Page 29 of Dying to Meet You
When Mr. Wincott returns from his lunch, she’s in an awkward position on her hands and knees in front of an open filing cabinet. At least the coffee is ready, and the files he’d asked her to clean up are in order.
Mostly.
He aims an appreciative gaze at her backside as she scrambles to her feet. “Don’t stand up on my account,” he says darkly. “I liked that view just fine.”
“How was your meeting, sir?”
“Dreadful.” He shucks off his suit jacket on his way to his office. “But then I had a nice lunch with a generous donor and his fat checkbook. Things are looking up.”
When he smiles to himself, she relaxes. “Coffee?”
He shakes his head. “Is the payroll waiting for me?”
“Of course.” The file is right on his desk alongside the foundation’s checkbook. And his luxurious fountain pen with the Wincott trident etched into its gold surface.
She’s not going to screw anything up today. He’ll have to find someone else to complain about.
Coralie follows him dutifully into the office and waits while he tests his Montblanc on the blotter. Then he signs all seven of the checks the accountant dropped off earlier.
It’s a small organization, as Mr. Wincott likes to say. But we make great change in people’s lives.
She’d been hoping hers could be added to the list of lives changed. That’s why she’d taken this job.
And it looks like she was right, but not in the way she ever intended.
After signing the last check, he hands back the folder so she can send off the checks. “It’s month end,” he says expectantly.
Well, shit. Seems she forgot something after all. “Yes, sir,” she says quickly. “One moment.” She trots to a cupboard on his office wall and locates three more white envelopes and three stamps. She delivers them promptly.
He unlocks his bottom desk drawer and pulls out another checkbook—a special one. She’s only seen glimpses of it, but it’s drawn on an island bank she’s never heard of.
The last girl who had this job told her about these, too. Three more checks to three more people. You won’t be asked to address the envelopes or mail them. And don’t watch while he signs them. It makes him cranky.
She carries the payroll folder back to her own desk to give him some privacy.
Her hands are shaking a little bit, and her eyes feel achy in their sockets. That’s never a good sign. Whenever she feels like this, she knows a migraine is coming on. Sometimes they last for days.
“Coralie?” he calls two minutes later.
She smooths her skirt and walks back into the office. The envelopes and the special checkbook are already gone. “Yes, sir?” He loves it when she calls himsir.
“What did you get up to while I was gone? Anything fun?” He’s in a playful mood.
She rearranges her face into a smile. “Depends what you mean by fun. If you’re excited by alphabetizing folders, then I had a blast.”
His laugh is indulgent and meant to be seductive. “Bring us two glasses,” he says. “And ice if you wish.”
“Of course, Mr. Wincott.” She goes back to the outer office and opens another cabinet over the coffee bar.
He keeps the scotch glasses up here, the last girl had said. “They’re fragile, so be careful. I chipped one once and I thought he was going to fire me,” she told Coralie. “Listen—if he’s in a certain mood, he’ll tell you to bring two of them. But please understand—you don’t have to. Youcan just bring a single glass. It sends a message. Because if you take that drink? His hand is up your skirt two minutes later.”
It’s not even a difficult choice. She’s already played with fire, and she’s already been burned. That’s why she retrieves two of the hand-cut crystal glasses before closing the cabinet.
She might as well. There’s nothing to lose now.
By the time she sets the glasses on his desk, two ice cubes in hers, he’s already pulling the top off the bottle that he keeps in another desk drawer.
She knows how much the scotch costs. You could get a pair of designer shoes for the price of that bottle. And when the scent of it reaches her nose, she tastes revulsion on the back of her tongue.
