ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇꜱꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴀᴄᴋᴇᴛᴇᴇʀ

Ten | ᴋɪᴛᴛʏ

Mickey Sullivan. Fuck me. Not one of my finest clients, Kitty thought. Her gaze was aimed at the envelope she was addressing, but she wasn't really seeing it. Sometimes it was difficult working in Liam's office, seeing men day in and day out that she used to fuck on rotation. The way they'd look at her, like they expected her to start stripping her dress off at any moment. It made her skin crawl.

Things were better, though. Far better than they used to be. The job in Liam's office was a welcome change to her prior work. Even if it meant receiving unwanted leers and comments at times. Even if it meant ‘entertaining’ childish narcissists, like Jackson's new wife.

Kitty heard and smelled the approaching intruder before she saw her. The staccato click-click-click of expensive high heels on the floorboards accompanied by a rosewater perfume that had been applied a bit too heavily to be considered pleasant. That particular sensory combination could only belong to Tuppence Holcroft. Well, Mercer. Tuppence Mercer, now. Much to the delight of no one, except perhaps Liam and Edmond Holcroft.

Kitty wrinkled her nose in distaste as Tuppence sauntered back and forth across the room. The little booze heiress was attempting, unsuccessfully, to pretend she wasn't trying to listen in on the meeting taking place in Liam's office. Kitty wasn't fooled. A champion of ‘accidentally’ overhearing conversations that she shouldn't, she knew a fellow eavesdropper when she saw one.

“Ransom certainly has a loud voice,” Tuppence commented to no one in particular. “It really booms, doesn't it? Can't quite make out what he's saying, however.” Her words were uttered with nonchalance, but Kitty could see the frustration in her furrowed brow.

“Why don't you come have a seat, pet?” Kitty suggested. It wasn't really a question. She'd been in the company of Tuppence for less than two minutes and was already sick to death of the way the spoiled chit acted as though she owned the place. Married to a Mercer or not, she was still just an interloper.

“Oh, very well,” Tuppence relented with a disgruntled little pout. Her tawny hair was arranged in the sleek, chin-length bob that had become an overnight sensation in the States, and it bounced as she walked. Typically so chic, the style looked completely inappropriate coupled with her round, youthful face. Like a little girl imitating her sophisticated mother. “I suppose I should rest my feet. Parisian shoes are lovely, but designed to be fashionable rather than comfortable. They squeeze the very life out of one's toes. Don't you agree?” She heaved a dramatic sigh and collapsed in the chair beside Kitty's secretarial desk.

“I couldn't say,” Kitty replied. She took a stack of envelopes from the top drawer and began to organize them by recipient's surname while pointedly looking away from her unwanted guest. “I don't have much in the way of clothing from Paris.”

“Oh, of course not. How silly of me,” Tuppence said, her voice dripping with false sympathy. “Your wages don't exactly allow for frivolous spending, do they?”