Maybe that was a good thing. She was pretty sure she hadn’t been recognized, and that was important. Another stupid mistake, she scolded herself. She ought to have suggested separate elevators.
She’d understood the purpose of the grab, and the kiss, but her mind and body had gone separate ways. There hadn’t been any reason to take a swing at her boss’s boss’s boss, but she’d panicked.
Palms grasping at her ribs, thumbs sliding down her stomach, fingers caressing the small of her back—it had felt good. Too good. She’d been on the verge of inviting a more thorough kiss when Tamara had set her free. Completely idiotic, stupid, inappropriate, you-really-need-to-date-again response, she told herself.
If Tamara Sterling was the embezzler Kip couldn’t afford to let her know that Kip’s defenses seemed to have some weaknesses.
And if Sterling wasn’t the embezzler she was still her boss’s boss’s boss, and there was no fraternization at SFI. Zero tolerance.
Anyone wanting to get involved with a colleague had to find a new job.
End of story, Kip told herself firmly and she proceeded to lay awake for half the night.
“Don’t even ask.” Tam tried to forestall the inevitable question she could see forming on Mercedes’ lips. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
46
Mercedes fixed her with the look Tam was sure she used on her kids. Her large, expressive eyes were fully equipped with you-don’t-fool-me laser beams. “Uh-huh. That’s right. You don’t tell me what happened on your interesting weekend. You go right ahead as if your face weren’t black and blue. Don’t you say a word.”
“I had an accident.”
“No, no.” Mercedes waved her eloquent hands. Her southern origins revealed themselves in her tone. “Don’t tell me about it even though that accident must have involved running into someone else’s fist. I don’t want to know. I wouldn’t listen if you did tell me.”
Tamara slumped into her chair and tried to summon her dignity. “New York was a bust.”
Mercedes became all work. “I heard—I’m so sorry. You must be exhausted.”
“It certainly wasn’t your fault,” Tam said emphatically.
“What’s on after the Monday morning staff meeting?”
Mercedes glanced at her book, and Tam was glad that the southern belle—rare in Seattle and charmingly incongruous with her Amer-African-Asian features—had disappeared. “You already know about the conference call at nine. Richardson at Seattle National Bank moved the meeting back a half hour. Tonight is that fundraiser for the new wing of the library. Nadia Langhorn called to make sure you’ll be there. Today’s report review is stiff.
I’ve got five on my desk already and at least two on the way.”
“You’re tying to kill me, aren’t you?” Tam idly thought that her estimation of men was taken down a notch by the fact that Mercedes was single. She was curvy in the right places, had impeccable fashion sense, and given the passion she showed for her work Tam had no doubt she would show passion at other times.
“Yes,” she said emphatically. “I want you dead because I enjoy the unemployment line.” She glanced at Tam over the top of her gold-rimmed glasses. “I can farm a couple of them to Diane. She wants to see you at two anyway. But you know as well as I do that 47
she’ll want to know what happened to your face. If I knew I could prepare her, then she wouldn’t pester you so much. But of course I don’t know, now do I?”
Tam should have known Mercedes wouldn’t give up until she had the whole story. “I did something I shouldn’t have and the someone who didn’t appreciate it had a very direct way of explaining her displeasure.”
“Her?” Mercedes eyebrows disappeared under her page-boy bangs.
Tam mentally groaned. Mercedes thought the best thing for her would be a wife who would take on mothering her full-time.
As if she needed full-time mothering. She couldn’t for the life of her imagine Kip Barrett mothering anyone. She started to smile, then realized she’d thought of wives and Kip Barrett way too close together. What was wrong with her today? Oh—exhaustion.
Sleep deprivation. Anxiety. The memory of a soft sweatshirt.
Mercedes coughed loudly and rapped her book with her pencil again.
“Someday soon I’ll explain everything. I promise.”
“Uh-huh. I’m sure it’s complicated. That’s right, you keep it to yourself. I don’t need to know a thing. You keep your secret. You be Ms. Secret Woman if you want. And I’ll keep my secrets, too. We’ll be just one big secret around here. That’ll help productivity.” She sniffed and closed her book. “I’ll go back to my desk, but I’m not telling what I’ll work on next.”
The door of her office clicked loudly behind her and Tamara couldn’t help but laugh. Mercedes was an absolute gem of an assistant and even when she decided to have an attitude it was usually to teach Tam a lesson she needed. But she couldn’t tell Mercedes about Kip Barrett. Not until it was all over.
Kip couldn’t lie to Emilio Woo about being sick, but she’d worked for him long enough and hard enough to ask for a sick day for no particular reason.
48
“Put it down to mental health,” she said. “I spent the weekend in the mountains and I just haven’t come back to earth. I’ve got some reading I can do at home to get over the Monday blahs.”
Everything she had said was true, but it was far from the whole truth. “The exhibit numbering will still be done on time.”
Emilio sighed, but she could tell he wasn’t upset. “You’ve earned it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She dressed as she would for the office and stocked her slim leather briefcase with business cards, an SFI employee roster, and one set of statements for each bank she would visit. She presented herself at the main branch of First Nation Federal Savings Bank shortly after it opened.
“I have an appointment to examine our account records,” she said to the Asian woman at the new accounts desk as she handed her a business card.
The new accounts officer gazed at her in chagrin. “Oh, it must have been made with the branch manager, but she’s out today. I hope I can help you.”
“Oh, that’s all right.” Kip was relieved she wasn’t going to have to pretend a nonexistent assistant had forgotten to make an appointment for her. “I’m just going to review our signature cards. This would be so much easier if someone on our end would photocopy the signature cards before they turned them over to you, but somehow they never do. So we routinely check to make sure they’re up-to-date.”
She gestured at her copy of an SFI bank statement from First Nation to further prove that she did indeed have a relationship with the company. The young woman glanced at them and seemed to make up her mind to be helpful.
It was relatively easy to see a company’s bank records. All it took was a business card from the company and a plausible reason. Approving transactions was a great deal harder, or at least it was supposed to be. The digital age had changed some of the basic assumptions about security and banks.
She gave the officer a short list of account numbers and asked for the signature cards. The woman returned after some delay, 49
bringing a stack of copies and the original signature cards with her. “I made you copies of the cards,” she said, “front and back.”