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smile. Her gaze took in my coat, the same cut and color as

  hers but not as nice, my legs, clad in nude hose, and finaly

  settled on my shoes. They were the only part of me that

  seemed worth her approval, but she raised a brow anyway

  and just tossed off a fake little laugh as she stuffed her mail

  into her Kate Spade bag and turned on her matching

  pumps.

  Bitch.

  Bitch.

  Oh, I knew what discipline meant to me, al right.

  Discipline was what kept me from popping her in the back

  of the head with the heel of my barely-passing-inspection

  shoes. It's what kept my chin high and my mouth fixed in a

  pleasant smile instead of turning down at the corners so the

  tears would stay burning behind my eyes instead of

  slipping out.

  Discipline, or maybe it was pride. Or stubbornness.

  Whatever it was, I had enough to spare.

  I waited until she'd gone before I crossed the lobby and

  pushed through the revolving door. Outside, gray and

  overcast skies echoed my mood, and the breeze brought

  the scent of cigarettes to me. I looked automaticaly,

  wondering if I'd see someone pondering discipline.

  "Ari," I said, surprised. "Hi."

  Miriam's grandson tossed his butt into the sand-filed can

  and shrugged his coat higher around his neck. "Hey,

  Paige."

  "I didn't know you lived here."

  He grinned. "I don't. Just dropped off something for my

  grandma, you know?"

  I didn't know, but I nodded. "Tel her I said helo."

  "Stop by the shop and tel her yourself," he suggested with a sweetly dipping smile.

  It was nice to be flirted with, albeit without much heat. "I'l

  do that. Have a good day."

  "You, too."

  I looked back as I crossed the aley to the parking garage,

  and Ari was stil looking. Maybe there was a little heat,

  after al. And what woman didn't like to be appreciated? I

  had a much bigger smile on my face than I had before, and

  it lasted me al the way to work.

  I wasn't even close to being late, but I might as wel have

  been because by the time I got to my desk, my boss had

  already piled a stack of files on it. It could have been

  worse. He could have been standing over my desk with

  the empty coffeepot in his hand. He did that, sometimes,

  though I knew he was as capable of making coffee as I

  am. More, maybe, since he inhaled the high-octane stuff

  am. More, maybe, since he inhaled the high-octane stuff

  like it was air and I limited myself to a mug once or twice a

  day.

  Spying the empty Starbucks cup in the trash, I knew he'd

  already had his first dose of the day. I was safe a little bit

  longer. I could get the files ordered and put away without

  him breathing down my neck. I decided to put the coffee

  on anyway, though, just in case. There were many days I

  could predict my boss's every move, from the midmorning

  break when the bagel man came around, to his post-lunch

  trip to the bathroom.

  Today wasn't one of those days.

  "Paige. Listen. I need you to get those files taken care of,

  okay?"

  I turned from the smal bar sink, where I'd been filing the

  coffeepot with water. "Right, Paul. Of course."

  Amazing how someone with only a community-colege

  education could stil deduce simple things.

  "Good." Paul nodded and smoothed his tie between his

  thumb and forefinger while he watched me fiddle with the

  thumb and forefinger while he watched me fiddle with the

  coffeemaker.

  I hadn't yet figured out if Paul hovered because he

  expected me to screw up, or if he hoped I would. Either

  way, it didn't bother me the way it would have some of the

  other personal assistants on the floor. Brenda, for

  example, liked to brag how her boss, Rhonda, spent most

  of her time traveling and she barely had to deal with her.

  She also liked to brag that she'd worked for Kely Printing

  longer than that Jenny-come-lately Rhonda anyways, and

  knew what she was doing, so why should she have to run

  everything by someone else when she could get her work

  done faster and better without interference?

  I never told Brenda I found Paul's constant supervision

  more comforting than annoying. After al, if he never

  alowed me the autonomy to make decisions, I couldn't

  exactly be held accountable for anything that went wrong.

  Right? Even when Paul did his share of traveling, he never

  left without making me a sheaf of notes and lists…lists.

  I thought of the cards I'd found. Two, now. Two

  misdelivered notes with explicit, mysterious (to me)

  instructions. I could stil feel the sleek paper under my

  fingertips. I regretted not taking the time to smel the ink.

  fingertips. I regretted not taking the time to smel the ink.

  With the coffee set to brewing, I turned to face Paul.

  "Anything else?"

  "Not right now, thanks." Paul smiled and disappeared

  back into his inner sanctum, leaving me with the cheery

  burble of the coffeepot and a bunch of files to herd.

  This is what I knew about Paul Johnson, my boss. He had

  a chubby, pretty wife named Melissa who sometimes

  forgot to pick up his dry cleaning on time and two

  teenagers too busy with wholesome activities like sports

  and youth group to get into trouble. I knew that because

  I'd seen their photos and overheard his telephone

  conversations. He had an older brother, the unfortunately

  named Peter Johnson, with whom he played golf several

  times a year but not often enough to be good. I knew that

  because he'd asked me to make a reservation for him at

  one of the local golf courses and to cal his brother to

  confirm the date. The request was slightly out of the realm

  of my professional duties, but I'd done it anyway. I also

  knew Paul was forty-seven years old, had earned his

  MBA from Wharton, attended church on Sundays with his

  family and drove a black, but not brand-new, Mercedes

  Benz.

  Benz.

  Those were things I knew.

  This is what I thought about Paul Johnson, my boss. He

  wasn't a tyrant. Just precise. He held himself to the same

  level of perfection he expected from an assistant, and I

  appreciated that. He could be funny, though not often, and

  usualy unexpectedly. He gave every project his ful

  attention and effort because it pained him to do anything

  less. I understood and appreciated that, too.

  I'd worked for him for almost six months. He'd told me to

  cal him Paul, not Mr. Johnson, but we weren't anything

  like friends. That was okay with me. I didn't want my boss

  to be my chum.

  Though sometimes it felt as if al I did was make coffee

  and file, my job did actualy have more responsibility. I had

  documents to proof and send, invoices to fil out and

  appointments to book. I did al this to leave Paul free to do

  whatever it was that he did al day long in his lush, swanky

  office. If hard
pressed, I wouldn't have been able to tel

  anyone what, exactly, that was. I didn't hate or love my

  job, but it sure as hel beat working at a sub shop or being

  an au pair, which was what I'd done while looking for a

  an au pair, which was what I'd done while looking for a

  job that would use my freshly minted degree in business

  administration. If I never slung another plate of hash or

  wiped another ass I'd be happy for a good long time.

  There was another advantage to having a boss who

  needed everything just so. He was wiling to do what it

  took to make sure he got what he wanted, whether it was

  leaving me a three-page e-mail of the week's work, or

  taking five thorough minutes to describe to me exactly

  what he wanted me to get him for lunch. Also, if he sent

  me out to get him some lunch, he usualy treated me.

  Today it was a pastrami sandwich on rye from Mrs. Deli.

  Mustard, no mayo. No tomatoes, no onion. Lettuce on the

  side. Potato salad and an extralarge iced tea with real

  sugar, not what he caled cancer in a packet.

  I met Brenda in the hal on my way back. She took one

  look at the bulging paper sack from Mrs. Deli and sniffed

  hungrily. She held a smal, boxed salad I recognized as

  coming from the same guy who sold bagels in the morning.

  I'd had one of those salads once, when I'd forgotten my

  lunch and had been so desperate for food I'd been wiling

  to use my laundry quarters.

  "Gawd, Paige," Brenda said. "Lucky. I wish my boss

  would send me out for lunch. Heck, I'd like to just get out

  of this place for an hour."

  Officialy, we got an hour for lunch, but since our building

  was located in a business complex on the outskirts of the

  city, by the time you drove to anyplace decent for lunch,

  you'd barely have enough time to eat and come back.

  Rhonda might not hover over Brenda, but she was a

  stickler about office hours and break time. Everything has

  a trade-off.

  "Let me just drop this off with Paul and I'l be right down."

  Brenda looked at the box of sadness in her hand. "Yeah,

  okay. I've only got about forty minutes left, though."

  "I'l hurry."

  Paul's door was half-closed when I rapped on the door

  frame. At the muffled noise, I pushed it al the way open.

  He sat at his desk, staring at his computer monitor. The

  screen had dissolved into a rapidly changing pattern of

  expanding pipe-work, his screen saver, and I wondered

  how long he'd been sitting there.

  "Paul?"

  "Paige. Come in." He gestured and swiveled in his chair.

  Careful not to spil or drip anything, I puled his lunch from

  the bag one item at a time. It felt like a ritual, passing lunch

  instead of a torch. Paul settled each item onto his blotter.

  Sandwich at six, potato salad at nine, plastic fork and

  napkin at three. His drink went to noon, and he looked up

  at me.

  "Thank you, Paige."

  It was the first time since I'd started working for him that

  he hadn't lifted the bread to make sure the sandwich had

  been prepared properly or sipped the tea to make sure I

  hadn't mistakenly brought presweetened.

  "Do you need me for anything else?"

  He shook his head. "No. Go ahead and take your lunch

  now. I wil need you back here by one-fifteen, though. I've

  got that teleconference thing."

  "Sure, no problem." Taking my own sandwich, I headed

  down to the lunchroom to meet Brenda.

  down to the lunchroom to meet Brenda.

  Since no clients saw it, the lunchroom had seen better

  days. The vending machines were new, but the tables and

  chairs looked as if they'd been salvaged from the garbage

  more than once. My chair creaked alarmingly when I sat,

  but though I poised, prepared to hit the floor if the rickety

  thing colapsed, it held. I unwrapped my food quickly, my

  stomach already rumbling.

  "This weather, huh?" Brenda stabbed at her limp lettuce. "I wish winter would make up its mind."

  "In another three months everyone wil be complaining

  about it being too hot."

  She looked at me with a blink. "Yeah. I guess so. But I

  wish it would get warmer. It's nearly March, for cripe's

  sakes. Though we did have that blizzard in '93, right

  around Saint Patty's Day. I hope that doesn't happen this

  year."

  Under other circumstances we'd never have been friends.

  Not that I didn't like her, but we didn't have much in

  common. Brenda was older than my mom and had twin

  girls in colege. She also had a husband she referred to

  girls in colege. She also had a husband she referred to

  constantly as "my sweetie," and whose name I hadn't even

  yet learned. I imagined him as a Fred, though, for

  whatever that was worth.

  "We've hardly had any snow. I'm sure we'l be fine."

  "I don't know how you stand it, honestly." Brenda, finished with her salad, had started casting longing looks at the

  other half of my sandwich.

  I was pretending not to notice. I might only have been

  hungry enough to finish half, but the rest of it would be

  dinner tonight. "The lack of snow?"

  She laughed then lowered her voice with a conspiratorial

  look around the empty lunchroom. "Gawd, no. I meant

  Paul. I don't know how you can stand working for him."

  "He's not that bad, Brenda. Realy."

  She got up to get a snack cake from the machine. "Tel me

  that in another month."

  "What's going to happen in another month?" I wrapped my

  sandwich carefuly in the thick white butcher paper.

  Grease had turned it translucent in a pattern of dots and

  Grease had turned it translucent in a pattern of dots and

  made it unusable, which was too bad. Butcher paper was

  great for coloring pictures. Arty loved it.

  "Paul hasn't managed to keep an assistant for longer than

  six months, tops."

  "I've been here for almost six."

  "Yeah," Brenda said with the knowing nod of someone

  who's been keeping track. "And you can't tel me you

  don't notice he's a little…particular."

  The days when a good secretary was unfailingly loyal to

  her boss had apparently passed. Even so, I didn't leap to

  agree with her. "I said, he's not that bad. Besides, it's not

  like he screams or anything if things aren't exactly right."

  "He'd better not!" Brenda was already indignant on my

  behalf. "You're his assistant, not his slave."

  I gave a smal snort that tried and failed to be a chuckle.

  "Slaves don't get paid."

  "Just remember this conversation in another month when

  you're groaning to me that he's become impossible. They

  al do, eventualy," Brenda said. "He's gone through seven

  assistants already since he's been in our department."

  "They al quit?"

  "No. Some he fired." She raised a brow at me. "They

  were the lucky ones, if you ask me."

  I checked my watch. Five minutes left before I had to

  rouse myself from my postlunch lethargy and head back to
>
  the office. Time for a snack cake, if I wanted to stuff my

  face with processed sugar, or a cup of coffee from the

  communal pot. I didn't want the calories or the germs. I

  did crack the top on my second can of cola, though.

  "Why were they lucky?" I asked mildly, not so much

  because I cared, but to make conversation.

  "The ones who quit had to put up with a lot more garbage,

  that's al. I heard the last girl he had went to work at some

  grocery store after she left here, that's how desperate she

  was to get out."

  "That's pretty desperate." I stretched. As I started to get up from the table, pain sliced the back of my thigh.

  Brenda startled at my cry. "What? What's wrong?"

  I craned my neck to look over my shoulder, my leg stuck

  out behind me like I was a balet dancer getting ready to

  perform some complicated dance move. My skirt hit just

  above the knee and I could make out the ragged line of a

  run in my stocking, but nothing else. "Something snagged

  me."

  "It's the chair," Brenda said. "It's ful of splinters."

  I rubbed the spot stil stinging and smarting just behind my

  knee. "I can't tel if it's in there or not."

  "Shoot. I gotta run. Wil you be okay?" Brenda stuffed her

  trash into the plastic box where a few scraps of lettuce stil

  clung and tossed it al into the garbage can.

  "Sure. Of course." Sort of like a bee sting, the pain had

  turned from sharp to a dul throb. I was more upset about

  the panty hose I'd have to replace.

  In the bathroom I used the ful-length mirror to check out

  my injury, but could stil see nothing. I ran my fingers over

  my skin around the sore spot but felt nothing poking

  through. I didn't have time to keep searching, so I stripped

  through. I didn't have time to keep searching, so I stripped

  off the ruined panty hose and went back to the office.

  "Just in time," Paul said from the doorway between his

  office and my smal work space. "I was beginning to think

  you weren't going to make it."

  I looked at him sharply. "I'm hardly ever late, Paul."

  "Oh, I know you're not." He glanced at his watch. "C'mon, it's time."

  I pushed Brenda's warnings to the back of my mind. This

  was the best job I'd ever had, and while I never assumed it

  would be the best I'd ever get, I wasn't in any hurry to lose

  it.

  My task during the teleconference was to type up the

  notes. Paul not only had notoriously bad handwriting but

  he was a hunt-and-peck typist. As he got settled into his