She's the Boss (14 page)

Hah! She would pay dearly for that! I coiled myself under the sun-touched ball that seemed to be hanging mid-air. As the floating ball gently curved and descended, I jumped up high in the air like a ninja and hit an overhead smash. The ball sliced through the court, kicking up dust near Jewel’s helpless baseline.

Money shot!

“YESSSSSS!” I screamed, feeling my endorphins skip with vengeful satisfaction.

Deepak raced toward me and slapped me a high five.

We ended up winning the first set.

The second set went like this: Jewel would hit lob shots with topspin, and I would hit the return with backspin to keep the ball in play. And when she’d hit lobs with backspin, I’d return the shot with powerful topspin. Shane just sort of stood there like a village idiot.

In the spirit of teamwork, I tried to include Deepak but instead of running toward the ball, he’d run away from it, yelling, “YOURS!”

Miraculously, Jewel and Shane ended up winning the second set. But by the third set, they had lost steam. And they were no match for my formidable tennis forehand—my meat and potatoes shot. I was physically relaxed, mentally alert and played with poise, whereas Jewel was over fatigued and cracking at the seams. By then her grunting noises were reduced to that of a drowning cat. It was obvious to all that I had the overwhelming edge.

With the determination akin to a mating salmon, I hardened my resolve and played even more aggressively, rushing, skidding, shuffling, reaching out to get one more shot, sharpening my already lethal service return. When I flashed a cheeky drop shot, Jewel just sort of froze. She stood there motionless, declining to even give chase. And when she
did
go after the ball, her sluggish backhand kept finding the net.

I was closing in.

After a long rally, the ball came close to the net and I chipped it. Jewel lurched forward and managed to get it back to me. I tore down the court and went diving for the ball, but it wasn’t enough. I became painfully aware that there was absolutely no way I could reach the ball unless I pulled a Hail Mary. Arms flailing, I made a heroic leap and flung my racket at the ball.

Then time stood still.

Actually, it just sort of slowed down. Everything seemed to move in slow-mo frames.

Frame one: The racket went soaring through the air and nicked the ball.

Frame two: Jewel made a low and guttural growl of protest, “NOOooooo.”

Frame three: The ball went BOING, BOING, BOING, bouncing over the net, cross court.

Frame four: Carter stood up and announced, “Game-set-match.”

Frame five: Jewel screamed until she went puce.

“Victory is ours!” I dropped to my knees, kissing the green court.

Jaws were on the floor.

Love was pouring over me like chocolate gravy on biscuits and bacon.

Spectators were cheering.

Wait, there were no spectators in the stands. Come to think of it, there were no spectators’ stands either.

It did not matter.

“Victory is ours!” I yelled once more, falling backward, spread-eagled and overcome with joy.

Jewel folded her arms across her cage-like chest. “You were just lucky.”

“Lay off the champ, will ya,” Deepak snapped. “We were badass!”

“Damn straight,” I added smugly.

“Really, Kars.” Deepak extended a hand and pulled me off the ground. “You’re not a bad player—for a girl!”

“For a girl?” I slapped him on the back, almost winding him. “Talk about backhanded compliments.”

Still, it didn’t faze me in the least. I was still easing down from the dizzying heights of Wimbledon stardom.

Carter strode across the court and gave us a congratulatory smile. “Good game guys!” Then he turned his attention to Shane and Jewel. “The two of you can head on back to the call center now.”

As the sore losers swept past us, Carter added, “Karsynn and Deepak, head on back to the locker rooms and clean yourselves up. You’ll be joining me for lunch at the club house.”

I’d come prepared. Sensei Truong had taught me well. I was dressed to kill. To slay. After a quick shower, I got myself gussied up. I slipped on my J. Crew power suit and paired it with my studded black Maneater heels. A quick glance in the full length mirror, a final flick of mascara and I was ready.

The overall effect was smart business casual meets edgy rock chick.

Then I power walked over to the power restaurant for our power lunch.

On the way, I met up with Deepak and we immediately sized each other up to see who was the better dressed (definitely me, I surmised).

His outfit was giving me the douchebumps.

I could see the hallmarks of iron creases on the front of his skinny jeans.

Who irons their jeans? Deuce Bigalow Male Gigolo, that’s who!

And who wears nut squashers like that to a business meeting? His jeans were so tight they looked like they were painted on. I was fairly certain that if he farted, his Italian shoes would blow right off his feet.

“So . . .” I fell into step beside Deepak. “What’s your strategy?”

Deepak gave me a playful wink. “I’m just going to do what I do best.”

No further explanation needed. Deepak had elevated ass kissing to a fine art, so I knew what to expect. “You’re such a brownnoser!”

“Actually,” Deepak amended, “I’m more of an ass kisser.”

“Same thing.”

“Nope.” Deepak ran a hand through his gel-slicked hair, flashing his gold cuff-links. “There’s a big difference between ass kissing and brownnosing.”

“Really?” I said mildly. “And what might that be?”

“Depth perception.”

I rolled my eyes. “Deepak, you’re so full of it.”

“Hey, when I can’t dazzle with brilliance, I baffle with bull.”

I sighed. Deepak always sounded so rehearsed, like an actor struggling to make the best of imperfect lines.

“Trust me,” he carried on brightly, “it’s a clever strategy.”

I raised a skeptical brow. “If you say so.”

“And what about you?” Deepak enquired, “What’s your strategy?”

“Me?” I gave a careless shrug and said truthfully, “I’m just going to be myself.”

“I’m not too sure if it’s a good idea to show your true self, warts and all.”

I knew Deepak was addling with my mind. “Well,” I said, putting conviction into my voice, “that’s my strategy.”

“Anyhow,” said Deepak, “now that it’s down to you and me, it’s gonna be the
Clash of the Titans
.”

Dead from exhaustion after the grueling tennis match, I couldn’t sum up the energy to hold a conversation with Deepak. With some effort, I nodded and half-smiled at his gentle babbling.

God. He talks crap. And he does it so well.

Chapter Ten

“Oh there you are, Carter!” said Deepak in a voice of artificial surprise.

Carter was sitting outside the Shanghai Cafe, thumbing through his BlackBerry. As we approached, he looked up with a fairly unwelcoming expression and briefly acknowledged our presence.

I managed a perfunctory smile, aware that he was openly observing us. “Have you been here before, Carter?”

“Nope.” His reply was succinct, as usual.

I preened and straightened myself, in case Carter wanted to comment on how nice I looked. He didn’t.

Deepak flashed one of his practiced smiles. “Shall we go in now?”

We strode into the restaurant and beneath my spiky heels, the plush carpet yielded pleasingly. I glanced around, taking in my surroundings. The atmosphere seemed relaxed but conducive for business.

Deepak strutted to the front of the house and declared self-importantly, “We need a table for three. Pronto.”

Without looking up, the hostess informed him that there would be a thirty minute wait.

“Thirty minutes?” Deepak snorted quietly. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Despite kicking up a fuss, Deepak left his name with the hostess and rejoined us.

Minutes later, the frazzled hostess bustled past us with a quick “Excuse me.”

I was mildly surprised when Carter dazzled her with a roguish grin. “Hi there!” he said. “It’s so nice to see you again.”

“Oh, hi!” The hostess immediately squared her shoulders. “Nice to see you too, sir.”

“Oh, there’s no need to call me sir. Carter will do.”

After a frozen moment, she brightened and said, “Right. Carter. So nice of you to come back to the Shanghai Cafe. I think we might have a table in the back that has just opened up.”

“Really?” Carter said brilliantly. “That’s fantastic!”

“Yes. Right this way, please.” She led us to our table with a noticeable spring in her step.

I pulled out a chair and said
sotto voce
, “Carter, you told me you had never been here before.”

“And I haven’t,” he said simply.

“So basically, you were deceiving the hostess.”

“Not really.” Carter leaned back and studied the menu. “I was just being friendly.”

“But,” Deepak cut in, looking genuinely perplexed, “she told me there’d be a thirty-minute wait.”

Deepak’s question was met with silence.

“Good afternoon, folks,” our waiter greeted us with the requisite air of gravitas. “My name is Arthur and I’ll be your waiter this afternoon.”

“I think we’re ready to order.” Carter glanced around the table and Deepak and I nodded our assent. “Yes,” said Carter decisively, “we are.”

“Wonderful!” said the waiter. “Let’s start with the lady at the table.”

“Um.” I nibbled my bottom lip. “I’ll have the Szechuan Chicken, please. Extra spicy.”

“Good choice,” said the waiter. “And to drink?”

“An Arnold Palmer iced tea.”

Then the waiter turned to Deepak. “And for you, sir?”

“Er . . .” Deepak studied the menu whilst hemming and hawing, his face a mask of indecision. “I’m not so sure.”

“Shall I come back in a few minutes?”

“No, no.” Deepak’s voice surged with irritation. “Actually,” he said in a rush, “I’ll just have whatever this fine gentleman next to me is having.” He flashed Carter a hundred watt smile.

I shifted uneasily in my seat and noticed that Carter didn’t quite return Deepak’s smile. “Do you even know what I’m having?” he enquired sharply.

“I don’t,” Deepak replied. “But I’m fully confident that you have excellent and exquisite taste.”

At this point, Deepak had lost his depth perception.

Carter glanced up from his menu. “I’ll have the Phoenix Claw.”

“And to drink?”

“An ice cold Tsing Tao.” Carter snapped his menu shut. “Thank you.”

Deepak made a great play of studying the wine list, lightly tapping a finger on his chin as he evaluated the selections. It’s a shame he didn’t have a beard to stroke, too. “I’m torn between the Château Mouton-Rothschild and the Beerenauslese. Or,” he added reflectively, “maybe I should just go with the Blanc de Blancs.”

Mon Dieu! Sacré bleu! Deepak spoke with a note of
hauteur
in his voice, complete with all the proper inflections.

It sounded something like this: I’m torn between the sha-TOH moo-TAWN rawt-SHEELD and the BAY-ruhn-OWS-lay-zuh. Or maybe I should just go with the BLAHNGK duh BLAHNGKS.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or be highly impressed.

The waiter made a suggestion. “Sir, the Château Mouton-Rothschild would pair nicely with the Phoenix Claw.”

Deepak nodded wisely. “I’ll suppose I’ll go with the sha-TOH moo-TAWN rawt-SHEELD.”

“Excellent,” said the waiter. “We offer both the 2006 and 2010.”

“A 2010? GOD NO!” Deepak said it with such force that he almost fell off his chair. “I’m no animal! I don’t drink wine that young.” He frowned with disgust. “Besides, that year was too wet.”