Part 18 (2/2)

”As soon as I know something. Now, quit hounding me,” p.i.s.sy snapped, and hung up.

Samantha slammed the phone down and growled, ”Bee-atch.” If only she had a magic lamp. She'd use it to strand p.i.s.sy on a desert island with no chocolate.

She sat drumming her fingers on her desktop. Something or someone was holding up those permits. Samantha didn't believe p.i.s.sy had that kind of power, even though she liked to think she did. So why was this taking so long?

Obviously, she wasn't going to get to the bottom of the problem over the phone. She'd have to go over there. She'd catch Del before lunch and talk to him, see if he'd pull some strings to get things moving.

She almost had Center Street to herself as she walked down it. She did encounter one couple who were strolling along and window-shopping and couldn't help overhearing their conversation as she approached.

”It's a cute town,” the woman commented.

”I guess,” the man said. ”But there's no snow.”

That wasn't true. There was some, enough to ski on...if you were a rabbit.

”This was a waste of vacation days,” Mr. Good Sport said.

It took every ounce of willpower for Samantha to press her lips firmly together, but she was sure she had enough steam coming out of her ears to melt what little snow there was right off the highest peak. A waste of vacation days? Ha! She'd show him.

She was still steaming when she got to city hall, and encountering p.i.s.sy on her way out didn't improve matters, especially when Samantha saw that she was on her way out with Blake. ”We're going to lunch so I can't help you.” p.i.s.sy smirked.

Blake was taking p.i.s.sy out to lunch? Well, how perfect, two stone-cold hearts beating as one over bratwurst. ”I wouldn't dream of keeping you from your lunch.”

”Good, because I know Blake is a busy man,” p.i.s.sy said, linking her arm through his.

Gack. Even though these two deserved each other, even though Samantha couldn't care less whom he took to lunch, she couldn't resist stealing a glance to see if Blake had swallowed this wad of flattery. His cheeks had taken on a ruddy tinge and he didn't look Samantha in the eye.

He cleared his throat. ”Well, we'd better get going.”

”We have reservations at Schw.a.n.gau,” p.i.s.sy said.

La-di-da. The two of them were probably off to conspire on how to keep those permits tied up. She hoped they choked on their schnitzel.

”Oh, and if you want Mayor Stone, you're too late. He's gone to lunch,” p.i.s.sy called over her shoulder.

Samantha glared at p.i.s.sy's departing back. Wouldn't it be nice if looks could kill?

Blake was not having a good day. In fact, the day before hadn't been so good, either. First Samantha Sterling had left him smarting from that disgusted look she'd given him on the steps of city hall, as if it was a crime to take someone to lunch. Of course, he'd like to have told her he was taking Priscilla Castro to lunch in order to sweet-talk her into making sure those permits made the rounds and got signed in a timely manner, but that wasn't something he could explain with Priscilla standing right there. And when he'd finished b.u.t.tering up Priscilla like she was corn on the cob, he'd tracked down Del Stone and given him a friendly nudge, too.

After accomplis.h.i.+ng his mission, he'd thought of stopping by Samantha's office to let her know what he'd been up to. He'd envisioned her hugging him gratefully and saying, ”I had no idea. That was so sweet of you.” That happy vision had put a smile on his face and he'd still been smiling when he answered his phone.

Darren Short had quickly wiped it off. ”I'm coming your way tomorrow and I'll have Trevor Brown from Madame C with me. I want to show him the Sweet Dreams facility.”

”You-you what?” Blake had stammered.

”I want to show him the facility.”

”We don't own that business yet,” Blake reminded him.

”We hold the note. We're within our rights to inspect our investment.”

”You're not coming up to inspect it.”

”I am in a sense. This is all totally legal,” Darren a.s.sured him.

But not even remotely ethical. ”There's no need to rush. Let's hold off until March.”

”Trevor wants to scope out the place, see what kind of condition it's in. There's no harm in looking.”

Yeah, tell that to the Sterlings, Blake thought. ”I'm not going along with this.”

A moment of deathly quiet hung between them. ”Am I suddenly working for you?” Darren finally asked.

”No,” Blake said, ”but why have you got me up here if you don't trust me to do the bank's business?”

”Come on now, Blake, there's no need to get stiff-necked about this. I'm looking out for the bank's interests-just like you are.”

The implication was plain. Blake's loyalty was suspect and if he didn't cooperate he'd show his true turncoat colors. He didn't want to go along with it. But he didn't want to get fired, either. Then he'd be in no position at all to help any of his customers, especially the Sterlings.

Like you're being such a big help to them now?

That question had nibbled away at his peace of mind the night before and all morning long. Now, as he saw Darren walk into the bank beside a thin gray-haired man with jowls, dressed in slacks and a sweater, it went from nibbling to gobbling.

”Blake, meet Trevor Brown,” Darren said jovially.

”Nice to meet you,” Brown said, and held out a greedy paw.

Shake hands with the devil. Blake clasped the man's hand and nodded curtly. ”Trevor.”

”I'm anxious to see this place,” Brown said, not wasting any time.

”I think you'll find it well worth the trip,” Darren told him. ”Don't you, Blake?”

”You do understand, of course, that this is a family business and the family is doing everything in its power to keep it,” Blake said, making Darren scowl.

”Of course.” Brown nodded genially. ”But frankly, they don't stand a s...o...b..ll's chance. We all know that.”

Sadly, they did.

”So,” said Darren, giving Blake a look that threatened not only termination but dismemberment, ”shall we go?” Blake was about to claim a heavy workload and stay behind when Darren said, ”Lead on, Blake.”

Blake clenched his jaw and walked with them out of the bank, feeling like a Judas goat about to lead the sheep to slaughter.

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