S H A D E S

Beaten but not Broken

"As I've tried to explain to you, Ms. Pierce," the receptionist rolled her eyes, phones trilling loudly, "Sandra Higgins is presently engaged in a long distance conference call with—"

"Listen to me, you get her. Or I will." fuming, I leaned over the marble meridian of her desk, eyes narrowed. I was so livid at this point I was almost levitating.

I'd walked the six blocks to the New York Times building, my temper roiling to a full boil, scorching the chill of shock from my bones, leaving me hot and dangerous. Someone was going to pay. I didn't particularly care who, but someone. And some power-tripping little Barbie who'd only just graduated from high school wasn't going to get in my way.

"I can't just interrupt her call. So you can sit and wait. Or you can leave, as I've suggested countless time, and schedule an appointment for when she's available." Signaling she was done with me, headset affixed to her left ear, she clicked the button on the side to answer the slew of incoming calls with a cheerful, 'Good morning the New York Times'.

Disconnecting the line with a press of my finger to the cradle, I felt the first soothing lick of satisfaction as her mouth fell open in a gaping expression of Oh my god I can't believe you just did that!

"I have nowhere to go and can do this all morning. Right up until you call security at which point I'll make a scene. A massive scene. Huge. The sort that will turn a lot of heads and raise a lot of questions. And when those questions are lobbed at Mark Thompson, your CEO, I'll only be too thrilled to highlight in pristine detail your insufferable, incompetent attitude. Who, do you think, will walk away from this unscathed? You or me?"

Nostril's flaring, plum shaded lips pressed into a thin, determined line, the receptionist punched in a series of numbers, and waited.

"Jules—I need Sandra out front. Yes, I'm aware of that. Tell her it's urgent." Those thickly mascara-covered lashes flickered, narrowed around seething dark eyes. "I'll buy you lunch, just get her out here now."

Whatever the exchange between receptionist and what I assumed to be an assistant, Sandra appeared shortly thereafter, face flush with annoyance. Her stately hair, a soft ash blonde, winged around her oval face.

The expression that crossed her features the instant she saw me said she had more than an idea as to what brought me to the Times. Good. I was spoiling for a fight. And at least now I knew she and I would be sparring on the same field.

Mentally rolling up my sleeves, I prepared to go in with bare knuckles.

"I expected more from you, Sandra. More than going behind my back like this. How could you?" I snapped, heedless of the passing bodies and flickering gazes.

"Jesus, Laura. Not here. Not like this." Gathering my arms, Sandra pulled me aside, lowered her voice. "Meet me in half an hour. There's an Italian place on 42nd and 6th. It's quiet and they always have a table ready for me in the back. We'll meet there and discuss this like civilized women, okay?"

Still furious and far from placated, I wrenched my arm from her manicured grip. But she was right. This wasn't the place for us to deal with the matter. Not without spraying a lot of lighter fluid on an already volatile powder keg.

"Half an hour," I agreed, the words simmering with warning. "Heaven help you if you're late, Sandra."

The restaurant wasn't hard to find. And as she'd said it was quiet. Cozy and intimate, old world Italian with scarred floors and white linen tables. Seated in a curved booth at the back, I ordered a glass of wine and a tumbler of scotch.