stand there, frozen in horror. “Uh…are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Thérèse gasps. Her stomach makes an alarming gurgling noise, and she presses her hand against it, as if she could somehow mask the noise. “Something I ate disagreed with me.”
Oh, thank God. So it’s not me then. Also, I thought she was pale and sweaty because Blake was freaking her out, but apparently it’s food poisoning.
She makes a gurgling noise and swallows hard. “I’ll be right back.”
She vanishes into her office, clutching her purse. I sit at my desk waiting. And waiting. After ten minutes, concerned, I knock on her office door. When there’s no answer, I walk in. It’s an elegant room with black-and-white framed photographs of 1960s-era models on the wall, and lush silvery-gray curtains framing a floor-to-ceiling window.
She’s not at her desk. “Thérèse?” I call out.
I hear a groan in response, coming from an open door in the back of her office. I rush into her bathroom to find her sitting on the floor next to the toilet. Her skin has gone translucent and waxy.
“Please don’t tell Mr. Hudson I’m sick,” she moans.
Hot fury rushes through my veins. What kind of absolute bastard must he be that his staff are so terrified of him? I send a stern memo to my libido. Stop fantasizing about him. We do not get moist for monsters.
“I’ve got to call for help,” I plead. “You need to see a doctor.”
“No! I’m fine,” she protests. She surges to her feet. Then she collapses into my arms, almost knocking me over. She’s clammy and soaked in sweat. Groaning, she manages to stagger to her feet, with my help.
Worry chews at my nerves as I walk her out of her bathroom and help her into her chair. She slumps forward, her face resting on her arms.
“Thérèse?” I say uneasily.
She lets out a low, agonized moan.
I stick my head out the door to see if there’s anyone else in the room I could ask for help, but it’s empty. I have no choice. I call security. A few minutes later, two EMTs walk in, wheeling a stretcher.
“No, no,” she groans in protest as one of them tries to help her stand up. Her knees give out, and he has to lift her onto the stretcher. She waves at me weakly as they strap her in, and I lean over her. “I can’t… I’ve got Blake’s list. I have to…”
“You’ve got to go to the hospital. I’ll take care of it!” I insist. “Where is the list?”
“My inbox… Top…” She makes a retching sound. “Don’t…you…” she mumbles incoherently.
“I’ve got it, I swear. I’ll call and check up on you!” I say, trotting alongside her.
Once they’ve wheeled her out, past gawking sales associates and curious customers, I rush back to her office. Resting on top of her antique farmhouse-style secretary desk is a letter tray. A glossy black folder on top is labelled “Blake Hudson.”
My lungs squeeze in panic as I sink down into her seat, and I snatch up the folder with shaking hands. With Dove-Gray Dickweasel and all the gossips at home in Peach Pit waiting for me to crash and burn, failure is not an option.
Chapter Eight
Winona
I flip the file open, and the breath whooshes from my lungs in a sigh of relief. Inside it there’s a handwritten list in Thérèse’s small, neat lettering, and she’s taken very detailed notes.
First on the list is selecting a birthday present for Blake’s niece, Tamara. That must be the adorable little girl he was hugging. How fun! Her birthday is in a few weeks, so I’ve got plenty of time.
Thérèse’s notes say that Tamara loves the Sunni Sunni line of dolls. I’m vaguely familiar with them. They’re the brainchild of a Manhattan software whiz. Each doll is in a celebrity likeness, licensed of course, and speaks in the celebrity’s voice, saying whatever their catchphrase is. There’s a new one out called the Sunni Sunni Singer, and Thérèse has made a note to call down to the toy department to secure one.
Moving down the list, I see that I need to pick out presents for a few business associates of Blake’s, and also a birthday present for Blake’s girlfriend, Sloane. Her birthday is tomorrow.
My brain does a needle-on-the-record-scratch thing. Say what now?
Girlfriend. Blake’s girlfriend.
Of course he has a girlfriend. He’s handsome, wealthy, in his thirties…there’s no way he’d be single. And yet, he flirted with me the day he stole my cab. More than flirted – he asked