Mad About the Man Read Online Free PDF Page A

second, she considered making a couple of emergency calls to people she knew who could help her land at a new firm. But Ol’ BS and his uncle Wendell, aka Mr. Prescott, had already had the entire weekend to poison the well, so what would another few minutes matter?
    No, she might as well go face the firing squad, then come back here to her office for one last look, collect the little pink African violet she kept on the windowsill, her few personal items and family photos, and be on her way.
    She stood, then smoothed a crease out of her slim-fitting pewter gray pencil skirt, straightened her pale blue, long-sleeved silk blouse and gray suit jacket, and took a deep breath. Last, she put on her pleasant poker face—the one she wore in court when she had to appear before a particularly difficult judge. No matter what happened, she would show no fear.
    Prescott’s large corner office was at the end of a long central hallway. She felt a bit like a dead woman walking as she put one high-heel-clad foot in front of the other.
    When she reached his open doorway, she stopped, took one last breath, then knocked quietly and went inside. “Mr. Prescott, you wanted to see me?”
    Wendell Prescott looked up from where he sat behind his massive antique mahogany desk. Relaxing in a pair of wide brown leather armchairs were two of the other partners—Steven McNeal and Brice Burns, an up-and-comer who everyone assumed would be added to the masthead as soon as old Mr. Marshall finally stepped down. They turned their dark heads to look at her too.
    Birds of prey gathered for the kill.
    She gave no reaction, careful to keep a friendly, polite half smile on her face as she waited for Prescott to lower the boom.
    â€œBrie, yes, do come in.” He motioned with a hand toward an empty chair. “Sit and let’s talk.”
    She walked forward to do as he asked.
    So, Prescott wanted to play up the moment, did he? Well, she supposed they needed to go through their dog and pony show—appearances to keep up and all that.
    Rather than perch timidly on the edge of her chair, she settled back as if she had no anxiety whatsoever. Inside, her stomach felt like she’d swallowed a bagful of glass shards.
    â€œI might as well get right to it,” Prescott said, his thin gray eyebrows creasing over his cool gray eyes. “I understand there was an incident while you were in the Hamptons on firm business this weekend. Tennis injury to one of our prospective clients.”
    â€œYes, sir, that’s correct,” she said.
    â€œBarrett Collingsworth called to apprise me of the details. He was quite concerned about Mr. Monroe’s health.”
    And getting me fired.
    She thought about James’s comment and her earlier decision to make her case, but she would wait until they had laid out all their evidence before offering her own counterargument.
    â€œMcNeal was at home yesterday when he got a call from Monroe himself.”
    She froze. Monroe had called McNeal at home? She’d known Monroe couldn’t be happy about getting walloped in the face, but she hadn’t thought he was angry enough to track one of the partners down on a Sunday just so he could complain about her.
    Looks like he was.
    â€œThat’s right,” McNeal said, entering the conversation. “Monroe and I had a very interesting talk. He assures me his injury was treated and he’s already on the mend. He also told me that he wants to move his business over to our firm.”
    â€œWhat?” Her eyes popped wide.
    â€œMy reaction exactly, especially under the circumstances. He’s certainly never expressed any desire in the past to let us represent him, quite the opposite in fact. He does have one very specific stipulation, however, before he’ll agree to become a client.”
    Crap, here it comes.
She braced herself, waiting for the deathblow to fall.
    â€œMonroe will only come on board if you are the one to