Czytaj książkę: «Men at Work: Through the Roof / Taking His Measure / Watching It Go Up»
One calendar.
Twelve months of outrageously hot construction workers.
And a few fortunate women who get to sample their delights.
The stories behind the camera are hotter than the pictures – and the photos alone can send women into paroxysms of bliss…
These hard-working and hard-playing men don’t come with an instruction booklet. They’re locked, loaded and ready to perform. Meet the subjects of the naughtiest charity calendar around.
Ben Delgado: This Peruvian man has smouldering dark eyes and supremely talented hands that promise a lifetime of pleasure to his wife-to-be!
Josh Kittredge: A charmer who restores old houses and worked his way through college as a male dancer, Josh also has a sweet teddy-bear side that can turn on any woman – especially the calendar photographer!
Hawk Shadow Bonaparte: A native American ironworker, this man is tall, dark and oh-so-handsome. And when he takes a certain female private investigator to his job site at the top of a high-rise, she learns what it is to really soar.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Karen Kendall is the author of many disasters and fifteen published romantic comedies. While she’s fascinated by cosmetic procedures that erase wrinkles, plump lips, remove moles and augment breasts, she is too chicken to undergo them herself. Karen is becoming ever more resigned to a lifetime of pudgy thighs.
Cindi Myers believes there’s nothing like a man who’s good with his hands. She didn’t marry her husband solely because he owned a tool belt and looked good wearing it, but it certainly didn’t hurt. She lives and writes in the mountains of Colorado with her handy husband and two spoiled dogs.
In “Watching It Go Up,” Colleen Collins pulled from her experience as a private investigator to characterise the heroine, PI Gina Keys. Like many women in this profession, Gina is tough-minded, independent, creative and fearless – a perfect heroine for the story’s hero, a full-blooded Native American ironworker (called “Skywalkers” for their fearlessness and agility while working on skyscrapers). To read more about Colleen’s upcoming books, go to www.colleencollins.net.
MEN AT WORK
BY
KAREN KENDALL
CINDI MYERS
COLLEEN COLLINS
THROUGH THE ROOF
by
KAREN KENdALL
For Julita, who always makes me laugh,
and who needs no cosmetic procedures
to make her a great friend!
1
GO FIGURE—Marina Reston found it impossible to drive with cold cucumber slices over her eyes.
Even though she’d carefully cut out iris-sized holes in the centers of them with a sterling-silver grapefruit knife and had removed all those icky little seeds.
Even though she’d pulled a Saks Fifth Avenue baseball cap down to her brow-line and tucked the slices under the rim to keep them in place.
And even though, when that had failed, she’d used a very large manuscript rubber band to hold them on. Driving under the influence of cucumbers just didn’t work.
The juice ran into her eyes even when they did stay on. And they created huge blind spots, playing havoc with her depth perception. She was simply going to have to meet private investigator Gina Keys with horrifically puffy eyes.
Thanks, Ben. This wouldn’t be a problem if I could stop crying over you.…
How could her fiancé have broken up with her in a letter? How could he have just disappeared? And how could he not answer his cell phone or respond to the increasingly desperate messages she’d left over the past four days? Not only was she devastated, she was worried sick.
And then there was the question of the charity calendar Ben had promised to pose for. The shoot was next week. She had to find him before then or Frameworks for the Future would be short a model—but he’d obviously forgotten. Just like he’d forgotten her.
Well, that’s just fine…because I hate him.
Marina’s hands tightened on the wheel as if it were Ben Delgado’s neck. As if she could drive him around a corner, floor his gas pedal and run him straight into the plate-glass storefront of that Taco Bell… But, oh, hey!
What was she thinking? Ben was so not worth a storm of shredded cheese stuck to her 911’s paint job. Not to mention all the irate people in paper hats and food-service gloves who would be sure to yell at her.
Marina went back to the problem of her gruesomely puffy eyes. She could always leave her sunglasses on inside the P.I.’ s office, but that seemed so aloof and pretentious.
With a sigh, she pressed the small silver button that unrolled her 911’s window and then tossed the cucumber slices out the window, so they took to the air like mini flying saucers.
She rolled up her window again and frowned at the electronic GPS map in the Porsche’s console. Since she was traveling south, or upside down according to the map, it always took her a moment to figure out if the GPS wanted her to go left or right next. Because left, upside down, was like right, right-side up, and Marina had no sense of direction whatsoever.
Her delayed deductive reasoning eventually kicked in, and Marina turned right on 17th, heading for Little Havana. Soon she was on Calle Ocho, passing tiny meat markets, fruterias, herbal shops and cigar stands.
She craved a cafecito, or Cuban coffee, but given her already frayed nerves and shaky emotional state, it was a bad idea. A woman who’d been crying for almost four straight days and living on a diet of wine and Advil should definitely avoid caffeine.
Two blocks, another left and one parking slot later, she found herself in a small cluttered strip mall that housed G K Investigations. She gathered her purse, Jumbo Jamba-Juice cup and little Ziploc bag of cucumber slices and then headed toward G K’s office door.
She remembered that Ms. Keys kept her door locked for security reasons and pressed the button next to it.
A buzz indicated that she could now open the door and she clicked inside in her new bargain sandals. She’d saved thirty percent off the $595 retail price by ordering them from Bluefly.com.
And Ben says I don’t know how to spell economize. Her lip trembled.
Ben. Where was he? She had to find him. He couldn’t do this! She needed him. Loved him. They had a life together—he couldn’t just disappear this way.
“I’ll be right with you,” a voice called from the back.
Marina’s eyes welled up again as she looked around Ms. Keys’s very plain, very small office and wobbled over to one of two green velour easy chairs that had seen better days.
Oh, God. The swelling around her eyes would never go down before the silent auction tonight if she didn’t stop this. And she had to emcee.
Marina set her purse in her lap and her Jumbo Jamba-Juice on an old trunk cluttered with magazines. The only other piece of furniture in the reception area of the office was a very large dog crate that served as a stand for a beat-up coffeemaker.
She wondered a little nervously where the dog was—she was petrified of big ones. Curiously, the air held not a whiff of eau de canine—just a faint mustiness that was all too common in south Florida.
With unsteady fingers she opened her Ziploc bag and removed two more cucumber slices from her reserve stash.
She was just leaning back and placing one on her right eyelid when an inside door opened and a striking girl with white-blond, short, spiky hair stuck her head out. “Mrs. Reston?”
The girl stared at the cucumber slices. Then she took in Marina’s five-inch silver sandals and her adorable, silver leather Ferragamo bondage bag with the scarlet silk lining and tasselties. Her pale blond eyebrows shot up.
Meanwhile, Marina stared in fascination at the tiny sapphire in the girl’s nose. It actually looked fabulous on her and deepened the gray-blue of her eyes.
Marina sniffed woefully. “It’s actually miss.”
She tottered to her feet and gathered her belongings in her left hand, pinching the cucumber slices between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand. “It would have been Mrs. in just four months,” she blurted, “But then I found it.” She swallowed. “The letter.”
“I see,” said Gina Keys, not unsympathetically. It had to be Gina, since there was nobody else in the office. “Well, won’t you—”
“He broke up with me in a letter! Can you believe that?”
“Um—”
“A letter.” Marina brandished the Jumbo Jamba-Juice while Ms. Keys nodded calmly.
“Yes. That does seem a little—”
“Low-down? Cowardly? Generally crummy?” Marina’s voice rose and cracked.
“Passive aggressive.”
“I need you to find him for me. Can you do that?”
“Yes.” Gray-blue eyes met hers. The tiny sapphire glowed. “Why don’t you come into my office and sit down? And though I think you’ve figured this out by now, I’m Gina Keys.” She smiled.
“Marina Reston. And I’m sorry but I’m a bit of a mess right now.”
“Your fiancé’s disappeared. It’s understandable.”
Marina sniffled again. “Yes. Well. Thanks for not offering me ranch dressing for these. That’s what the guy at my bank did.” She dropped the bag of cucumber slices into Gina’s trash can, followed her into the other room and sat down in another slightly battered chair opposite her desk, which was actually a door with screwed-on legs.
Gina’s lips twitched. “Do the cucumbers really work?”
Marina nodded vigorously, stared at the door-desk and wondered how long the P.I. had been in business. But she came highly recommended by a friend, so maybe she was just one of those no-frills types.
Gina handed her a box of tissues, pulled a legal pad and pen closer to her and leaned back in her chair. “Well, why don’t you tell me about, ah, Ben. Delgado is his last name?”
“Yes.” Marina fought to get her thoughts under control, to push back all the images crowding her mind: Ben’s slightly dazzled expression when they’d first met in her garden to draw up landscaping plans. His self-assurance when he’d asked her out. The feel of his hand gripping hers as he helped her onto his friend’s boat and served her champagne with cold, sliced nectarines.
Ben’s expert salsa, his feet never missing a step and his hips gyrating and making her blush. The way he’d made love to her the very first time, as if she were the eighth wonder of the world. And the night he’d proposed to her. I’m not a rich man, mi corazón, but I’ll take care of you…I will love you until the day I die…you will want for nothing that is in my power to give you.
The words and images moved through her head like a personal film trailer and she was helpless to stop them.
“Ms. Reston?” Gina brought Marina back to reality with a jolt. “Can you tell me a little bit about Mr. Delgado?”
Her chest ached from inside; it physically hurt. Her throat was raw and her sinuses felt stuffed with fiberglass. Her stomach churned. She wished her brain would dissolve and free her from the mental torture of her memories, but they remained all too sharp. Pull yourself together, Marina. Tell her about Ben.
“He’s half Peruvian, though he spent his teenage years in Venezuela after his mother remarried. He has a U.S. passport, since his father’s American—of Spanish descent.”
“Do you have a photo?”
Marina nodded and fished a 5 x 7 out of her bag. Ben stared coolly from the picture, his black hair lifting in a May breeze. His stubborn jaw showcased a sensual mouth and even, white teeth.
He had long lashes and dark eyes, faint lines of humor—and mulish male pride—etched at the corners. Above them stretched black eyebrows, which used to form playful, sexy squiggles.
But lately, since the horrific early storm, they’d been slashes of deep worry and anger. Hurricane Ernestine had destroyed everything Ben had worked so hard to achieve. Did it have to ruin their love, too?
Marina ran her finger over Ben’s image, trying to feel his familiar, warm olive skin, the rock-hard arms emerging from the sleeves of his T-shirt. Of course, it was useless, since he had vanished just like every greenhouse tree, shrub and flower of his formerly thriving landscaping business.
But, while they had blown or washed away, he, the hopelessly handsome bastard, had walked.
She knew it had devastated him. That he’d spent weeks in a hopeless rage against fate and the weather and the small print in his insurance contract.
She’d tried to be there for him, but he’d pushed her away. She’d offered help but he’d rebuffed it. She’d offered comfort but he’d behaved as if it were emotional charity. How did a woman reach a man like him? How could she channel his futile fury into something more constructive? The answer: She couldn’t. She had to let him rage until he’d gotten it out of his system. But why was he punishing her for something nature had done?
Gina inspected the photo and then put it down on her desk without comment. She made a couple of notes on her legal pad. “Do you have others?”
“Yes. I can get them to you tomorrow.”
“What are his clothes like?”
Marina bit the acrylic tip on her index finger. “The ones I buy for him or the ones he buys?”
“I’m asking about his general look.”
“Jeans, Levi’s—nothing fancy. T-shirts, usually black and snug. No belt. No socks. Nice leather sandals. Maybe work boots if he’s on the job.”
“Jewelry?”
“A simple gold chain around his neck. No watch—he sold his Rolex after the storm ruined him. He wouldn’t let me give him another one.”
Gina nodded. “Clean-shaven?”
“Well, sometimes he’ll go a couple of days without a razor. He looks so hot when he does that…” Marina bit her acrylic nail again and this time she succeeded in cracking it. She stared at the nail as if it were a metaphor for her heart: Split down the middle with a jagged edge. The difference was that she could pay two dollars to have the nail repaired.
“When did Ben leave? Any idea where he’s gone?”
“H-he left when I went for my Tuesday massage. I came back totally relaxed—this guy Manuel is amazing—and I found the note, propped up against Gnarly’s food canister.”
“Did you say Gnarly?”
Marina nodded and tears started falling in fat droplets onto her quite-salty-enough nose. “Gnarly is the cat from his landscaping business. He showed up out of the blue one day and his fur, poor thing, was so snarled and matted and filthy that we called him Gnarly. I went to a vet for the equivalent of kitty Valium, got him nice and dopey and gave him a bubble bath. Then I spent three hours on him with a comb and a pair of scissors—some parts of his coat were beyond help. He’s the most beautiful cat now. But we still call him Gnarly.”
No doubt about it, Gina was hiding a smile. It was a nice one, not mocking. Still, Marina was suddenly conscious that she’d been babbling, focusing on an issue that didn’t make her cry. She felt…fluffy…next to Gina Keys. Had Ben left because she was fluffy? Because he didn’t take her seriously?
She’d never been more serious about a man than she was about Ben. She’d brave stretch marks and labor and the ruination of her breasts to have his children….
“So the note was next to his food. What did it say, exactly?”
Marina cleared her throat. “Well, it’s kind of personal and embarrassing.”
“I’m sure this is hard for you, Ms. Reston. But I really need to gather all the pertinent information in order to help you.”
Marina nodded and squelched the full-fledged bawl that threatened to get past her tonsils. “Okay. He said…it said…that I am still his amor, his corazón, his vida, but because he lost everything he can no longer give me any kind of a future—” Her voice cracked again.
“And so I have to forget him. I’m not to offer him my money because he won’t take it, won’t be an aprovechado. I think that means ‘kept man’ or something. And because he knows I’m not listening to him properly—ha!—he will put it in very blunt, vulgar terms—he can no longer afford me.” She said the last words bitterly.
Just thinking about it made her furious. Marina jumped out of her chair. “Cannot afford me! Like I’m some kind of greedy call girl!”
Gina Keys blinked at her.
“I don’t ask him to pay my bills,” Marina ranted, cut to the core. “He doesn’t need to. But it’s not my fault that my father died and left me a lot of money!”
“No,” Gina agreed politely, “I’m sure it’s not.”
“I run charities! I give back to the community! I’m not a wart on society’s butt.”
Gina choked on a sip of coffee from a foam cup on her desk.
“This is all about stupid, stiff-necked, macho, moronic male pride. And he’s ruining our lives.” Marina dropped her face into her hands and the bawl rolled right through the teeth she’d just paid almost a thousand dollars to have whitened.
She couldn’t control her grief. “I love him,” she said with a hiccup. “I can’t live without him. I can’t sleep and I can’t eat. I feel as if I’m going to explode—go through the roof.” Something nudged her arm and she raised her head to find it was Gina’s tissue box again.
“I’m sorry,” said the P.I., looking uncomfortable. “I promise I’ll find him.” She paused. “Look, I hate to say this, but you should be prepared—he may have gone to ground with a former girlfriend or even a new one.”
Marina shook her head. “Ben isn’t like that.”
“Mmm,” Gina said, in noncommittal tones. She sat down again, and Marina picked up her purse from the floor. She sat down again, too.
“Sorry. I’ll get hold of myself.”
“Take your time. Does Ben have a second home somewhere?”
“No.”
“Would he have gone to family?”
Marina shook her head. “He hates his stepfather, so he wouldn’t have gone to his mother in Venezuela. His older brother is in the navy and his half siblings are younger, still in school.”
“How about his father?”
“I already called him. Ben’s not there.”
“He could be covering for him.”
Marina nodded slowly.
“What kind of car does Ben drive, and do you have a license-plate number?”
Marina gave her the information, along with his date of birth.
“Where does Ben like to hang out in his spare time? What are his hobbies? Does he go to an athletic club or a sports bar or to the beach or to a shooting range…”
“Ben doesn’t—didn’t—have a lot of time for hobbies. He does lift weights and he likes to run on the beach, but to relax he plans and builds projects. Works with his hands. He enjoys that type of thing.”
“What kinds of projects?”
Marina firmly squelched another rising sob. “He did beautiful cabinetry on two walls of my garage. He put in a koi pond in my backyard, with a Japanese footbridge and a teak gazebo. And we were getting ready to build a house together. He was always sketching ideas for that.”
She gave Gina every scrap of information that she thought might be helpful. “You’ll find him for me?”
Gina nodded. She exuded competence; she obviously didn’t miss much.
Compared to her, Marina didn’t just feel fluffy—she felt silly, sitting here in her expensive designer duds with her threehundred-dollar highlights, asking another woman to find her fiancé.
Usually she felt chic. But right now she felt idiotic and incompetent and miserable and unloved.
The P.I. said, “I will locate Ben Delgado.”
“Thank you.” Marina’s chin came up and once again she eschewed tears for anger. “Once I make sure he’s alive and uninjured, I’m going to kill him. And then I’ll wake him up and give him a piece of my mind. After that, I’ll kill him again, just so he really understands. And, finally, I’m going to marry the son of a bitch.”
Gina set her elbows on her desk and steepled her fingers, a corner of her mouth quirking up. “All righty then. Will that be cash, check or charge?”
2
BEN DELGADO felt like the worst kind of shit-heel. He’d left his fiancée cold, but it was for her own good. A woman in the top echelons of Miami society couldn’t marry a loser without a cent to his name.
Besides, when a man lost his money and his livelihood, it was simply a question of time before his wife hit the road. That must be the reason those bad country songs were so popular. The ones yodeling about losing your woman, your pickup and your dog all in one night. They were true.
Witness to what his own mother had done, his dad had made a few lousy investments, had three consecutive deals fall through and, next thing he knew, his wife had taken off for Venezuela with his two boys. She’d lost no time divorcing him and marrying a better provider—some guy she’d met on a plane, for God’s sake.
Ben grimaced and picked up his cordless phone. So maybe he was a little cynical, but he had reason to be. Best not to get married at all, not have his heart ripped out and his children stolen. He could see it now: his kids brought up by a golfplaying cretin in plaid shorts with an alligator on his chest. No way.
Logic intruded as he dialed builder Mathew Tremaine’s business line and asked to speak to him. Tremaine was the man he and Marina had picked to build their dream house.
Logic tried to tell Ben that Marina Reston didn’t have to worry about finding anyone to provide for her. She could stuff mattresses with hundred-dollar bills, use them as wallpaper. For God’s sake, the woman headed up a foundation that funded thirty different charities.
But, for some reason, logic wasn’t getting through. The fact that Marina had her own money just made the loss of his even worse. The playing field, and therefore the power, was too uneven between them….
“Tremaine speaking.”
“Hi, Mathew. It’s Ben.”
“Benny! Good to hear from you. Thought you’d fallen off the face of the earth—I never heard back from you after I’d sent you the latest round of blueprints.”
Ben cleared his throat. “Yeah. About that—Hurricane Ernestine has wiped me out, buddy. We’re, ah, not going to be able to build our dream house after all. In fact—” he paused and chuckled weakly “—in fact, I can’t even afford to build a doghouse anymore.”
“You’re kidding,” Tremaine said.
“No, I’m not.”
“Your whole business?”
“The offices, the greenhouses, the barn—everything.”
Ben set his jaw and tried to block his mental panoramic view of the devastation. The sight of it in person had just about killed him, and he’d never forget it.
He’d had ten neat, productive greenhouses full of healthy, beautiful, tropical plants. He’d had a barn full of backhoes, tractors and other equipment.
He’d been proud of his neat offices on the property, with the paved patio, koi pond, fountain and atrium, where dozens of kindso fSouth American orchidsand bromeliads had flourished.
He’d built it all with his bare hands and the help of a few staffers, and now it was gone or destroyed. The walls of the barn had collapsed in on all the equipment. The winds had torn the greenhouses apart and scattered the contents everywhere. The roof over the offices had peeled back like the lid of a sardine can.
Floodwaters surged in and swept furniture and fixtures and business equipment away. To top it all off, mold and mildew had flourished over anything that was left.
Impotent fury gnawed at him all day, every day, because of it. The fact that others had shared the same fate didn’t help him deal with it at all—it just seemed so damned unfair. What had he done to piss off God? Was he cursed?
“It’s all gone or destroyed,” Ben said to Mathew. “Flattened. Splintered.”
The builder whistled. “I’m real sorry to hear that. We had some damage, but nothing like that. I don’t know what to say… Is it a total loss? What about the insurance? And—” He paused.
Ben heard clearly the words Mathew didn’t say. And isn’t Marina loaded? Couldn’t she build a palace in Monaco if she wanted to?
“Yes. It’s a total loss. My insurance company is claiming that most of the damage was done by water, and I didn’t have a separate flood policy. My lawyer isn’t getting anywhere with them. They won’t budge. I’m screwed.”
“I’m real sorry to hear that,” Tremaine said again. “Anything I can do?”
Ben swallowed. Oh, hell. This was ten times worse than he’d thought it would be. He tried to swallow his pride, but it burned an unholy path down his throat and scorched his intestines. He could feel it flaming in his stomach, smoldering, blackening a hole right through him. Just say it, Delgado. Say it.
“Yes, Mathew. As a matter of fact, there is something you can do. Do you have any openings with your construction crew?”
“Why, sure. You’ve got a good heart, looking out for your employees like this. Send them on over—I can always use a few more men.”
Ben squirmed. “You’ve got a good heart for taking them on. Thanks. But…it’s not just for the workers. It’s for me.”
A shocked silence ensued. “Christ, Delgado. You? You’ve got education, you’ve got managerial experience, you’ve had your own business. Why the hell do you want to work for me? There’s loads of opportunities for you to repair storm damage to vegetation and landscaping. You could make a killing right now—”
“I can’t do it, Mathew,” Ben said flatly. “I get too angry. My equipment is trashed, I can’t pay my suppliers or my guys, my insurance company is useless—it all puts me in a rage. I’ve got to calm down and do something else for a while. Get my bearings back.”
Again, he could hear exactly what Tremaine wasn’t saying. Couldn’t your rich fiancée pay your guys for five years over? Buy heavy equipment outright? Send her high-powered attorneys to sue the pants off your insurance company?
In quiet but concrete-firm tones, Ben said it. “I will not go to Marina for help. I can’t. It’s demeaning. Please, Mathew. Give me a job. You know my work ethic. I won’t let you down.”
“Of course you won’t let me down, you crazy bastard. I’ve seen the projects you’ve done around Marina’s… I just think you need your head examined. But I know better than to argue with you.” Tremaine sighed. “Well, c’mon, then. Get yourself over here and fill out an application. If you want, you can start work today.”
“Thank you. This means everything—I hope you know that. And one day, even if it’s years from now, you and I will build that house. It’s a promise.”
Mathew hesitated for a split second. “Glad to hear it.” Once again, Ben had no trouble reading his thoughts. You and I? What about Marina? What’s going on?
The truth was, Ben couldn’t have told him, since he wasn’t sure himself. All he knew was that he couldn’t go forward with the relationship or the wedding. He felt…worthless.
And though he loved Marina, she was hands-down the most expensive woman he’d ever dated. Her idea of saving money was to go stay at the Paris Ritz for only three weeks, instead of a full month.
She economized by getting a ten percent discount on an entire case of Cristal, instead of buying eleven bottles at full cost. Or buying couture off the rack and having it tailored to her body, instead of commissioning a gown from scratch.
She didn’t deliberately rub her money into his face—never. It was simply that she’d never lived any other way, so she didn’t have a clue how other people managed.
Marina had a huge heart, and she gave away twenty times what she spent, but still…
He thought about Miami’s Reston Humane Society, the RestonChildren’s Hospital in Palm Beach, the Reston Alzheimer’sResearch Facility in Boca Raton. The countrywide Frameworksfor the Future, an organization that built homes for the needy,which was Reston Foundation-funded.
Speaking of Frameworks for the Future, when was that calendar shoot Marina had talked him in to doing? He’d have to call the foundation and talk to Liz Olmos, the administrator. Because he sure as hell wasn’t calling Marina—even though he’d felt guilty at her distraught messages. She needed to forget him.
Ben knew that a man was more than the money he made, but he felt like a failure in the face of Marina’s wealth. And he couldn’t be her husband—or anyone else’s—when he was a failure.
MARINA HAD no problem combining business with pleasure. Why not run numbers while naked and slathered with rosemary-peppermint oil?
She shrewdly eyed the column of figures a foot beneath her face and, once again, examined the total. It was off. She knew it in her bones. And she knew who was responsible.
“Ms. Reston,” Manuel said as he kneaded her lower back and the tops of her glutes, “you shouldn’t be going over accounts right now. The point of a massage is to relax.”
“I know, sweetie, but I need to figure out what’s wrong here. I don’t mind giving money away to worthy causes, but I get very bent out of shape when someone’s skimming funds for their own personal use.”
“Someone’s stealing from you?”
“I’m getting that feeling. Unfortunately, it happens every couple of years. Somebody I employ makes the mistake of thinking that I won’t notice, that I’m stupid or careless simply because I like to shop and have my hair done. Can you imagine?”
Manuel coughed. “No, ma’am.”
She eyed him a bit suspiciously and then drummed her polished fingernails on the Excel printout, which lay on top of a rolling stool under her nose. It was a little difficult to see with her face mashed into the padded, doughnutlike head support of the massage table, but the hole in the middle did enable her to do some work even under Manuel’s expert ministrations.
He worked magic on her muscles, but she couldn’t relax. The person skimming funds was a single mom. A hard worker. Someone struggling to make ends meet.
She’d had no problem having the cokehead intern arrested when he’d raided the petty cash to fund his habit. But this?
Marina continued to study the figures and traced a pattern. Her employee skimmed funds only once per month, as if before some bill were due. Hmm…
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