The Awkward Truth E-Book

Lee Winter

• Herausgeber: Ylva Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 515

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

This funny opposites-attract lesbian romance digs up the awkward truth about what really matters in life. Ambitious ice queen and corporate lawyer Felicity Simmons has spent her life focused on one thing: scuttling up the career ladder. She's achingly close to taking charge of a media empire for her boss when she's sent to investigate a South Bronx charity that helps homeless people's pets. Has the charity made off with her boss's generous donation? And who on earth is that gorgeous soft-butch veterinarian who looks as if she could toss a Shetland pony over one shoulder? Not that Felicity has any interest in some opinionated Amazon or her adorable fleabag of a dog. Felicity is quite sure she will not be distracted, thank you very much. She has a minor mystery to solve, a mentor to impress, and her life's dream to fulfil. Even if a distraction might be exactly what she needs. The Awkward Truth takes place during the last half of Lee Winter's The Brutal Truth but can easily be read as a standalone story.

Leseprobe

Table Of Contents

Other Books by Lee Winter

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Epilogue

Other Books from Ylva Publishing

About Lee Winter

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www.ylva-publishing.com

Other Books by Lee Winter

On the Record series

The Red Files

Under Your Skin

The Superheroine Collection

Shattered

Standalone

Sliced Ice

Hotel Queens

Changing the Script

Breaking Character

The Brutal Truth

Requiem for Immortals

Acknowledgments

So many people helped me on this book.

To start at the beginning, my dear friend Marija Jelavic has worked with the homeless for years, organized open days servicing their needs, and understands intimately the lives and requirements of those on the street. She is also the great dispeller of myths and will shred to pieces anyone spouting ignorant idiocy about the homeless—even her own friends at her own dinner party. Saw that one firsthand! She’s been a wonderfully kind and valuable resource.

Thanks also to the awesome and patient veterinarian Kate Buffin, who, among other things, helps out homeless people’s pets. From her I learned more than I expected to know about high-on-weed dogs and the grossness of impacted anal glands!

Fellow author Quinn Ivins ran my math over the abacus to see if it worked. It did! After a fashion. I thank her for correcting my percentages vs. ratios.

Ann Etter was a godsend at helping me navigate the accounting world, specifically relating to charities and Form 990s. Think of it as a boat…or not.

Gail T. Brown gave me charming and thorough insights into all things South Bronx. She also pointed out that no unattended, street-parked vet’s vehicle would still have its wheels attached by the next day, so I’d better find a fix! Her love for the area was infectious, and I’m now dying to try rainbow cookies, and the entire menu at Full Moon Pizza.

Author K. D. Williamson stepped in as my sensitivity reader once more. Thanks, as always, for the insights, bluntness, and honesty. Much appreciated.

Carolyn Bylotas was my official Brutal Truth-expert beta reader. It’s amazing how much you forget between writing books. Thank you!

Astrid Ohletz, my publisher—and an excellent beta reader, too—pointed out whenever my ice queens were just too chilly to function. Always good to know!

Alissa McGowan and Julie Klein, my content and copy editors, respectively, helped whip my rambling words into shape with their expertise.

And lastly—thank you for the outpouring of enthusiasm for this “sidequel” to The Brutal Truth. The excitement I felt from readers on social media really spurred me on. Among them was Shannon Luchies, who not only came up with the term “sidequel” but also the perfect, apt book title.

There are also a couple of nuts and bolts in the book I want to mention.

The facts and statistics in my story about New York dog attacks, insurance claims, weird rich-people tax abatements, and so on, are all real. The 1482 and 1483 bills mentioned are real as well and were first introduced to the New York City Council in March 2019 to “accommodate pets of homeless individuals and families” in the shelter system.

Maybe one day street homeless won’t have to choose between a shelter and keeping their pets, but at the time of this writing, those two bills remain in committee, on hold and unpassed.

Sadly, no laws have been put forward to allow for homeless people seeking addiction treatment to keep their pets with them, too. That was wishful writing on my part.

Anyway, from the bottom of my heart, I thank everyone who helped me create my fictional world, and thanks also to all those who help the homeless and/or their pets in the real world.

For all the good boys and good girls—no matter where they call home.

Chapter 1

Focus: Absolute

On November 23, at 10:07 a.m., Felicity Simmons seized her boss’s tea mug and hurled it against the wall, changing her life forever.

“I am not your assistant, Elena!” Felicity stood ramrod straight and glared. “I’m NOT who you pay to fetch and carry and make drinks and photocopy paperwork. I will never get you another fucking chai latte ever again, so don’t bother asking. I’m your chief of staff. Do you understand that? I’m a trained lawyer, exceptional at what I do, and I deserve to be treated accordingly.”

“I see.” Elena’s pleased little smile took all the wind out of Felicity’s sails. “It took you long enough.”

Then Elena promptly promoted her.

Astonishing how a career could be advanced with nine pieces of ceramic and a sticky wet spot of chai latte (nonfat milk, extra hot) on the gunmetal gray carpet. No one ever said media mogul Elena Bartell was predictable.

It was now March 10, 8:58 p.m., well over three months later, and Felicity was still trying to get her head around what had happened. She stared out her glass balcony doors at the jutting skyline from the thirty-second floor of her Manhattan apartment. Felicity might even be able to pay her mortgage off this year with the pay hike that came with going from Elena’s chief of staff to deputy chief operating officer, soon to be running all of Bartell Corp as acting COO. That did not seem real. None of this did.

A noise made her start, and she peered into the darkness of her balcony, although she had a pretty good idea as to the culprit.

Her building’s balconies comprised one long strip of concrete flooring on each level with a glass parapet in front. Each apartment’s balcony sides were chest-high, frosted-glass dividers with funky stylish holes to let the wind through. Unfortunately, the little holes were ideal climbing aids if you had paws. As a result, Loki, her next-door neighbor’s cat, hopped from balcony to balcony and liked to make herself at home in Felicity’s pair of designer topiary trees.

Oh, Felicity might not have caught the creature in the act, but she’d seen plenty of leafy evidence that the beast liked to claw her way up the tree stems, bursting up into the rounded balls on top like something from Alien.

This was unacceptable in about fifty ways, of course, from the defiled expensive trees to enduring an animal with trespassing issues. Perhaps the worst part was the fact that it was a cat. Felicity didn’t like cats anywhere near her. Dogs, either. It was a boundaries thing. As in they had none.

Felicity knew she was being watched. She rose and slunk over to the wall next to the balcony, then flicked the lock on the sliding glass door. Inching open the door, she pushed it along its track, leaving the thinnest of gaps. Thanks to twenty years of watching her diet with the diligence of an A-list actress, the thinnest of gaps was all she needed.

The rustle sounded again.

Felicity drew in a deep breath and rammed her hand blindly into the foliage.

“Ow! Shit!” She pulled back as little puncture wounds appeared on the back of her hand.

A cream-colored head suddenly burst through the ball of leaves, blue eyes connecting with Felicity’s.

They both let out a startled noise before Felicity gathered her wits, lunged forward, and grabbed, a hand clamped on each tiny shoulder.

She stared down at her squirming quarry. Good lord, the thing was like a little pom-pom with eyes. A Siamese kitten! The cuteness overload made her itch.

“Shouldn’t you be posing for an Instagram page instead of attacking me and mine?” she asked acidly.

The pom-pom hissed.

A shriek sounded, outraged and piercing, and Felicity turned to see her neighbor gawping at her. The aptly named Karen Henderson was an angular forty-something doctor’s wife who had a righteous opinion on all things, the pettier the better. How she hadn’t wound up on a Karens Hall of Shame on social media yet was something of a mystery.

“Loki!” Mrs. Henderson gasped. Her accusing gaze flicked to Felicity. “You’re strangling my kitty! Put her down right now!”

Felicity supposed her hands did look suspiciously like they were around the squirming animal’s throat, but that was not the case. She marched over to the barrier separating the balconies.

“Loki should be called locust,” Felicity noted, thrusting the animal toward its owner.

The woman snatched it off her and made cooing noises as she rocked it back and forth.

Loki eyeballed Felicity over her owner’s shoulder as if plotting some nasty vengeance.

Felicity scowled back. That cute act was fur deep, clearly.

Mrs. Henderson spun back to face her. “What sort of a monster attacks a beautiful, helpless kitten?”

Helpless? Felicity had puncture wounds that told another story. “What sort of an idiot fails to keep her pet indoors?” Felicity retorted. “That’s an expensive pair of imported lilly pillies she keeps defiling.”

“She’s a kitten!” Mrs. Henderson protested. “Sometimes she gets out. Have a heart.”

Felicity narrowed her eyes. “Look, lady, lock up that devil spawn. I don’t want to ever see it on my balcony again or I’ll bill you for my gardener’s pruning fees, and FYI, they’re the high-end kind that cause nose bleeds.”

“Monster! Oh, I pity you. The bitter, sad, lonely lawyer with no friends.”

Ouch. Felicity had no idea her dubious social life was such common knowledge. “What? I’m not bitter. I’m a dedicated professional with high career goals.”

“No, Ms. Simmons, you’re a sad case. I know because you hate animals.” She didn’t wait for an answer, instead turning and taking Loki indoors, slamming her balcony door shut.

Felicity turned to mirror the exit strategy on her side, but her nostrils twitched. She glanced down to discover her feline visitor had left a steaming, smelly calling card in her potted plant’s dirt.

Lovely.

Cleanup was a job for daylight and industrial-strength gloves. Sighing, she went inside. After delousing in the bathroom—animal saliva and claw marks could carry diseases, that much she knew—Felicity poured herself a glass of wine. Dropping onto the swanky nine-thousand-dollar couch that was the highlight of her apartment, she stared outside at her now disheveled tree. Damn, Loki. Perfection ruined.

Her eyes drifted to her own image reflected in the glass.

A bitter, sad, lonely lawyer with no friends? That was quite an impressive list Mrs. Henderson had flung at her. Not even remotely true, of course.

What do I have to be bitter about? Felicity was on top of the world professionally. Her mentor, Elena, had finally recognized her worth.

Okay, it was true she hadn’t made time for friends, unless you counted her local Starbucks employees, but frankly, their getting her triple-shot espresso right every morning was an absolutely beautiful relationship.

And it was equally true her bed was absent any warm companion these days. But pfft, no loss there. Hardly her fault that her new promotion meant she was now permanently based in New York after ten months in Sydney, nor that Phillip’s lack of interest in a transpacific relationship had brought things to an abrupt end.

“You’re not worth it,” he’d said.

That still stung.

Neither are you. That’s what she should have said, of course. Instead, she’d just stood there speechless like a gaping seagull, trying to think of something clever to say while he walked away.

But it was all moot. Relationships, friendships, exes. They could all go toss their emotional deadweights into the Hudson. Finally her career was about to hit its peak. Everything she’d ever worked for or sacrificed for was all within touch. That was all that mattered. She plucked a stray cat hair off her designer pants with determination.

No, when it came to her work, her focus would be absolute.

* * *

Elena Bartell leaned back in her austere black leather chair, smug as a cat in a puddle of sun.

Felicity surreptitiously wiped her hands down her tailored navy pants. Appropriately corporate, not too bland. Elena doesn’t like bland. God, it was hard to sit still under the Tiger Shark’s scrutiny, but she’d known this was coming. It might be a Friday, but this was day one of her training to take over Elena’s job so her boss could then swan off to Australia and edit her international fashion magazines from there. It was the world’s most mystifying career pivot, of course, and an even stranger choice of destination, but Felicity wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Your replacement for chief of staff seems adequate enough,” Elena said. “Perhaps don’t ask Scott to fetch your tea, though. Rumor has it chiefs of staff don’t take kindly to being asked to play assistant.”

Felicity felt the heat of her instant blush from her collarbone to the tips of her ears. “Erm. No.”

Oh, very smooth, Felicity.

Elena smirked, which just made her even more intimidating. Her black hair was slicked back, highlighting her pale skin and razor-sharp high cheekbones and bringing out her palest of blue eyes, which always gave her a lethal quality. That, paired with her pin-striped vest, matching trousers, and white silk shirt, made for an imposing impression.

The curious thing was that Elena was not tall. In fact, Felicity was taller, but next to her boss she often felt like she was shrinking—a turtle retracting its long neck back into its shell. Somehow Elena projected a greater presence than anyone Felicity had ever met.

She couldn’t look at Elena’s direct, amused stare, so her gaze shifted to everywhere else. It roamed to Elena’s desk. Gone was the picture frame that had held a photo of her now ex-husband Richard. Thank God. Waste of a pulmonary system, that asshole. Her eye fell to a new frame that hadn’t been there a day ago. She craned her neck just a little—subtly—to see who’d been promoted to frame-worthy status. Then she had to force herself not to jerk away.

Good God. What on earth was Elena Bartell doing with a photo of Maddie Grey on her desk? The blunt former night-shift reporter from Australia had somehow connected with Elena. Who’d fired her. Then rehired her. And fired her again. Honestly, it was hard to keep up.

Somehow after all that they were now…friends? How had that happened? Felicity had been in Elena’s life for years longer and had never been worthy of a framed photo. And if Felicity didn’t know for a fact that the twice-divorced Elena Bartell was entirely heterosexual, she’d side-eye the hell out of that photo.

Felicity swallowed back her surge of jealousy. No, she wasn’t doing this again. As part of Felicity’s new resolutions to be a better person, she’d promised herself to no longer fixate on all the ways Madeleine Grey kept winning at life, even though she totally didn’t deserve it and even if she was rather engaging, if you looked past the totally didn’t deserve it point.

The silence had dragged on far too long, and Felicity realized with a start that she was being watched as she studied the photo.

Elena’s expression was neutral, but her eyes were speculative. She waited, eyebrow half-cocked, as if expecting an awkward question.

Since Felicity was in the business of making her boss’s life comfortable, not the other way around, she met the look with her usual aloof lack of interest.

Finally, Elena seemed to give up waiting for a response and shuffled some papers. “All right.” She took a sip of tea from a mug on her desk that Felicity had bought her to replace the shattered one. “I’m breaking it in,” Elena said, “especially since my other one met its untimely demise.”

“Oh. Yes. Well, I’m truly sorry about that.”

“I’m not. I’ve been waiting for you to be the woman I knew you could be. To stand up and demand to be treated only as a chief of staff. I was curious how long you’d take, and until recently, I didn’t particularly care as I had no urgent need for you to evolve. But that has changed. Your timing was useful, given my new plans.”

Felicity stared. “Well” was all she could think to say. That wasn’t embarrassing in the least.

Elena chuckled, a low, throaty timbre that Felicity had taught herself several years ago to never find sexy because that would just be weird.

“Felicity,” Elena said in a not unkind voice, “I cannot have someone running my company in my absence who has no spine. I need someone I trust, yes, but they have to be strong, too. I’ve seen you stand up to intimidating and powerful people for years. You do it for me. I need to see you do it for you, even if you’re worried I won’t approve. And that’s not all I want to see more of. I have a little assignment for you.”

Felicity sat up straight, mentally readying herself for anything.

“But before I give it to you, I’ve just been on the phone with some very angry lawyers from The Mornington Herald. They seem to be of the opinion that you just canceled our mutually beneficial buyout deal.”

“I did.”

“Isn’t that the paper that employs Brad Tolliver? That acerbic columnist with a reader following in the hundreds of thousands? The same columnist you suggested could make us a bundle in syndication rights if we acquired the paper he’s contracted with?”

“Yes.” Felicity paused. “I outlined what happened in my management report. I’ve emailed you.”

“I’m still only a third of the way through my inbox. Explain.”

“I terminated the deal after I couldn’t get the editor to confirm that Tolliver was still under contract with them at the time of negotiations.”

Elena frowned. “He has to be. Our deal specifically named his contract as an asset we wish to acquire.”

“I know. So I made some discreet inquiries. Turns out two months ago, when his contract expired, Tolliver found out he was pivotal to the buyout bid with us. He’s been stalling signing a new contract to get more money from his publisher.”

“Surely now that the buyout deal’s at risk his paper will offer him anything to get him signed on. So why wouldn’t you wait for that instead of axing the deal prematurely?”

“I did the sums and looked more closely at the other assets we’d get from acquiring The Mornington Herald. It’s not worth it. The independent engineering report showed the aging printing presses have some worsening structural issues and need an overhaul. I know we were hoping to utilize the presses for additional external printing jobs, but that’s out of the question. I concluded it’s more cost-effective for us to kill the deal and sign Tolliver exclusively to a Bartell Corp contract. Tolliver’s syndication potential was the only unique selling point in acquiring his paper at all.”

Elena leaned in. “I see. What happened next?”

“Tolliver said he’d sign exclusively with us for twice his current salary.”

“Which would be far cheaper than more or less buying his masthead just for his contract. It’s a bargain.”

“It is. But I said no.”

Elena’s eyebrows lifted. She waited.

“Instead of a hundred percent salary bump, I offered him five percent more and threw in travel expenses. Capped, of course.”

“He agreed?” Elena asked in surprise.

“Immediately.” Felicity hid her smirk. “He wants to travel America, and he can write on our dime from wherever he roams. That’s his official reason. I also observed he’s an arrogant young man who wants to get laid—often. So once I explained we’d make him famous with a new national syndication column deal, he jumped at it.”

Elena snorted. “That’s excellent reading of your target.”

“Yes. Well.” Felicity fidgeted at the compliment. “I had a hunch. It paid off.”

“Okay, how much did we save killing off The Mornington Herald deal, subtracting expenses we’ve invested in it so far?”

“Four point two million dollars.”

Elena’s smile turned wolfish. “Well now, that’ll teach a publisher not to pay their bird in the hand. All right, I’ll tell their lawyers we’re not changing our minds and to get over it. Which Bartell Corp publication will you base Tolliver at?”

“He’s a bit of a pain in the neck and believes his own hype. I’ve chosen Boston National News Publications. Syndications manager Michelle Masterton should keep him filing on deadline, and she’s also agreed to oversee his travel budget.”

Elena gave a small laugh. “Poor man. Michelle could scare the spots off a leopard. Good.” Her eyes became half-lidded “Very good. You keep surprising me, Felicity. That’s what I like to see. Which brings me to your special assignment.”

Felicity straightened, pleasure burning at Elena’s approval.

“Last August I heard about a charity called Living Ruff New York, which helps the pets of homeless people. This charity goes out to the streets to the homeless, supplies pet food, offers free access to animal healthcare, neutering, and so on. The story I read about them was compelling, so I decided to make an anonymous donation.” Elena’s blue eyes grew stormy. “A sizable one.”

With a nod, Felicity waited. It was hardly the first time she’d noticed anonymous donations in Elena’s private expenses. She always did take on such odd little charities, though. Like this one, it seemed.

“The charity should have been flourishing for several years on the money I gave them, but less than twelve months later, I see this.” She spun her computer monitor around to face Felicity.

Charity for animals of the homeless facing closure

The story explained the impending closure of the charity due to lack of funds, and the attached photo showed a smiling woman with a natural tan and sandy blond hair pulled into a ponytail who was holding a huge dog. The caption read: “Dr. Sandy Cooper, a vet at Living Ruff NY, with Gladiator, the American Bulldog she is checking up for homeless veteran Martin Ruiz.”

“There is no possible way Living Ruff New York could have gone through the funds I gave them in such a short time,” Elena said firmly. “So I contacted the charity director, Harvey Clifford. Since my donation was anonymous, he had no idea why I’m interested. I hinted I might be considering giving to his charity, but first I wanted to ask whether the story was true. I explained that if the charity is about to call in liquidators, there’s little point in me throwing good money after bad.”

“What did he say?”

Elena’s eyes narrowed. “He claimed the story was just a play for more donations, they’re business as usual, and the charity is not about to close. He welcomed all new donations and called the news story a media beat-up. Christ, the man is a terrible liar.” A look of disdain crossed her face. “He’s trying to tell someone who owns half the world’s newspapers what a media beat-up looks like? They never look like that. Sympathetic and with quotes and photos from the staff? This was a management-endorsed story.”

Felicity nodded. “So the director was lying.”

“Yes. I’m just not sure why. Maybe this is just a way to drive more donations, maybe not. But I want to know for sure. I want to know where my money went because if it’s been embezzled, I’ll be damned if I’ll be taking that lying down.”

“Understood,” Felicity said, on firm ground now that she understood the problem: assess a charity’s full financial status and work out where Elena’s donation had gone. “We can get Thomas in accounts to—”

“Thomas has lost my faith.”

“What?” Felicity blurted. The man had been with Bartell Corp for sixteen years. He was their most senior accountant.

“When I originally made my donation, I had him check that the charity’s books were sound and all was aboveboard. I asked him to personally look into it. I found out today he’d handed that task off to an underling. When I ask someone to handle something themselves, I don’t mean find someone less qualified whom I do not know or trust to…take a stab at it.”

The man was a complete fool. Elena always meant what she said. “Right. Yes, I see.”

“Good,” Elena said, eyes tight. “Now I need someone I trust to investigate what Living Ruff does and how, and determine whether there are any irregularities. Wave around the possibility I might make a donation, should they be less than forthcoming.”

“Charities by law have to disclose to the public their financial status,” Felicity said with a frown. Surely Elena knew that already? “Most post their financial statements on their websites.”

“Of course. And Living Ruff does that, too. It’s also listed on multiple charity-accountability websites as excellent. But you know more than anyone from the deals we do how often a business hides details it doesn’t want disclosed. So it’s simple—go down to that little animal charity and find out where my money went. But I want discretion. I know you can barge in like Rambo to get things done. Can you do delicate, Felicity? Nuance? I want to know whether my new acting COO can problem-solve using a softly-softly approach while far outside her comfort zone. So let’s find out. Show me who you are.”

Felicity blinked. She could be subtle, for God’s sake!

“I am not implying you can’t do it,” Elena said carefully. “I’ve just never given you much scope to test yourself in subtleties or come up with outside-the-box ideas. So I need the problem defined, then a solution for it, and my name kept out of all of it. My best-case scenario involves the fewest people possible aware of what you’re up to and how you’ve addressed it.”

What on earth? Since when did Elena tiptoe around anything? “Why?” she blurted out.

“Felicity,” Elena said with a sigh, “if I wanted to get the police involved, I would have simply called them.”

“You…want to protect the charity?” Felicity asked incredulously. “Even if they’ve misused your donation?”

“Of course not. But good charities can close on the merest hint of investigation. I don’t want that happening if everything is aboveboard.”

“Okay. But what if they are straight-up corrupt? Surely we’d get the police involved then?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Felicity sensed Elena was holding something back. Did she know someone involved in that charity or something? Or maybe she thought it would reflect badly on her if it came out that she’d dumped a lot of money on a charity that was corrupt without doing her due diligence first. Curse Thomas for putting her in that position. He was lucky he still had a job.

“It would be easier for my investigation if you would allow me to tell the charity you’ve already donated and have a right to know where your money went.”

“No.”

Felicity didn’t bother pushing it. Elena had long protected her privacy on the causes she chose to donate to. It was smart; she’d be inundated by people with their hands out if they knew how generous she could be.

“So,” Felicity finally said, almost afraid to ask, “how much did you donate exactly?”

“One point four million.”

Holy hell! Felicity’s eyes widened, and she didn’t entirely manage to stop a choking noise from the back of her throat.

“Mm,” Elena said, voice tight. “So now you see my concern. Get to the bottom of this. And don’t take anything that director says at face value. Dealing with that man was like trying to talk to a sheepdog.”

“A…sheepdog?”

“Exuberant, overfamiliar, and somehow clueless. Solve this for me, Felicity. Show me what you can do.”

“Of course, Elena.” Sudden pride swelled in Felicity’s chest. “You can count on me. It shouldn’t take more than a few hours to get to the bottom of this. I’ll just—”

“Felicity,” Elena said, cutting her off, “I expect you to take a lot more time than that. Take a week or weeks, if you have to. I want thoroughness, as if I were doing this investigation myself. Fine-tooth comb.”

“I— Yes, of course, Elena.” Wait— Weeks? “How can I learn to be your replacement as COO if I’m off with a charity? I can’t do both.”

“All in good time. And I can always extend my time with you if needed when you return.”

Oh. Well. Felicity wasn’t sure how to take that. “So…where exactly is this place?”

“The Bronx.” A slow smile crossed her boss’s face as she slid her gaze over Felicity’s expensive suit. “Maybe…dress down a little when you head over there next week. I mean, if you have that in your corporate wardrobe.”

Felicity’s throat tightened. The Bronx? The actual Bronx? She wondered if she’d start hyperventilating. That did not sound safe. Or clean. Or…nice. Felicity made it her business to only swan around in safe, clean, and nice.

Elena’s eyes were practically gleaming with amusement now. “Good luck.” She took one last sip of her tea and placed the mug on her desk with finality. “We’re done.”

Chapter 2

Roller Derby Amazons

Felicity spent the weekend researching everything she could find on Living Ruff in preparation for her visit on Monday. Apparently, it wasn’t a regular charity but rather a foundation set up by a wealthy, clever socialite called Rosalind Stone. Felicity knew her by reputation—a shrewd operator to be dismissed at your own peril—but hadn’t ever met the woman.

Rosalind famously loved animals and threw an abundance of parties for her rich friends to raise money for Living Ruff. That explained the charity’s annual donations of about $700,000, a tidy sum for such a small organization that had on staff one director, two full-time vets, several retired vets as on-call temps, a receptionist/vet tech, and a part-time cleaner.

It was still early, the sun barely risen, and Felicity hadn’t quite managed to get out of her cozy mellow-gray Lunya pajamas and into something befitting a corporate weekend warrior. She hunkered deeper into the warm blanket cloaking her on her couch and poked around a few more research websites on her phone.

She had determined it was unusual for any foundation to run its own charity hands-on rather than just cut a check to whichever organization did the closest work to what they endorsed. But apparently, Ms. Stone didn’t do anything by halves. Or perhaps she liked the power trip. After all, the board was headed by Rosalind and stacked entirely with her family and friends.

The director—the “sheepdog” Elena had mocked—was Rosalind’s husband, Harvey Clifford, an unremarkable man on the page with a background in bookkeeping who had married far above his station. Maybe his appeal would be obvious when Felicity met him, but so far she couldn’t see it. Little wonder, perhaps, that Rosalind had kept her own name after marrying the man.

A sound distracted her, and she glanced over to the balcony doors to see Loki creeping past on her way to the nearest lilly pilly.

Felicity’s eyes narrowed. “Hisss!” she called out loudly, flapping her arm to shoo her away.

Loki stopped, turned, met her eyes, then sat. And bold as brass began to lick her paws as though she hadn’t just been caught in the act of repeated interloping.

Picking up a cream and blue cushion, not even caring that its provenance was a French boutique…from actual France…Felicity hurled it at the glass, where it bounced off harmlessly.

Loki shot up the plant’s stem and disappeared into the ball of green at the top only to reappear a moment later, her white pom-pom face and huge eyes all that were visible.

“Oh, come on! You couldn’t even pretend to care I can see you?”

“Mreoow.”

“You’d better not use my lilly pillies as a litter box again, or I swear…”

What? What would I actually do?

Felicity sighed. Was it seriously the worst thing in the world if she couldn’t contain every element in her ordered life? She glanced back at the kitten. “Consider yourself lucky that I’m both solving a mystery and having an existential crisis.”

Loki merely ignored her and maintained her treetop vigil.

Giving up, Felicity returned to her work with a huff of annoyance. So far she’d dug up Living Ruff’s Form 990PF from last year. Charities had to supply these annual financial summaries to the Internal Revenue Service, which in turn posted the information online. With a final scan of the most recent 990 and still finding nothing obvious amiss, she called Thomas.

“Ms. Simmons?” came a disgruntled voice. “It’s six on a Sunday morning.”

“So it is. And if I were in Elena’s bad books for dropping the ball, I’d be very keen to get in her good books again by helping with a question she wants solved.”

That woke him up a little. “What question? What can I do?”

“Look into Living Ruff for me. Yourself this time.” She took another deep draft of hot chocolate. Not even close to the buzz her triple-shot espressos gave her, but she was trying to break bad habits. “Find out if they’re hiding anything.”

“What makes you think they are?”

“Elena donated $1.4 million last September. It’s only March, so too early for this year’s 990 to be submitted, which would show where that money went. But it went somewhere, if one news article is to be believed saying the charity’s about to fold. I need you to find out if they’ve been up to any funny business. Go back over all the 990s and anything else publicly available. You accountants know where all the figures are buried.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I need it COB Tuesday at the latest. Call me as soon as you know something.”

“There may be nothing to know. Peter’s preliminary investigation before Ms. Bartell donated found nothing irregular.”

“And Peter’s been in accounting for how long?”

Silence fell.

“Exactly. No wonder Elena is disappointed in you. So can I count on you, Thomas,” Felicity asked, voice silky, “to help Elena?”

“Of course.” Worry filled his voice at the reminder. “Always.”

“Good.” Felicity hung up without further ado.

* * *

“We’re here, ma’am,” Bartell Corp’s senior driver announced.

Felicity’s gaze flicked from her phone to the uninspiring washed-out two-story redbrick building in front of them. Graffiti tags littered the bottom of it. She sighed. Classy joint.

She glanced back at Amir as she gathered her things. It wouldn’t be long now and he’d be taking up Elena’s offer to relocate to Sydney to drive for her there. Quite the adjustment for him. Was it loyalty, Felicity wondered, or simply an opportunity for better weather that made him accept such an enormous lifestyle change?

Loyalty, probably. Elena had that effect on people.

Felicity found it hard to imagine anyone loyally dedicating themselves to her in the same way they did Elena. But honestly, as long as her staff did their jobs, she didn’t care whether they loved or hated her. She didn’t much think about them at all. It always shocked her that more people didn’t share her supremely logical view of the world.

It was still early, and the gleam of metal caught her eye. A grubby man with unwashed hair was shuffling past, pushing a shopping cart loaded with his possessions. He was the third homeless person she’d seen in as many minutes on the drive over. She pursed her lips. Would it kill someone to fix this situation? It was a failure of the system to have the South Bronx’s streets strewn with tired and miserable unfulfilled people pushing their worldly goods around. Honestly, how hard could it be to solve?

Next to the redbrick building was a vacant park, which seemed an ironic use of the word, since it had no trees or nature of any kind. Only concrete seating areas and a few square tables. What was its function? She frowned. Surely no one would willingly eat their lunch here to admire the view of—she squinted—three pawn shops, a donut establishment, and an eyewear office with a cracked window.

Illegally parked amidst all that concrete sat a white van half facing the street, marked Living Ruff. Well, it made sense they’d have their own vehicle, since outreach to the homeless was part of the charity’s mission statement.

She glanced back at the charity’s headquarters. A line of windows on the top level yielded no sign of life. The large shuttered window at the front below a worn sign that said Living Ruff NY also screamed “shut.”

“It’s supposed to be open by now,” Felicity murmured to Amir, and flicked to her phone. “The website says ‘7:30 a.m. to late. Our doors are open to all.’ Got a funny idea of open.”

“Yes, Ms. Simmons,” Amir said amiably. “Do you wish to wait for them to open?”

The man deserved a gold medal for sedateness. His unruffled personality was as genial as the way he drove. On that note, he’d probably never had a speeding ticket in his life.

Felicity had always thought life should be accomplished at full speed—God only knew if you’d get everything done otherwise. She never walked anywhere. No, she paced and strode and stalked. Far more efficient, if you asked her, than those who sidled about, stopping to smell the roses.

A movement caught her eye, and she swiveled to see a homeless man who had buried most of his body inside the Living Ruff van on the driver’s side. The hell? Some passing hobo had just broken in and decided to rummage about looking for something to steal.

With the door blocking Felicity’s view, she could only see grubby jeans-clad calves sticking out and boots that looked like they’d worn through every layer of polish and were back to raw leather.

Oh, hell no.

Amir gave her a startled look. “Ms. Simmons?”

Had she said that aloud? Whatever. Her eyes hardened on the thief. What if he were about to make off with goods purchased with Elena’s donation? That made it personal, didn’t it? She had an obligation here. “I’m going in,” she told Amir. “Call the police if things get dicey.”

Amir’s eyebrows shot up in astonishment. “Ma’am?”

Felicity flung open the car door, leaped out, and headed over to the vagrant at a fast clip. He was still busy rummaging, so she tapped him hard on the back—well, poked, more like—and said, “Excuse me! Just what do you think you’re doing?”

The man straightened, bumping his head on the van ceiling as he did and emitting a sharp, high-pitched yelp. He spun to face Felicity, unfurling to full impressive height.

Felicity took a startled step back. Okay, who in the ever-loving Brienne of Tarth was this?

To begin with, he was a she. And not just any she. The woman was block-out-the-sun tall and solid as a brick wall. She had powerful thighs and broad muscled shoulders that looked like she could probably toss a Shetland pony with ease.

Felicity’s breath caught when her gaze slid down. Generous breasts and an unexpectedly rounded stomach softened her imposing form so that she looked a bit like a teddy bear—well, if teddy bears came in Amazon-at-the-roller-derby editions.

Felicity blinked. She’d never encountered anyone like this before. Never, ever, ever.

With few exceptions, the professional women in Felicity’s circle of media, law, and fashion tended to fit a certain type: delicate and fine-boned TV-ready perfection draped in expensive corporate attire. They were sleek ribbons of femininity who seamlessly melted into spaces and backgrounds. They observed, played clever games from the shadows, and manipulated their worlds one high fake laugh at a time.

This woman took up the space of three such women. Her whole attitude seemed to shout, Yeah, just try and budge me. And good luck not noticing me! Probably followed by an amused wink.

Amused wink? Felicity’s fried brain was clearly just making up nonsense now.

The woman cleared her throat.

Felicity shifted her gaze higher, skidding briefly over her rumpled shirt that bore the Living Ruff logo.

Oh.

Underneath the logo was an embroidered slogan: Think Paw-sitive. Felicity’s eye twitched at the awful pun. At least it wasn’t about helping the less fur-tunate.

Right. So she might have made a few faulty assumptions about whether the van was being broken into. But seriously, the woman’s jeans and boots were in appalling condition. Did the staff of the charity have no professionalism in their appearance whatsoever? Felicity was about to ask just that when she met startlingly intelligent eyes. Suddenly her usual indifference as to what anyone other than Elena thought of her died abruptly, along with the question.

“Who are you?” The woman asked in a throaty, irritated voice, rubbing her head where she’d hit it on the van. Her eyebrow hiked up. “And why were you jamming your finger into me like that? I’m not your voodoo doll.”

“I thought you were a vagrant hunting for drug money from a charity’s van.” She trusted that would earn her some favor, Good Samaritan Felicity and all.

Instead, the woman frowned. “Ex-cuse me?”

Or not. “I didn’t see your logo.” Felicity scrambled. She tapped her own blouse to indicate the spot where the woman’s Living Ruff badge was. “So I thought—”

“Yes, I heard you. A vagrant. After drug money. Because all homeless are addicts, right?” Her lips pinched.

Oh. Well, Felicity had said that, hadn’t she? She resisted the urge to take another step back to get some distance. Wait, why does she look familiar? A memory clicked into place. Okay, they’d styled her up for the photo shoot and attempted to morph her into something safe for mainstream consumption, not to mention cropped the pic at chest level, but Felicity was pretty sure this was the vet from the article declaring the charity was closing. Dr. Sandy Cooper.

It was weird how they’d also magicked away the sheer enormity of her presence.

“Cat got your tongue?” Dr. Cooper’s lips twitched. “Heh. Vet joke.”

“Not a very good one,” Felicity shot back without thinking. “I mean, it’s a bit unoriginal.”

“True enough.” The woman shrugged, looking completely unfazed by the criticism. Her eyes dragged over Felicity’s outfit.

It was a new season Elie Saab pantsuit. Felicity knew she looked good in it. Professional. Something the vet might want to look into.

“Shall we start again? I’m Doctor—”

“Sandy Cooper,” Felicity cut in. And…weird how that had come out like an accusation.

The woman tilted her head in acknowledgment. “Everyone calls me Cooper.” She shut the driver’s door, locked it, and eyed Felicity. “It seems you have me at a disadvantage. And you are?”

“Felicity Simmons,” she said before adding her new title, “deputy chief operating officer of Bartell Corp.” Soon to be acting COO, she wanted to add but restrained herself. Felicity rose a little higher on the balls of her feet. It still didn’t feel real.

“Proud of that title, I see.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Felicity snapped.

The other woman sighed. “Care to explain how you know me?”

“There was an article in the paper,” Felicity began. “Living Ruff New York closing?”

“Ah.” Cooper’s eyes tightened as if to say oh that, and she headed past Felicity to the back of the van, opening its double doors wide.

Felicity stood back transfixed as the woman hauled out two enormous bags stamped DOG FOOD 20LB and dumped them on the ground beside her.

“Donations,” Cooper said, noticing her interest. “Close to their expiration date, so I got them for free.” She eyed Felicity up and down as though deciding something, then laughed. “I was about to ask for a hand getting the bags inside. Never mind.”

“Yes. Well. I’m a lawyer, not a Sherpa.” Felicity folded her arms. She was quite sure she wouldn’t be able even to nudge a bag with her toe, let alone lift it. That’s what you hired people with muscles for.

“Lawyer, hmm? Here to sue us or something?” Cooper’s eyes grew sharp. “Because we haven’t got much. Everything goes to the animals and their owners.”

“Of course not. I’m here to look at what you do at Living Ruff and consider making a donation. On behalf of Bartell Corporation.”

Cooper paused and squinted at Felicity. “I see.” She tossed a huge bag over one shoulder. “Big media company, right?”

“The biggest.”

Then as if the first bag were easy, she flung the second over the other shoulder and headed toward the building. “Get the door, can you?” she called back.

Felicity glanced back at the van, nodded, then gave the doors a firm push until they slammed shut.

“Not those doors, although thanks. I meant the office.” She tilted her head toward the redbrick monstrosity.

Oh. Of course. Cheeks scalding at her stupidity, Felicity scurried ahead and went to open the door. It didn’t budge. “It’s locked.”

“Damn it. Our receptionist, Mrs. Brooks, must be held up again. All right…” Cooper studied Felicity until she reached Cooper’s side. “You could start your charitable donations right now.”

Felicity frowned. “How?”

“Reach into my left pocket and grab my keys.” She jutted one dirty jean-clad hip forward.

Into her pocket? Was she for real? That seemed awfully personal. You don’t just ask strangers to…and certainly not when they’re wearing jeans that had quite clearly rolled around in filth recently.

Even so, Felicity’s fingers tingled at the prospect of being that close to those impressive thighs. Entirely without intending to, she slid her hand slowly into the woman’s pocket and clasped a metal bundle.

The heat Cooper was giving off was fierce, but that made sense if she’d just been doing physical work. Felicity imagined her in a tank top, her powerful muscles gleaming as she exerted herself in manual labor of some sort. Her arms were probably as strong and muscled as her shoulders. Because they had to be, didn’t they?

“Hey, Felicity?”

“Mm?”

“For the keys to work, they have to be outside of my pocket.”

Oh God! Felicity yanked them out, her whole face burning. What the hell was wrong with her?

The other woman chuckled. “Okay, it’s the big key, second on the left of the ring. Thanks.”

With hands shaking for reasons she had absolutely no intention of examining, Felicity managed to get the key into the lock on the first attempt and turned it until it clicked. Then she drew the door open, and Cooper pushed past her, dropping the bags just inside.

“Thanks.” She wiped her forehead, which left a huge smear of dirt, then slapped the dust off her oak trees laughably called legs.

Felicity suddenly found the entire picture of dirt-smeared imperfection the most fascinating thing she’d ever seen.

“Right.” Cooper straightened. She waved at the bags. “I just like to keep any food donations outside the van so they don’t get stolen or spoiled by bad weather or whatever.”

Felicity didn’t answer. Odd how the smear loaned a rakish quality to the woman’s face.

“Have I got something on my face?” Cooper asked, catching her gaze. She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a man’s handkerchief to wipe it. “Gone?”

“Yes.” Felicity said faintly, feeling the loss. “All gone.”

“Right, then. Come on up. I can offer you tea or coffee while you wait for Harvey, our charity director. He’s the one to talk to about the services we offer and how to donate.”

“Or I could talk to you first. I’d like to get a feel for the whole organization. Talk to everyone. See all the facets.”

Dr. Cooper shrugged, those mighty shoulders heaving up and down.

Felicity caught herself gaping and slammed her mouth shut. Seriously inappropriate.

“Well, it’s up to you,” Cooper said. “I can tell you the practical stuff about my job, sure, but I’m due to go out again soon. Rounds. Gotta feed some good boys”—she grinned—“and good girls.”

Felicity peered at her, utterly lost.

“Dogs, Ms. Simmons. Among other animals. Are you a pet owner? Come on up.” She led the way up some old rust-stained concrete stairs.

“I’m not,” Felicity replied as she followed, studying a substantial muscled ass that should in no way be so fascinating. Except it really was.

“Oh? Any reason?”

Had Cooper’s voice lowered a few degrees to chilly?

Suddenly Felicity didn’t want the woman to think she hated animals. That wasn’t it at all. “I think it would be unfair for someone in my position to own an animal. I’ve spent the past few years following my boss around for work. She travels all over the world checking on her business interests. For instance, I’ve just been living in Australia for the past ten months while she overhauled one of her magazines over there.”

“Australia?” Cooper opened the double doors at the top of the stairs, pinning them back on each side with a latch. “Does that explain your un-New York accent? How weird. I thought you might be a bit English.”

So English that Mrs. Allsop’s entirely proper elocution lessons hadn’t been in vain, then? Felicity beamed in satisfaction. “No, I’m American. I’ve never even been to England.”

Cooper gave her an odd look, then swung the office door wide. “All right, come through. Let me just wash up. I probably look a mess. I had to play midwife to a dog that wanted to hide under a dirty building first thing. And then I was heading back to the office when I got the call about the dog food donation.”

Well, that explained her clothes looking like a tramp had died in them.

Felicity studied the office. A battered wooden round table sat in the middle of the room with five mismatched chairs around it. Folders and papers spilled across it. A few desks with old-style fat computer monitors sat around it. How eighties. The largest desk had a huge phone on it and a name plate attached to the divider: Mrs. Brooks, Receptionist/Vet Tech.

In one far corner was a locked glass office. A bronze sign reading Director Harvey Clifford was stuck on the door.

Next to it was a second room, this one with enclosed walls, and a sign: Pet treatment clinic—KNOCK FIRST. A smiling cartoon dog was stuck under that.

Animal posters with motivational sayings lined the walls that didn’t have windows. The ones that did looked like they were in desperate need of cleaning.

A kitchenette proved to be Cooper’s destination, and Felicity tried very hard not to look as the other woman bent over a small sink and washed thoroughly with two types of soap—one smelling of disinfectant, the other of lemon. As Cooper dried her hands on a paper towel, she called over her shoulder, “Tea or coffee?” Then she slam-dunked the paper towel into a bin near her ankle.

“Neither,” Felicity croaked out. “Well, not now. I’m trying to kick my excess caffeine habit. Step one, don’t hit the beans too early.”

“Suit yourself. Have a seat.” She gestured at the round table. “I have to change. Always pays to keep a few spare sets of clothes at work in this line of business.”

Felicity nodded as she slowly lowered herself to the closest chair and tried very hard not to think about the fact that changing meant…sliding pants down those impressive legs.

Maybe she should have had a coffee. She’d be able to focus entirely on the cup instead of the woman striding away to a room at the back of the office.

Cooper disappeared inside but didn’t bother shutting the door.

A moment later came the clang of a belt buckle hitting the floor. A boot went sailing with a thud out the door, followed by, “Oops. That steer got away from me.”

“Where are you from,” Felicity called back, fascinated, “if you call your boots ‘steers.’”

“A bit of here and a bit of there. I’m a military brat. We moved all over.” Another thud, but this time the boot stayed out of sight. “What about you? Because I’m thinking someone who sounds English but hasn’t been there sounds that way on purpose. Am I right?”

There was a slap as a pair of jeans suddenly landed in a puddle within sight, and Felicity swallowed about what that meant. She wanted to shake herself. She was here to do a job—an investigation, actually, into possible embezzlement—not get distracted by an employee at the charity. Who isn’t wearing pants right now.

“Felicity?” The vet’s head poked around the corner. “Was that a touchy topic or something? Sorry if it was.”

“Oh. No.” Focus. “It’s not much of a story. I had a terrible accent and took some voice lessons to sound more professional. My teacher was English, so some of her accent and sayings stuck. I’ve always absorbed voices, though. I’m a little surprised I don’t have an Australian twang now. God forbid.” She shuddered.

Cooper laughed and disappeared again. “I see.” A sock suddenly went flying. “Crap.”

What followed the sock were ten glorious seconds of blurred Amazon dressed only in a white T-shirt that strained across ample breasts and sinful ass-hugging black boxers chasing after it. Felicity whimpered softly.

Why in the hell did she find someone like this so attractive? Someone so strong? So…soft butch? Who had real meat on their bones? It was at odds with everything she knew about herself. Her head was always turned by lawyers. Thin, lean, compact men and women with impeccable fashion and manners and grooming who posed themselves oh so artistically. They were all fussy, neat, clever, and precise, just like her.

She definitely didn’t do undulating teddy-bear-like military brats who could double as the Bank of America building. Especially not ones who crawled into dirty, creepy places to play canine midwife. There was no part of any of that description that resonated with who Felicity knew she was attracted to. And yet here she sat, unable to blot out those ten glorious blurred seconds.

Cooper gave a sheepish laugh as she leaped back into her changing room. “Sorry about that. I’m so tired that my coordination’s well and truly fried right now.”

Like my brain. Apparently.

“It was a long night,” Cooper continued. “Well, morning. I’ve been going fourteen hours already. I swear I’m usually the height of professional and manage to keep my clothes on a lot of the time!”

“Fourteen hours?” Felicity gasped. She might do that regularly, but she was in upper management and had a desk job. Vets did this, too?

“Don’t worry, I only have a few more hours left. Then I’ll take a nap.” A disembodied hand flung out and pointed.

Felicity followed it and saw a small open door she’d missed before. She could see a makeshift bed.

“Great for catching some Zs when I’m doing a double shift.”

“Do you do a double shift often?” Felicity asked, curious.

“Every now and then. Pet emergencies are part of life, and my usual casual replacement is getting his gallstones out.” Cooper stepped back into the main office area, knotting a bundle of dirty clothes in a bag. She shoved it under one arm, then tucked her T-shirt into her clean pair of jeans. She did up a solid silver buckle on her belt. “Much better, right?”

Felicity took in the flannel shirt, white T-shirt, and faded blue jeans. “Y-yes,” she muttered, feeling her cheeks catch fire. “Very nice. Yes.”

What the hell was wrong with her? She was having lustful thoughts, on the job no less, about someone who absolutely wasn’t her type!

“Two yeses, huh?” Cooper grinned. “Lucky me.” Her teeth were white and perfect, and her smile breathtaking.

Felicity wondered if the air had lost some of its oxygenation. Oh. So that’s where that word came from. Breathtaking. Made sense.

“All right, let me get a coffee into me, and I’ll answer any questions you like till the boss gets here.” She grinned again and headed for the kitchenette.

“Right. Yes.”

The woman pressed a button on a wall-mounted urn marked Boiling Water and filled a large mug. Mesmerizing.

Felicity swore at herself. She was being ridiculous. God, she’d dated Phillip for four months and had never been this distracted once.

“Cooper? Sorry I’m late!” came an older female voice from the bottom of the stairs accompanied by a rhythmic clacking noise.

“That’s Mrs. Brooks and the world’s most adorable girl,” Cooper said quietly so only Felicity could hear.

“One of the kids got a stomachache, and I had to make sure she—” The voice stopped as its owner reached the top of the stairs and met Felicity’s curious eyes. She was a Black woman with a round, pleasant face, midlength wavy black hair, and a strong Bronx accent. “Oh, hello.” Mrs. Brooks’s eyes flitted over to Cooper, who was carrying her coffee back to the table. “I didn’t realize you had company.”

Suddenly a knee-high caramel-colored dog burst in and rushed over to Cooper. It was an enthusiastic floppy-eared little thing, the exact kind of no-boundaries whirlwind that made Felicity take a step backward in alarm.

“Hey, girl.” Cooper dropped to a crouch, giving the dog a pleased one-armed hug while holding her coffee out of harm’s way. She laughed, pulling her face away as the animal tried to cover her in sloppy licks. “This is my overeager English cocker spaniel, Brittany.”

Yikes. Far too much slobber. Felicity inched away in case Droolius Caesar over there got ideas of sharing the love. Instead, after a few quick sniffs in Felicity’s direction, the animal seemed perfectly content to hug Cooper’s side. Thank all things holy in heaven.

“And this is Felicity Simmons,” Cooper said to both Mrs. Brooks and the excitable canine as she rose from her crouch. She made her way to a chair with the delighted dog doing loops in and out of her stride. “Felicity’s giving us the once-over for Bartell Corporation. To see if they want to donate.”

Mrs. Brooks’s eyebrows lifted at the mention of Bartell Corp.

She should be impressed. It was a Fortune 500 company. Which I’m going to be in charge of in a month. Well, assuming she didn’t screw up Elena’s secret mission here.

“And this is Cassandra Brooks, who keeps our entire charity on an even keel,” Cooper said, sliding her coffee onto the table and turning to Felicity. “She also sort of dog shares Brittany with me.”

Dog share? Why? They weren’t a couple, were they? Mrs. Brooks looked at least sixty. And Cooper was, what? Late thirties? Early forties?

Her confusion must have shown because Cooper added, “Britt’s mine during the day and Mrs. B kindly keeps her on nights and weekends because her apartment allows dogs, unlike mine.” She scowled. “A situation I’m trying to fix, but it’d be easier if affordable, dog-friendly buildings weren’t so hard to find in New York.”

Felicity nodded neutrally, having precisely zero interest in the sleeping arrangements of Brittany, the slobbery dog.

“So,” Mrs. Brooks said as she put her handbag on her desk, “potential donor, you say?”

Felicity nodded.

“Excellent. You’ll be wanting this, then.” She rummaged through her drawers and pulled out a folder, putting it on the table in front of Felicity. “This is the charity overview we supply to all potential donors. If you have any questions, Mr. Clifford will be in soon enough.”

Cooper sipped her coffee and watched them without a word.

Felicity made no move to take it. “If it’s all the same to you, I’m not looking for the information handed out to other donors. I’m looking for the full picture. The other financial information, if you follow. The information not often shared.”

The room seemed to get chillier.

“Excuse me?” Mrs. Brooks asked. Her mouth fell open. “What are you implying?”

Oh hell. Maybe Felicity really was bad at subtle. Before she could answer, Cooper chimed in.

“This is a legitimate charity! We do excellent work here!” Her eyes widened, and she placed her cup carefully on the table. “Mr. Clifford is scrupulous and ethical. He’d never do anything that wasn’t aboveboard. Same goes for everyone here.”

“Then that’s both excellent and easy to prove,” Felicity said quietly, spreading her hands to try and ease the tension. “Yes? Look, it’s simple. My boss is one of the richest women in the media world, and when she makes an investment in a cause, she wants it to be to a charity above reproach. And I’m here to make sure that’s the case. Surely you understand.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Brooks’s hackles seemed to go down.