FOUR
Reese toweled dryher wet hair and wondered if she would regret it if she drank a glass of wine. Now would be the perfect time to flop in the chaise artfully arranged in front of the window and sip a chilled white.
Except that nothing could force her to put on clothing and leave this room right now after the day she’d had. She’d order room service instead to satisfy her oral needs. If she had other oral needs that had been ignored for the last decade or so, well, that was her lot in life.
Undersexed and underpaid. Story at eleven.
Lucky for Ralph, and his sorry behind, the room was satisfactory. It was tucked away at the end of the hall far from the elevator, with a king-size bed and a view that didn’t include the parking garage.
Plus there had been a fluffy white robe in the bathroom, which she was now wearing.
After calling room service, she lay on the bed and tried to put herself in the right frame of mind for the wedding tomorrow. Think of it as a stepping-stone. Maybe she would run across someone important attending the wedding. A businessman with connections. A senator she could charm over the spinach puffs.
Or more likely it was a complete and total waste of her time and the only pressing news would be whether the bride wore a John Galliano dress or a Vera Wang.
Disgusted with her boss, her job, and her life, Reese reached for her briefcase to check her notes. She couldn’t even remember the name of the damn bride, which could make things awkward.
Who are you here for? The bride or the groom?
Oh, I’m just here because my boss won’t take me seriously due to my breasts.
She had an attitude problem and was well aware of it. Stuck in a rut at twenty-six.
A white envelope fell in her lap as she wrenched the briefcase to her side. Curious, she picked it up. Understanding dawned on her.
The envelope. That’s what the pushy yet mouth-watering FBI guy had wanted.
Her breath hitched. Her heart raced like she’d taken a hit of nicotine. Oh, no, this was bad.
Or good, however you wanted to look at it.
Something was in this envelope. Something that the FBI wanted.
Something that could take her career from the depths of the entertainment section to the heights of the front page.
Reese debated the ethics of opening the envelope. For about a microsecond. Then she tore with gusto.
A note fell out. Tight, spidery handwriting stared up at her.
Is this enough to prosecute?
Yeesh. Reese clutched it with growing excitement. The thrill, the anticipation, the surety that there was something wonderful and great and monumental ahead coursed through her like a sugar rush.
If only sex were this good.
Flipping through the pages, she began to bounce up and down on the bed, muttering over and over, “Whoa, whoa,whoa.”
Pharmaceutical company price-fixing. An intentional withholding of patents for generic drugs to force the price of the name brand product high.
This was so illegal. This was so awesome.
Grabbing her phone, Reese took a picture of each and every document, then checked to make sure they were clear and visible.
She was about to start reading the documents again, more slowly this time, when there was a knock on her door. She’d forgotten about the room service.
Tugging her robe closed, she quickly shoved all the papers back in the envelope, put it back in her briefcase, and went to the door.
Pasting a generic smile on her face, she opened it. And found herself face to face with double chocolate fudge eyes.