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Mrs. Stone lived in New York, happy to not suffer her husband of twenty-two years. His daughters were in their late teens, both socialites-in-waiting, and loathed their father for embarrassing their mother by openly taking a mistress.
    His current girlfriend had a two-year degree in culinary arts from the local community college. Tabitha was hardly qualified to be an advertising account rep, and they all knew it. Evan found her working as a cocktail waitress at his favorite watering hole. After going home with her the first night he met her; he offered her a job at his company.
    Tabitha , most of all, realized her precarious position. She had no choice but to make Evan happy or she got the axe and lost her over-priced apartment. It was then Emily observed the barely discreet, covetous glances Tabitha launched at Ian.
    Emily felt a fierce stab of acute jealousy, almost choking on it. She reached for her bottled water in front of her, resenting the fact she’d give anything to look like Tabitha to get Ian Sawyer’s attention. It was only a passing feeling of inept worthlessness, but it lingered on, making her fume at her own shallow assessment of herself.
    The fact Tabitha was checking out Ian wasn’t lost on her. Every woman in the building with a pulse was checking him out ; some of the men too; no doubt. The reason she felt so threatened was that Tabitha actually had a shot at Ian, while Emily could only dream about guys like him.
    It was disheartening to realize her gross limitations at that moment, feeling every bit of her confidence ooze away. Emily never felt such intense self-loathing before; growing more acute the moment she saw the looks of interest passing between the pair. For some reason, she refused to believe Ian Sawyer would be interested in someone like Tabitha.
    Emily’s eyes strayed to Ian, who managed to avoid Tabitha’s provocative gaze and met hers instead; his blue eyes making her melt inside. Who wouldn’t want him? She had no right being jealous. She was being ridiculous and knew it.
    Her husband had been dead less than a month. She knew this man barely two hours and already latched onto him emotionally, ached for him in ways that made her feel uncertain Joan’s prediction she wasn’t losing it, wasn’t more than accurate.
    Emily chewed her lower lip as the other members of the team heralded Tabitha’s endorsement. She knew it was all a joke. None of them would hesitate to drive a knife through her back. This was a dog eat dog business; after all. They were very much dogs, every last one of them. Bow wow , she thought as she looked around, waiting for more of what she got from Stu.
    There was Desiree Fernandez, the art director. She was older, broiling in muttered Latin curses under her breath at the end of the table. She was obviously not pleased by Evan’s choice. Not much pleased Desiree these days. She had a perpetually bad attitude and rarely smiled. Few knew it was because she longed to retire and return to Puerto Rico where her family lived. She’d divulged such details to Emily when she inadvertently got some of Desiree’s mail in her box. They were letters from her husband and sons. She flew home once every six weeks to see her family, but it wasn’t enough anymore.
    Then there was Leonard Whitman, or Lenny, who stammered uncontrollably. He was in charge of the editing department. He wore an ill-fitting suit and appeared out of place here among the more-fashionable group. If not for his genius with computers, he would have been canned just for wearing the same suit every day.
    Lastly was Ed Combs, a slick ad executive who worked his thick, dark brows too much, hit on anything in a skirt, and was known to be a backstabber of the worst sort. He would go along with any program, as long as there was something in it for him.
    This was her team , Emily thought in despair. Not one of them was a friend to her, though Lenny was the less of all evils. He was too afraid of his own shadow to