Once he was gone, she opened the bottom drawer of her desk, pulled out the bottle of Aberfeldy 21 she kept on hand for occasions such as this, and poured herself a generous couple of fingers of the smooth, amber alcohol. “I know you will.” Charles smiled and nodded. “I’ll let you know when I’ve gotten this taken care of.”

At least they got me a seat in first class. The paper landed on top of the files she had been trying to finish so that she could leave for Colorado the next evening for a day of some much-needed rest and relaxation, and she bit the inside of her cheek as she picked it up. “Twelve-thirty,” he said, tossing a printed boarding pass onto her desk. Why do I keep dealing with this shit? she thought, even as she asked, “What time’s the flight?” Joss ran a hand through her hair and sighed. You’ll be in New York by morning, and if you can talk him off the ledge fast enough, you’ll still get to Vail for the holiday.” “I’ve had Ashley book you a seat on the red-eye out of LAX.

Yeah, because there’s no way in hell you’re going to screw up your trip to Kauai to deal with his obsessive-compulsive bullshit. “Sorry,” he said, looking entirely unrepentant, “but Niall is concerned about his company’s end-of-year accounts and you’re the only one I trust to make sure this is handled correctly.” It was career suicide to argue with Charles Rand, the founding partner of Rand, Royal, & Wilkes, and after nine years at the firm with a partnership lurking somewhere in the not too distant future, it would do her no good to lose her temper now. Joss closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Joss, I need you to fly to New York to meet with Niall Reynolds.” No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means-electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other-except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without prior written permission from the author.Ī knock on Joss Perrault’s office door after six o’clock at night always spelled trouble, after seven meant possible disaster, and after eight guaranteed some kind of catastrophe, so when a distinctive triple-knock hit her door at a few minutes before nine, she cringed and just prayed for the best. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.Īll rights reserved.

Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real.

Atramentum by M.J. Duncan