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“Mr. Thurston is waiting for you.” The woman indicated the way to her left with a manicured hand. “Would you like me to have a coffee brought to you?”
“Oh, no. No, thank you. No.”
“Go right down.”
“Thank you.”
The firm’s Big Wig waiting area was like a hotel lobby, full of modern marble sculptures and padded leather chairs, and its view of Caldwell’s twin bridges was beautiful, especially on a sunny May day. The fresh flowers in crystal vases were a nice touch, too, the flares of pastel yellow and pink adding discreet pops of color.
Passing by a lineup of high-end conference rooms, Anne came to a second reception zone that was smaller, but no less formal, and there was Miss Martle, sitting at her desk like a sentry in front of a military garrison. The woman was on the phone, speaking quickly and with force, and as she held up her forefinger for Anne to wait, you had to wonder if the thing was loaded and what kind of range it had.
Miss Martle ended her call. “You may go in. He’s off his line now.”
Anne’s eyes shifted to the open doorway beyond. “Thank you.”
Approaching the corner office, her feet made no sound on the thick carpeting, and she could smell fresh coffee and something cinnamon, as if there were a cook somewhere making the partners their breakfasts to order.
It’s a different world, she thought as she stepped inside what was considered hallowed ground.
Silhouetted against the view of Caldwell’s other half, sitting behind a desk the size of a king-sized bed, Mr. Thurston was white-haired and distinguished in his pin-striped suit, looking as if a Supreme Court justice and a Wall Street tycoon had had a love child.
The man glanced up from an orderly stack of documents and removed his tortoiseshell reading glasses. “Miss Wurster. Sit down.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Closing the distance, she lowered herself into an oxblood leather seat across from the man. The royal-blue-and-gold office was so vast that it had its own meeting table, as well as a bar and what had to be a private bathroom off in the corner. Mahogany shelves filled with leather-bound books covered all the walls, except for a six-by-six area reserved for a full-length oil painting of a man who looked so much like Mr. Thurston that he had to be the man’s father or grandfather.
They had the same icy blue eyes.
And wow… Bruce had painted his apartment the exact shade of this navy color, hadn’t he.
When there was a soft click from behind, Anne twisted around to find that they’d been shut in together.
“I understand there has been some unpleasantness,” Mr. Thurston said. “How are you feeling.”
Totally not surprised the man knew about the whole thing—because nothing escaped him if it involved his firm—Anne raised a hand to her temple. She’d replaced the hospital’s bandage with a couple of Band-Aids, and she was hoping to go without them entirely soon.
“I am fine, sir.” She went back to clutching her steno pad. “Thank you.”
“I never did care for that McDonaldson character. Saw right through him. Glad he’s gone.”
“Yes, sir.”
“There’s a reason that we don’t encourage interoffice dating.” This was said with censure, as if she were Eve with an apple, as if she had courted trouble and shouldn’t be surprised when it came to her. “It’s really not appropriate, but you young people have different ideas of things.”
“We disclosed our… we did go to human resources. Per the employee manual.”
The hmrph that came back at her could have meant a lot of things, none of which were complimentary. “Enough about that.” Mr. Thurston linked his fingers together over the case work he’d been reviewing. “We, the firm, want to make sure you’re taken care of.”
“I’m sorry, sir?” Outside the office, a phone rang softly. “So I’m not fired?”
Mr. Thurston waved his reader glasses. “Of course not. You’ve never caused any trouble outside of this McDonaldson business.”
Between one blink and the next, Anne relived the feel of Bruce’s hands locked on her throat, and saw his screaming, furious face inches in front of her own. The temptation to point out that being assaulted by a man whose lies had been exposed wasn’t something she had “caused” stung.
“So we’d like to give you a thousand dollars.”
Anne lifted her brows and tilted forward in the chair. “Excuse me?”
Mr. Thurston smiled like a king sparing the life of a serf. “I know, it’s a lot of money. But this firm cares about its employees. We understand that there was a visit to the hospital for your very minor injuries and we want to help with your medical bills. We know that we’re being too generous. People first, though. It’s our slogan.”
No, Anne thought. The firm’s slogan was Integrity, Excellence, Legacy.
“I don’t need any money,” she said. “I just want to keep my job.”
