Big Book of Smut by Gia Blue Page B

any sort of snide comfort in the misfortune that often befell Jacquí, as she was affectionately called by the hordes of her closest friends.
    In contrast, Denise felt like an ogre in Jacquí's company. On those rare days when she felt well above average on the attractiveness scale, Jacquí would arrive at the office in a sleek and stylish new designer suit and steal what little attention Denise hoped to garner. The leggy blonde epitomized sexy and had enough smarts not to need good looks to succeed in the business world. To add insult to injury, she had the nerve to be one of the nicest people Denise had ever met. No one, not even Mother Teresa, deserved to be that close to perfection.
    Jacquí strolled past her office carrying her typical bagel and coffee. She lifted the foam cup in a g'morning salutation and gave a megawatt smile that might as well have been nails on a chalkboard for its impact on Denise's mood. Even at eight forty-five on a Monday, the woman looked like a taller version of Heather Locklear in a power suit. Prettier, too, with all the beauty and none of the harder edges. The glass walls allowed Denise to follow her progress down the hall.
    Denise hated the fact that she spent so much time trying to find fault with Mademoiselle Manceaux, some chink in the "charmor" that would enable her to legitimately despise the bitch. Maybe she abused small animals or kicked homeless people as they slept on the street. One could only hope. Shaking herself from the vortex of her thoughts, Denise returned her attention to the day's schedule.
    Few people wanted to look at real estate during the morning hours on weekdays, so Denise used the time at her desk to return phone calls, schedule building inspections, challenge property tax assessments, and scour the newspapers online for For Sale By Owner ads. Her commissions didn't suck, but they could be better. Denise longed to have the finesse other agents used to reel in the reluctant do-it-yourselfers. Jacquí, unsurprisingly, led the firm in signing FSBOs. She also bagged more than a fair share of the sweet multi-million dollar estate listings.
    The busywork made the morning pass quickly, and Denise's stomach reminded her that she'd skipped breakfast. She tidied her desk, signed off her computer, and retrieved her purse from the bottom desk drawer, intending to grab a soup-and-salad special in the building's basement cafeteria.
    "You look nice today," a dulcet voice called from the doorway accompanied by a light one-knuckle knock. Even Jacquí's vocal cords evoked envy. When Denise looked up, she continued, "Well, you always look nice , but I especially like you in green. Brings out your eyes. Um, sorry to interrupt, but can I talk to you for a minute? It won't take long."
    In spite of herself, Denise beamed. To be first complimented, then wanted—for whatever reason—by this ultra-smooth, ultra-savvy woman made her ego momentarily swell with pride. It didn't take long, however, for the inner cynic to squelch that elation.
    "I'm on my way to lunch." She enjoyed the flash of disappointment on Jacquí's face. Unable to maintain the brusque dismissal, Denise capitulated, "But you're welcome to join me. I'm just going downstairs for a quickie. I have to show an apartment at one on the other side of the city."
    Jacquí grinned. "Let me grab my purse. Be right back." With that, she scurried down the hall as fast as her butter-cream Prada pumps would carry her. Denise forced herself not to admire the retreat.
    Before she could count to twenty, Jacquí returned with her matching butter-cream Prada handbag. Denise tucked her Coach knock-off under her arm. She felt good about the purchase when she impulsively dropped forty dollars on it last weekend. Now she just felt like as much of an imposter as her bag. Without matching faux-Coach shoes, she even failed as a competent fraud. The urge to compete was strong, but Denise knew that she could spend every spare moment at the gym and