Extreme Danger (McClouds & Friends #5)(81)

Becca pressed on her mouth with her hands. “Oh, God,” she whispered. She was going to heave her guts out. “Gotta run. Going to be sick,” she squeaked, through the hand clamped over her mouth.

She bolted towards the ladies’ room, caroming into tables, elbowing one of the catering staff who was carrying a tray of full sorbet dishes, all of which toppled, dumping themselves right onto the unfortunate woman’s crisp white blouse.

Becca fled, leaving shouts of outrage in her wake. She couldn’t stop and apologize, anyway. If she opened her mouth, “I’m so sorry” was not what was going to be coming out of it. Barfing on club members in evening wear would not help her cause. Praise God, there was no line in the ladies’ room. She made it to the stall just in time.

The bathroom stalls in the club’s ladies’ rooms were little private rooms in their own right, made of peach-colored marble quarried in Italy. Each stall contained its own private sink with antique gold-toned fixtures and an enormous gilt-framed mirror. Hers reflected her own pitiful image when she finally dared to lift her head up from where it dangled over the toilet bowl. Oh, God. Very bad.

She was as white as a hospital lab coat. Eyes and nose streaming with tears, eyelids swollen and pink, mascara running copiously.

And sheer terror in her eyes. She shook all over.

Here? Why here, at one of her own events? What were the odds? Fate was having evil fun at her expense.

She lingered in the little room for as long as she dared, wiping off the toilet, cleaning up her face, adjusting hair, clothes and facial expression. She braced herself, and tried on a cheerful, professional smile. Oh, boy. Nix the smile.

She couldn’t fake or finesse this one. She didn’t even have her cell phone on her, to call Nick and bleat desperately for rescue. It was in her office, in her purse, way down the corridor at the end of this wing.

She tried to talk herself down. The man wasn’t going to stop chowing down on his poached salmon and take time out to murder her. Nor did he seem the type who would do his own murdering. He was, however, certainly capable of making a few discreet inquiries and then stepping around a corner to make a phone call. And that would be that for Becca Cattrell.

She would be, as Nick so expressively put it, so f*cked.

She was not at all surprised to find Marla waiting outside, her taut rear end perched half-on, half-off the long marble vanity counter. Her arms were crossed, her brows knit. She looked furiously angry.





There were other women primping and washing, and Marla waited in stony silence for them to leave. Becca braced herself as the door closed behind the last woman, leaving them alone.

Marla lost no time. “You slept with him, didn’t you?”

Becca stared at the other woman blankly. That took her utterly by surprise, so beset was she by images of grisly death wounds and bullet holes. “Ah…huh? With who?” she floundered. “I—but I—”

“Don’t play dumb with me,” the older woman hissed. “I’m talking about Mathes. So that’s where you were all those days you didn’t come to work, hmm? The phone messaging, the slut lingerie? Did he give you a fake name, Becca? Did he not tell you he was married? Christ, what an innocent you are.”

Fuck a duck. Becca struggled to organize a coherent response. She just kept opening and closing her mouth as it sank in that the conclusion Marla had leaped to was a screamingly obvious one. Far more probable and believable than the awful truth.

Marla raged quietly on, her voice laced with suppressed anger. “That was his wife, Helen Mathes, beside him. Remember the tall blonde with all the bling? Big philanthropist, on all the charitable boards in the city? She attended the Mother/Daughter Tea you organized last year. With her nine-and twelve-year-old girls. Mouthy little blond brats, both of them. You don’t remember her?”

Becca shook her head. “I don’t remember her,” she whispered.

“I very much hope that you’re not thinking anything stupid, Becca. Like, for instance, that he’s going to leave his wife for you.” Marla’s eyes swept critically over her. “Please be realistic. You’re a very pretty girl and very sweet, but you’re hardly a femme fatale.”

“Marla, I’m not—”

“And now, damage control.” Marla dragged a handful of perfumed facial tissues out of the pink marble dispenser and shoved them into Becca’s hand. “I am very sorry that you’ve had not one, but two romantic disappointments in a single week. But this is an opportunity to show your true colors. I want to see how professional you can be.”

“But Marla, I—”

“Get out there and work, just like nothing ever happened. It’s the only dignified thing you can do,” Marla announced. “What’s he going to do? What can he do? Nothing, Becca. If he sees you, be classy. Smile. Pretend you’ve never seen him before. Smile big at his wife, too. Let him wonder what you’re capable of. Let him squirm and worry. He deserves it, the lying, cheating prick. But do not let him control you!”

Marla’s lecture was delivered in ringing tones that should have been accompanied by inspiring theme music. Becca stared at her boss’s stern expression, and found herself wishing desperately that she could do exactly as she was told. Just go with the flow.

After all. It seemed so lurid, so improbable. Maybe the whole episode had all been some sort of crazy hallucination. A bad dream she wanted so badly to forget. Or at least ignore. Maybe if she pretended…and hoped he didn’t notice her, or recognize her…?