Love Handles (Oakland Hills #1)(50)

“Then we have to have it today.” She raised her eyebrows at Liam. “At ten, like you said last week.”

“Darrin was just telling me how tired he is. One more day will—”

“I’m fine,” Darrin said slowly, looking at Liam then back at Bev, measuring and calculating, the transparent weasel. “Whatever works for Bev works for me.”

Bev gave him two thumbs up. “Great! See you then.” And disappeared.

Liam picked at a thread on his sleeve, his remorse thickening. He had set her up. This was his idea. But that was last week, before—

Before. He ran his finger down the edge of his desk, remembering the feel of her impossibly soft skin under his palms. Whatever happened now was all his doing, and he’d have to live with it.

Smirking, Darrin got to his feet. “This should be good. I’ll go alert the troops.” He walked out of the office, obviously gleeful at having a new power structure to unbalance.

Liam felt queasy. He ran his hand down over his chest and rubbed his stomach, wondering if people still got ulcers from stress. Last week he hadn’t known Bev was under attack from other forces. Last week he’d been convinced he was doing her a favor in the longterm by making her life at Fite so unpleasant she would go away.

Last week he hadn’t liked her so much.

All Sunday he’d tried to call her but she didn’t answer, and he didn’t want to risk seeing her in person away from the office again. He got up and began clearing off his conference table for the meeting, a job he usually left to one of the assistants, then picked up his ball and began adding more dents to the walls. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

By nine fifty-five he sat at the head of his conference table chewing on his thumbnail. The design team was frantic, chatty, picking on each other and gluing last-minute bodies on the boards.

Bev didn’t know what she was getting into. She didn’t know what they were like. Two designers, each of their assistants, the merchandising coordinator, a couple of sales guys, himself—all gathered around the table to tear off heads and shit down necks.

Darrin sat at the opposite end of the table. “Let's get as much done today as we can. Even with the heiress.”

The table was quiet until an assistant who ran with Liam on occasion during lunch, spoke up in the timid-but-eager voice of an underling looking for points. “I heard she lives in L.A.”

“Has some kind of problem,” another designer muttered. “Drugs or something.”

“Meth, I think,” somebody else said.

Liam sat up straight. “That is not true.”

“Explains the hygiene. And convenient, too—God knows we never sleep around here,” Darrin said, not looking at him. The group around the table laughed. “Do you have my Barney's samples, Rachel?”

“Here.” Rachel lifted up a shopping bag. “But I don't think it 's meth. Nothing like that.”

Liam nodded, relieved somebody in the building had some morals. Flabby though they were. “You shouldn't listen to Ellen,” he said. “You know how she is.”

“Oh, I didn't hear it from Ellen,” Rachel said. “I'm pretty sure this is true. From somebody who would know.”

“Heard what?” the other designer asked.

“How would anybody here know anything about her?” Liam asked, knowing he should keep himself out of it. He couldn’t afford to look chummy with her; that was the point. She had to be the outsider. The satellite. The temp.

“Ellen mentioned she had problems,” Darrin said. “So, Liam. Do an intervention yet?” and the gang laughed.

Liam gave him his coldest stare and everyone around the table stopped laughing, even Darrin. Two years ago, at the request of a young assistant's family, he had participated in an intervention. He'd been discreet, but word got around when she quit to go into rehab. “She's in no need of one. Whatever you've heard, it’s crap. Ellen’s crap.”

Darrin regarded him, eyebrow raised. “Don’t get excited. Some of the old-timers here could have heard about—Bev—over the years.”

Liam dropped his voice to cold steel. “Her name is Beverly Lewis, she's in Ed’s old office, and she is the new owner of this company. I suggest you all shut the hell up.”

The room fell silent as the group stared at him over the table. Then, one by one, their heads dipped to avoid his glare and he was staring at the tops of a dozen expensive haircuts.

Just as Liam drew a breath to lecture them to behave during the meeting—to warn them that anyone who laughed or rolled their eyes would be processing the FedEx packages for a year—he heard the creak of the door swinging open.

“Hello?” said a cheerful voice behind him. “I'm Beverly Lewis. Mind if I come in?”



Liam considered bolting out to pull the fire alarm. He wanted her to be subtly discredited—not die a painful death while he watched.

Darrin struck first. With Bev's question hanging in the air, he turned his back to her and reached inside the Barney's shopping bag on the table. “Looks like she'll need your chair, Rachel,” he said. “And since you'll be up you might as well get our visitor something to drink.”

Snake, Liam thought. Darrin had managed to insult Bev and make Rachel resentful, with Bev to blame, at the same time. “Divide and conquer” was such an effective strategy at Fite it should have been screen-printed on their t-shirts.