up.
Elena almost smiles. “Sore point?” She waves at Felicity’s fingers as she leaves.
Startled, Felicity looks down. Lipstick has snapped off in her hand—a crime scene of crimson debris spread across skin and sink.
Felicity sighs. She glances over to Elena’s card, in two minds about whether to bin it or frame it.
Twenty-Nine
