Edge of Dawn by Melinda Snodgrass Page A

haunted him. Richard had spent his life trying to please and win the respect of his cold and distant father, and while he had come tantalizingly close when he had outplayed and defeated Grenier, ultimately Richard had failed.
    Richard stood and looked down at Grenier. “Well, you’re just full of little croakers today, aren’t you? Pamela said you needed stroking. Looks like she was right.”
    â€œYou’re learning to punch above your weight.”
    â€œNot a very good allusion in your case,” Richard said with a smile that extended only from the teeth out.
    â€œTouch é .”
    Richard checked his watch. “And I’ve got to go.”
    He walked out, and Grenier stared for a long time at the closed door.
    *   *   *
    After the rather fraught conversation with Grenier, Richard returned to his office. As he emerged from the stairwell, he contemplated sneaking past his assistant, but Jeannette had her desk arranged to defeat any such maneuver. She handed him a stack of messages as he walked past. The sheaf of pink papers included the COO based in London; the CFO based in Japan; Damon Weber; Cassutt, who ran Lumina’s Washington lobbying firm; and Egan, who ran human resources out of offices in Harlem in New York City.
    â€œDo you want me to ring them for you?” Jeannette asked.
    This was an ongoing dance-battle. She had slowly trained Richard to behave like a proper executive. He no longer came out to the reception area to greet visitors. He didn’t make his own dinner reservations. He didn’t type his own letters, which was one dictum he didn’t mind. He had come to hate typing because he’d always gotten stuck typing up reports when he was a cop. Richard was a touch typist while his fellow officers were strictly hunt-and-peck, and he had been a rookie so there was no way to avoid being drafted. Since talking into a recorder made Richard feel stupid, he wrote out the letters in longhand and gave them to Jeannette to type. It wasn’t the most efficient use of either of their time, but it seemed a suitable compromise.
    But Jeannette hadn’t won on the phone thing. “No, thank you. The day I’m unable to punch a few buttons, you need to take me out and shoot me,” he said.
    â€œDon’t even joke about it,” Jeannette said, and Richard could see he had really upset her.
    It wasn’t conscious, but Richard found his hand gripping his thigh where the bullet had torn through. Next he touched the bandage over his ribs and wondered if the claw wound was going to leave a scar.
    Jeannette glared at him over the top of her reading glasses. “Look, it diminishes you when you call, and some secretary—”
    Richard held up an admonishing hand. “Uh-uh, administrative assistant, please.”
    She threw a computer screen cleaner designed to look like a Siamese cat at him. He caught it, and began squeezing it, feeling the seeds inside crunch and slide. It did seem to be a day for people to throw things at him.
    Jeannette continued. “While an administrative assistant”—she rolled her eyes—“keeps you waiting while she rings through to her boss. The assistants should do the waiting.”
    Richard hitched a hip onto the edge of her desk and stared down at her, fascinated.
    â€œYou’re taking this seriously, aren’t you?”
    â€œYes. With really important people, assistants try to make certain that you both come on the phone at exactly the same time.” She shrugged. “It’s a power thing.”
    â€œMy ego isn’t that big, and besides, most of the people I call work for me,” he demurred.
    â€œTrue, but you should let me place the call when it’s anyone outside Lumina. Otherwise you’ll leave the impression with that other executive’s assistant that you’re not powerful, a bit na ï ve, and probably a pushover, and she’ll pass that on to