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Despite her conciliatory tone, Heather detected a slight glint in the other woman’s eyes. She pushed herself away from her desk and to her feet. “Screw you,” she said.
—
“I’m here to see Noah Sherman,” Heather announced to the receptionist in the nondescript outer office of Whitman, Loughlin. She was still trying to catch her breath, having run the more than twenty blocks from her office in less than ten minutes.
The attractive young woman behind the towering mahogany desk checked her appointment calendar, then gave Heather a quick once-over.Has she seen the video?Heather wondered, tucking her hair behind her ears and straightening her shoulders, as if daring her to say anything.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Just tell Mr. Sherman that Heather is here to see him.”
“Heather…?”
“Trust me. He’ll know who it is.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“No. It’s a surprise.”
The receptionist smiled indulgently. “I’m afraid that Mr. Sherman is in a meeting.”
“Then get him out.”
“Excuse me?”
“Get. Him. Out.” Heather took a deep breath, her final word escaping on a sigh. “Now.”
The receptionist’s face filled with worry. “Is something wrong? Is this an emergency?”
“Yes, to both questions.”
“I’m so sorry. Your name again?”
“Heather,” Heather all but shrieked, attracting the attention of a silver-haired, older man thumbing through a recent issue ofVanity Fairin a nearby grouping of leather chairs.
“Just a minute.” The receptionist lowered her voice as she spoke into her phone. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Whitman, but there’s a woman named Heather asking to see Mr. Sherman. She says it’s an emergency.” She hung up the phone. “Mr. Sherman will be right out. If you’d like to have a seat…”
Heather glanced toward the small seating area in the corner of the room. The silver-haired gentleman was staring at her with obvious concern.Has he seen the video?she wondered. “No, thank you. I’ll stand.”
“Can I get you anything?” the receptionist asked. “Some coffee or bottled water, perhaps?”
“Just Mr. Sherman.”
“He should be out in a second.”
And then there he was, entering the reception area from the hallway behind the bank of elevators, looking all business in his blue suit and navy-and-gold striped tie, concern causing his eyes to squint. “Heather…what’s wrong? Has something happened? Your father…?”
“My father’s fine, you son of a bitch!” Heather said.
“Whoa. Hold on a sec—”
“Don’t tell me to hold on a sec, you piece of shit—”
“Okay, hey. Calm down,” he said, grabbing her roughly by the elbow, his fingers digging into her flesh. “You’re making a scene.”
“I thought you liked scenes,” Heather snapped, yanking her arm away. “You piece of shit—”
“Okay. Stop. That’s enough. I don’t know what’s going on here or why you’re so riled up, but this is hardly the time or the place—”
