Plum Girl (Romance) (2 page)

It could be worse,
Lonnie thought to herself again as she logged onto the payroll database and began entering Twit's weekly hours. Six months temping as Beauregard Twit's assistant could be maddening, especially considering what a capricious twerp he was, but it had its good points. Twit & Bell was right in the middle of Boston, situated in a proud, tall building that combined old stone architecture with mirrored glass. The whole firm—which included exactly seven attorneys, four paralegals, five administrative assistants, three accountants acting as payroll, one systems analyst, and a human resource department consisting solely of elitist pain-in-the-ass Bette Linsey—fit nicely on the twenty-third floor. The firm was carpeted in plush lavender-pink, and decorated by expensive black-and-chrome office furniture and Georgia O'Keeffe prints. Lunther Bell, the firm's other founding partner, made a point of mentioning every chance he got that flowers were synonymous with female genitalia.

A message box appeared on Lonnie's computer screen, new mail. She clicked on her inbox icon and felt her heart lurch when she saw who had sent her mail. Dominick. His message was simple.
Lunch?

I wish,
she typed back.
Tomorrow?
She clicked send, and felt a slight pit forming in her stomach. What was her problem? She didn't understand what was going on between her and Dominick. Okay, that wasn't entirely true. She didn't understand what was going on between her and her hormones. She was involved with someone already; she had no business thinking carnal thoughts about Dominick. Thinking, dreaming, fixating..

"Hey, Lonnie!"

It was the gruff voice of Delia Smucker, who was technically Matt Fetchug's and B.J. Flynn's assistant, but in reality catered a lot more to Lunther Bell. "I have something for you to do," she barked as she made her way down the hall.

She walked in hurried, ungracious strides—overswinging her hips and not really pulling it off—before she came to a full stop in front of Lonnie's desk. "Here," she grumbled, and tossed down a stack of paper. Then she dropped a stack of envelopes, which veered off into an accordion-style mess, before scattering everywhere. Lonnie looked down, then back up at Delia's face, which was unseasonably tan for December.

"Oh, so you need me to stuff the env—"

"This isn't brain surgery, Lonnie," Delia said unoriginally. "You fold the letters, put them in the envelopes, and then seal them. Okay?"

Wonderful. Except you're, not my boss. And also, you're a bitch.
"Yeah, okay." Lonnie turned back to her monitor and opened up one of the spreadsheets she'd been working on for Twit. "I'll do it on my lunch hour."

"No, I need it done
now,"
Delia commanded, sounding supremely put out. "Why? What does Beauregard have you working on?" She brazenly leaned over Lonnie's desk to get a look at her monitor.

"I've just got a lot to do before the holiday party," Lonnie replied, keeping an even tone, while Delia ogled her computer screen.

It was hard to take Delia's rudeness seriously, because she was equally abrasive to everyone. Not counting Twit and Bell, of course. She was even openly hostile to Matt and B.J., despite the fact that they were her direct supervisors. She was obviously smart enough to figure out that there wasn't a damn thing they could do about it, because Lunther wouldn't listen to complaints about her, and Twit nearly drooled every time she tossed her bleached-blond, straw-textured, semiteased hair over her shoulders. Go figure.

"All right," Lonnie agreed, and started straightening the scattered letters and envelopes. Without so much as an insincere thanks, Delia turned on the heel of her white, pointy-toed pump, and sashayed off. Only instead of charging back down the hall, she pushed through the main glass doors and headed toward the elevators.

"I'm goin' for a smoke," she called over her shoulder, while blatantly grabbing at her wedgie. Lonnie shook her head; some people were shameless. It was obvious that Delia was just dumping her own work on the already-exploited temp, rather than exercising any real authority. Oh well.

She glanced back at her monitor and discovered that she had a new mail message. She clicked on her inbox. Hey,
Pretty Woman. Thought of some new material about taxi drivers. Call me tonight. Later gator!
Okay, Terry could be corny, but it was in an endearing way. And it was flattering that he trusted her enough to try out his material on her before he performed it live.

So, why didn't Lonnie get half as excited for his emails as she did for Dominick's? After all, Terry was her practically-semi boyfriend, while Dominick was only her sort-of friend. Why on earth was she so conflicted?

She stretched back in her leather chair and mulled over that question. On the one hand, there was Terry Pine. A twenty-five-year-old cutie with shaggy, light brown hair and a pale dusting of freckles across his nose. He wasn't tall, about five-eight, but he had a six-pack that was more than drool worthy. Too bad it just made Lonnie more aware of her own soft center and the fact that breaking two donuts into quarters and quickly eating the pieces standing up still constituted scarfing down two donuts. Most central to Terry's appeal: he was silly, immature, and lived four hours away. But Lonnie quickly stopped that train of thought before it could wander too far down the path of uncomfortable self-analysis.

Then there was Dominick Carter and the fact that ever since she'd run into him on the elevator two months before, she'd become strangely susceptible to heart palpitations and sweating in southern places. She didn't completely understand the intensity of her attraction. After all, she'd known Dominick in college. Well, she'd known
of
him. He'd been a senior when she was a sophomore, and friends with Eric Yagher—the gorgeous object of Lonnie's lust, a preppy guy with soft blond hair that felt like feathers. Back in college, Lonnie had always been too busy looking for Eric to take special notice of Dominick. But now her thoughts drifted to him daily. She felt guilty about it, too, but every time she tried to conjure up Terry's cute, freshly scrubbed face, she'd still get images of a fuller, older one. One darkened by a hint of five o'clock shadow...

A message box came up on her screen again.

She clicked on her new mail and read Dominick's response to her lunch invitation for the following day:
I can't—we have a business lunch tomorrow. How about a quick drink tonight after work? Don't say no. I'll meet you at six in the lobby?

Lonnie typed back
okay
and started feeling more of those sweats and palpitations coming on.
It's just going to be a quick drink,
she thought to herself, and rested her elbows on the desk to support the weight of her forehead in her hands. So what if this would be the first time they'd been out together when one of them didn't have to rush back to the office? So what if it included alcohol? So what if it didn't take even one drop of any mind-altering substance to make Dominick look damn good?

Then again, for all she knew, Dominick might have someone in his life already. Although she had a strong feeling that he didn't considering what he'd told her last month about spending his thirtieth birthday playing poker with his brothers. Surely if he had a girlfriend, he'd have had better plans than that.

For probably the millionth time that month, she mentally replayed the day she'd run into Dominick. She had just narrowly escaped Beauregard Twit, grabbing her long, furry ice-blue coat and heading to lunch before he could thrust another task on her. Once safely inside the elevator, she'd pressed L and contemplated what to get. Should she go across the street to the new salad place and waste a perfectly good Wendy's that was six blocks out of her way? When the elevator jerked to a stop on twenty, the heavy brown doors opened, and a tall, dark-haired man entered.

He gave her a small smile as soon as his eyes met hers, and she offered the requisite phony smile in return, inwardly cursing the affected standards of elevator etiquette. She stared straight ahead, as if there really were something fascinating about those heavy brown doors, until his voice broke her forced gaze. "Lonnie?" She turned to him, her green-honey eyes searching. "Lonnie Kelley."

That time it was more of a statement than a question. She searched his face for about three seconds before it clicked. "Dominick!"

He smiled widely and nodded. "Yeah, how are you?"

Once Lonnie brightened and kicked herself out of zombie mode, she said, "Good, good. What about you? I haven't seen you since college!"

"Yeah, back in college when you"—he hesitated before picking the most tactful verb—"dated my friend, Eric."
Dated?
Lonnie thought incredulously.
More like made a raving fool out of myself on a daily basis for him. Sure, I remember Eric.

"Eric?" Lonnie repeated, deliberately vacant. Then she waved her hand and threw in casually, "Oh right,
now
I remember." The elevator
dinged
and the doors opened to the airy, pink-marbled lobby. Dominick held out his hand, waiting for her to step out first. She did, and asked, "So how is Eric?"

Dominick just shrugged. "Actually, we sort of lost touch after college." They walked toward the front doors of the building and then paused for an awkward moment, both not knowing how to end a conversation with someone they hadn't seen in eight years when the reunion had barely progressed to banal small talk. Just then Lonnie's stomach growled audibly, prompting Dominick to ask her to lunch.

And he'd certainly been charming. He'd told her about his experience working as director of Web site development at GraphNet, an Internet company three floors down from Twit & Bell—the whole time punctuating his stories with self-deprecating humor. He'd described his plan of starting his own company that would design corporate software, and told her all about his brownnosing protégé, Harold. And the whole time Dominick had been talking—despite her best intentions—Lonnie had been checking him out. It wasn't like her to feel a sexual attraction for a man so quickly, but that day with Dominick it hit her suddenly and profoundly.

Probably six feet tall, dark eyes, hair almost as black as her own. Not handsome exactly, but the sexiest grin she'd seen since...

Then she'd caught herself, feeling embarrassed, afraid that Dominick had somehow read her mind and knew what she'd been thinking. And, speaking of that, what the
hell
had she been thinking to check Dominick out when she already had a perfectly adorable practically-semi boyfriend named... Terry? Terry, that was it.

Chapter 2

"Working hard?"

Lonnie looked up and smiled. Her favorite attorney, Macey Green, was taking the time to make conversation with her when she virtually never offered that opportunity to anyone else in the firm. It wasn't that Macey was rude. She was simply all business. Crisp and articulate, she was a shark of an attorney who, for some reason, had taken a special liking to Lonnie—who, in return, respected her tremendously.

"Hi!" she said cheerfully, and then noticed the black leather coat and briefcase in Macey's hand. "Are you heading out?" she asked.

"Yes. I have a few errands to take care of before my court appearance tomorrow." With her free hand, she combed some pale blond hair neatly behind her ear. "What are you working on?" she asked.

"Macey!"

Lonnie glanced over and saw Lunther Bell barreling down the hall toward her desk. In truth, she never knew quite what to make of Lunther. His I'm-just-a-humble-good-ol'-boy demeanor always seemed more like a well-honed shtick than a genuine personality. There was something else, too. Lonnie couldn't quite put her finger on it, but there was something odd about Lunther Bell that she just didn't trust.

"Macey, hold up!" he called as he jogged the last few steps to get beside her. He had a big smile on his face, not that it enhanced his physical appearance all that much. On a good day, he resembled a less stylish version of The Penguin. "I wanted to talk to you before you left tonight."

Lonnie couldn't help noticing Macey's expression change. The changes were subtle—a slight tightening of her full mouth, a barely perceptible squinting of her blue eyes—but her reluctance to speak with Lunther was clear.

"I'm afraid I don't have the time," she replied in a clipped tone without even looking at him. Instead, she shifted her briefcase to her other hand and smiled at Lonnie. "Have a nice night, Lonnie," she said, and walked briskly through the main doors. Lonnie assumed that Lunther would follow her out so he could catch her before the elevator came. But instead he stayed planted where he was, surveying the papers in his hands.

Abruptly, he glanced at Lonnie and gave her a forced smile. "Well, I guess I'll go fax this." He walked past her and set his papers on the large white machine. He punched in a number and hit send before turning around to attempt chitchat again. "Modern technology," he announced. She could only assume he was referring to the fax machine. "Gizmos, gadgets, you name it, they've invented it. It all gets a little confusing to me." He inserted an artificial-sounding chuckle, and Lonnie just smiled amiably.

The fax machine started beeping, indicating a confirmation sheet was coming out. But when Lunther turned back to grab it, it slipped out of his chubby hand and floated out of reach. He clapped his hands together in an effort to catch it midair, but the flyaway sheet continued to elude him, until it landed on the floor not far from Lonnie's chair.

"Here, I'll get it," she offered, and wheeled her chair a little closer to the piece of paper.

Lunther came up alongside her just as she was reaching for it, and shooed her hand away. "No, no," he insisted. "Now don't pay me any never mind. I've got it." Despite his words, he was gritting his teeth as if he were just barely containing his rage. He bent down to pick up the sheet, and ended up shoving his behind in Lonnie's face. She almost gasped.

She didn't mean to stare. Honestly, she didn't, but...
Good Lord.
Okay, yes, Lunther weighed around two-eighty, so that, in and of itself, suggested a large rear end. But still... the bulbous monstrosity in her face seemed disproportionate even to his body. She'd never noticed it before; his suit jackets obviously worked wonders. Only now his jacket had ridden up and flapped over across his back, allowing a completely unobstructed view. Hell, he looked like a beaver, and Lonnie couldn't tear her eyes away.