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“Where the hell are you?” he muttered, circling the room, holding the shoe in his hand like Cinderella’s useless prince.
That was when he spotted the note on the pillow. He’d overlooked it because Viv had tucked it underneath the mints. Dropping the shoe, he grabbed the note and unfolded it, quickly reading the short message.
Damien—
I know the truth. I can’t believe you lied to me about your “business.” I’ve been such a fool. Please don’t try to contact me, I honestly can’t deal with yet another deceitful man right now.
Viv
PS: I did not want to keep the damn clothes, but they took mine to the laundry! I did leave the shoes in the closet—please give them to the snobby saleslady you sent up here to torture and humiliate me.
PSS: I’ll return the clothes as soon as possible.
PSSS: Don’t worry about me. I got my job back.
And that was all. Vixen Viv, Vivacious Viv, Vibrant Viv...was gone.
6
ALTHOUGH VIV HAD worried her return to the Vanguard would be stressful, her first full week had gone pretty well. She was beginning to believe she’d made the right decision in taking her job back, and they’d certainly made it worth her while to do so. She’d not only gotten a decent raise, but also an end to her probationary period and a bigger office.
The week had been full of meetings with the acting team’s general manager, the director of Human Resources and somebody from the corporate attorney’s office. They’d fallen over themselves to assure her that Fred Stoker had acted without authority, and that he was gone forever. She’d also been informed that the players had gotten a lesson about sexual harassment. There would be no more bets, no more grabs, gropes, kisses, or come-ons.
At least, so they said. And so far, they were right.
Viv was aware that the organization was trying to keep her happy so she wouldn’t sue or spout off to the press—who finally appeared to have calmed down somewhat. Considering she’d had no intention of doing either, she felt bad about sucking up everything they were throwing at her. But not too bad. It would take a lot more than office perks to wipe away the memory of Neeley’s hands and mouth on her, or the public ridicule.
Her family’s reaction had been the worst. After spotting the TV coverage, her brothers had, as she’d feared, driven down from western Pennsylvania to make sure she was all right. All five of them. They’d growled and threatened, had tried to find out where Bruno Neeley lived. And they’d tried to drag her home.
Thank heaven she’d already been rehired by the time they showed up. Otherwise, considering how sad she’d been agonizing over the incident, and over Damien, she might have gone with them. But she’d be home again soon for her parents’ anniversary.
“Damien,” she mumbled, clenching one fist on her lap and tightening the other around a tortilla chip she’d just loaded up with salsa. The thing crumbled in her hand, sending bits of chip and tomato all over her fingers and the table.
“What?”
Grimacing, Viv grabbed a napkin and forced a strained smile at Lulu, who’d met her for Friday night happy hour to celebrate Viv’s first week back at work. Amelia would be along shortly, with Lex. Lulu’s new hubby, Chaz, would be joining them soon, too. As usual, Viv would be the fifth wheel, but considering how well things had turned out, Viv wasn’t going to complain.
“Nothing. Just clumsy.”
“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you? The guy?”
“Damien,” she whispered again.
“No word, huh?”
“Of course not. I told him not to contact me. Even if I wanted him to, he couldn’t, because I never gave him my number.”
“If he’s as rich as you say, he could track you down.”
“He wouldn’t,” she said, wishing her voice hadn’t trembled. “I made it clear I didn’t want to hear from him.”
Lulu licked a bit of salt off the rim of her margarita glass. “Explain to me again why you ran out on him? Why was it such a bad thing, him being a gazillionaire?”
“Because he lied about it.”
“He said, ‘Nope, no siree, I’m not a gazillionaire’?”
“Of course not. But for heaven’s sake, we talked about the hotel chain—the Paris location being his favorite—and he didn’t say one word about the fact that he owns the whole shebang.”
“Maybe he’s modest.”
She snorted. “Not even close.”
“Arrogant?”
“A little. But in a good way,” she admitted.
