Drop Dead Gorgeous (16 page)

It seemed highly inappropriate. And suspect. “What are you planning, T. Larry? I don't think I trust you.”

He sighed, almost groaned. “Just bring that dress.”

Whatever. He was acting so oddly. “Sure.”

“And next time, call me as soon as you get home so I know you're safe.”

The phone clicked in her ear. She hugged the gadget to her chest. She hadn't even asked him about Harriet, about how he was feeling, how she could help. She felt so odd, her heart thrumming, a strange little tingle all over.

Boy. Richard's champagne must have affected her more than she thought. A lot more.

 

S
ITTING ON HER COUCH
, a bowl of popcorn on the coffee table, Harriet wasn't just sick anymore. She wanted to die. Her mother always said she acted before she thought. Well, this one was a doozy. She didn't know how to undo it. She couldn't crawl to T. Larry and say it had all been a mistake. She couldn't admit she was jealous because no one laughed at Madison's short skirts, yet harangued Harriet for her new dress. Oh, but it was so much more than skirt length. Harriet hated, just hated being one of Madison's pet projects. She couldn't, without sounding whiny and pathetic, explain to T. Larry how much she loathed Madison's be-nice-to-Harriet moments, as if Harriet was a charity case. She couldn't even ask Harry Dump for her retainer back. That would be even more humiliating than what she'd already done to herself.

Okay, so the morning with Harry had been cathartic. She'd raged about Madison. She'd cried about Zachary. She'd hurled the blame at T. Larry. She'd felt wonderful. Liberated. Vindicated.

Until Harry called to say he'd talked to T. Larry, and she realized everyone, absolutely everyone would know Zachary had porked her—porked as in poked a pig—then dumped her.

Harriet wiped the tears from her cheeks, blew her nose and fed Errol another kitty treat.

She was so stupid. Harry had said T. Larry would keep it all “strictly confidential,” but by the end of the day, they'd all know. Carp, Alta and Hobbs had info leaks like a flat roof had holes. Just when you plugged one, another popped through.

She snuggled deeper into the soft couch cushions, deeper into her fuzzy blue comfort pajamas. Errol purred against her side. Harriet sniffled. She was pathetic and whiny, and she hated it.

She could just hear Mike, Anthony and Bill.

Hey, Zach, was it like fucking a water buffalo?

How did you even find the right hole?

You didn't let her get on top, did you? Must not have, since your spine isn't crushed.

So unfair. The sniffle became a full-fledged sob. She had no one to blame but herself. She was the one who spilled the beans. And for what? Ten minutes of purging her emotions. Money, if she was lucky. Degradation, for sure.

If Zachary had really wanted her that night, she'd totally blown it now. He'd never want her again. Not after she'd dragged him down into the muck with her.

The doorbell chimed. Too late for neighbors, or salesmen or…Zachary?

She scrambled to her feet. Errol protested with a few choice cat murmurs. She looked like crap. Her hair was ratty, her makeup had smeared beneath her eyes, and oh God, she was sure there was a small hole in the crotch of her pajamas.

The bell rang again. She could pretend she wasn't home. Or she was asleep in bed. He'd give up. Then again, she ought to make sure it was really him.

His face was longer and thinner through the peephole. She whirled, flattened her back to the door and hyperventilated.

Another peal. She wouldn't panic. She'd act calm, cool and totally in control.

After one more deep breath, she flung the door wide, her cheeks all hot and her upper lip sweaty. “Zachary.” She stopped, swallowed. “What a surprise.”

He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. His skin shone with a fresh shave and a dash of spicy cologne. He looked so dear in a pink polo shirt and rumpled khaki pants. Some men couldn't get away with pink. Zachary looked gorgeous in it. Her eyes smarted. Why did she have to want a thin man?

Zachary started again. “Can I talk to you, Harriet?” From his fingers dangled a flowered bag stuffed with brightly colored tissue paper.

He'd brought her a present. “All right.”

Once inside he shuffled nervously to the couch, set the bag on the coffee table, then hiked his pant legs at the knee as he sat. Gulping air, he started talking so fast his words tripped over each other. “I'm sorry, Harriet. I never meant any of this to happen. I didn't want to hurt you. I care about you. Please can we move past this incident and get back to normal?”

It sounded rehearsed, as if he'd stood in front of the mirror speaking in different inflections to view the various effects. Harriet remained standing.

“You don't have to say anything, Harriet. I know it's all my fault. I take full responsibility and blame.”

Even Harriet knew it wasn't all his fault. She could be a little difficult sometimes. Zachary was a very shy person; she might have expected too much from him. But his words sounded more than practiced, they sounded coached.

“What's in the bag, Zachary?” She was almost afraid to know.

“Tokens of my affection.” He'd never bought her gifts. They'd had only the one night, or rather part of it, but she knew Zachary well enough to find the whole “token of his affection” speech suspect.

Her heart beat a little faster, and tears pricked her eyes again. “What?” It came out sounding nastier than she meant, but the dull ache in her chest didn't allow her to take it back.

His pale hand disappeared into the froth of pink and blue tissue, emerging with a gift-wrapped box. She knew that wrapping, could see the name though the thin paper.

Candies. Chocolates. A pound of them. The weight would adhere to her thighs like an alien creature.

Zachary would never buy her chocolates on his own. He wouldn't stop her from eating them, but he wouldn't put the temptation in front of her. At work, if a client sent a treat in appreciation, Zachary would carry the box around, making sure it was empty but one by the time he got to Harriet.

He hadn't had a mere coach, he'd had a bad coach.

Pissed because he'd been talking to someone about her, because he should have known better, she laid into him with her hands on her hateful fat hips. “So you want me to stay fat.”

“No, I—”

“You want someone to whom you can feel superior.”

“That's not—”

“What else is in there?” She stabbed at the bag.

A box the size of a jewelry case. Jewelry. A little of her misery seeped out her nostrils with a sigh. Oh, Zachary. In her hands, it was heavier than a ring box. A flowery aroma floated into the air. She fumbled with the wrapping and the box lid, unearthing a bottle of cologne. Cheap cologne.

“This isn't what I wear.”

“I didn't know you wore any. You always smell so—”

“Bad? So you thought you'd give me a hint that I stink?”

“I don't think—”

“You never think,” she screeched, and with that she threw the bottle at him, the atomizer popping off when it hit his shoulder. Perfume splashed his hair and neck and stained his shirt.

God, that was bitchy. And out of control. The stench made her eyes itch and water.

Zachary merely picked up the bottle from his lap, snapped the atomizer back in and set it on her coffee table.

She felt so bad, she couldn't stop. “Anything else in there?”

“One more.”

“Well, then you've got one more chance, don't you? This better be good.” Harriet the Harridan. She knew exactly why they called her that. But she couldn't have shut it down now any more than she could give Zachary the benefit of the doubt. Not now, not when she knew in her bones that someone had told Zachary to ply her with presents. Someone who didn't know her at all.

Someone like T. Larry who was only concerned about getting rid of her pesky little lawsuit.

With a timid hand, Zachary reached in once more. Another box, eight by eight. It didn't rattle as he held it in shaky hands. Please don't let it be.
Please
don't let it be.

She unwrapped it. A miniscule slinky pink teddy with white lace foaming at the high-cut legs. It wouldn't cover her breasts. It wouldn't hide one butt cheek, let alone disguise her thighs. She'd look like Miss Piggy in a pink tutu. “So you think you'd get a big laugh out of telling everyone what I look like in this.”

“I'd never—”

“Well, I wouldn't put this on for you if it cost a million dollars.” She'd burn it first. In fact…

She reached down for the lighter she used on her scented candles. Zachary's eyes widened at the flame, bulging as she held it to one frothing lacy leg.

The material didn't burn, it melted, emitting an odor so foul, her eyes stung. Harriet screeched and threw it at him. “It's polyester. It's goddamn polyester. You couldn't even buy silk or real lace. You cheapskate. You asshole. You pig.”

Her head throbbed, then pounded so fiercely she was sure she'd popped a vessel.

“Get out. Get out. Get out.” Chanting, until she didn't have a breath left. A frying pan, she needed a frying pan to bash him over the head. Better yet, a knife to cut off his balls.

He scuttled out the door like the terrified little mouse he was, taking with him the reek of cheap perfume.

Harriet burst into tears.

For about two minutes. Then she dried her eyes, stuffed the three boxes back into the bag, massacring the delicate tissue paper, and walked to the window.

His Nissan was still parked beneath the streetlight.

Window open, she leaned out, then flung the bag as far as she could. Splat went the chocolate, crack went the dime-store cologne. The teddy ended up at the curb in a mud puddle left by Mrs. Murphy's son when he'd washed his mother's car that evening.

Screw Zachary. Screw T. Larry. And screw Madison who would have looked perfect in that stupid pink teddy.

Everybody loved Madison. Everyone thought she was sweet and perky and wonderful and cute. Everything Harriet couldn't be even if she downed a year's supply of diet pills and turned bulimic. It wasn't about their weight difference. Men would buzz around Madison like good-for-nothing drones whatever she weighed.

If Zachary had made love to Madison on the conference room table, the next day he for darn sure wouldn't have pretended nothing happened. No, he would have asked Madison out and paraded her on his arm through the office as they left. Together.

Her blood boiled and her sinuses ached. Harriet had seen him slinking over to Madison's desk for his daily dose of Reese's cups. Reese's hah! His daily dose of sweet, perky, wonderful and cute was more like it.

How would Zachary feel about Madison if she wasn't perky all the time? How would everyone at Carp, Alta and Hobbs feel about her without the perk?

Harriet smiled to herself.

She'd give Madison's perpetually perky persona a shake-up.

 

Z
ACHARY STUNK
like a whorehouse.

And he'd blown it again.

He stared at the grubby teddy in the street. Harriet would have looked luscious in that pink teddy, good enough to eat. Not that she'd ever realize that herself. And he knew he wasn't man enough to show her how truly beautiful she was.

He should have told T. Larry those gifts were all wrong for Harriet. But T. Larry, being older and wiser, said chocolates, perfume and lingerie would help Zach slip right back where he wanted to be. In Harriet's bed, between Harriet's thighs, tongue in Harriet's succulent mouth.

He'd have Harriet, and he'd have his job, because surely Harriet would drop the suit.

But Harriet wasn't like Madison. She wasn't fun loving, easygoing or sweet as the dickens. She wasn't quick to laugh at herself or swift to forgive. He'd never know a moment's peace. He'd be forever patching the holes she put in the wall. She was a powder keg, and boy, she'd just blown sky-high.

Yet he still wanted her. Badly. Physically and emotionally. As if her tirades tripped a switch in him.

It was an odd game he'd watched his folks play, though at the time he hadn't understood. Zach now wondered if his dad picked fights just for the making up later, when he'd given his son ten bucks to disappear to the movies for the evening.

Come to think of it, the night he'd made love to Harriet, they'd been arguing over something on the AMI return. With the bright color flaming her cheeks, the glittering light in her eyes and her agitation, he'd been like a rock then, too.

Damn. Maybe he was one of those guys who had to beat a woman up to get off. Maybe he was into S and M. Maybe he should be locked away where he couldn't hurt anyone.