Evil to the Max by Jasmine Haynes

forties’ noire films.
    Pippa exhaled, then set her briefcase on the edge of the desk. Tension eased from her shoulders as she folded her hands over the case’s handle. “The credit slips are under the register in a box.”
    Max gasped, threw her hands in the air, then smiled. “No way. We looked everywhere out there. I might have missed them, but not Ariel. But then she was busy with a customer and trying to direct me ...”
    “They’re under the register,” Pippa said through gritted teeth. Beneath the veil, two red spots appeared on her cheeks.
    “Well, thanks.” Max edged toward the door. “If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate. I’m good with filing and all that.”
    The woman waved an imperious hand. “No.”
    “Okay, well ...” Almost gone, home free, yet Max couldn’t resist one more inane parting comment. “I can’t type worth a hill of beans, but I’m a whiz at ...”
    “I said I’m fine.” Pippa’s teeth ground together that time.
    It was a good thing Pippa had cut her off, because Max wasn’t sure she could have found one more thing she was a whiz at. Gosh, playing a gabby ditz was right up her alley. She’d gotten herself out of that jam in ten seconds flat. And without one lie.
    “Give me the keys.” Pippa held out her hand, long pale fingers, the nails painted a blood red to match her lips. “They aren’t to be left out for just anyone to use.”
    “Sure thing.”
    Hmm. Was that a jab meant for the husband, the receptionist, or the blonde stylist? And what the hell was so important in Pippa’s office anyway? Max had found nothing that warranted two locks, let alone a deadbolt.
    She smiled, handed the ring over, then stuck a hand in her pocket where her fingers closed over the piece of paper on which she’d written the addresses.
    She backed out the door, then turned and ran smack dab into a human brick wall.
    “Hmmph.” She bounced, but managed to catch herself without toppling over on her high heels.
    The guy was a giant. Over six and a half feet. Prominent cheekbones, his features a mass of angles and fissures that came straight out of a monster movie. Khaki pants encased his tree-trunk size thighs, a blue work shirt displayed his thick muscles, and his white-toothed smile stretched as wide as the Grand Canyon. It was oddly incongruous in that face, as were his eyes, the brightest blue, innocent, trusting, and naïve, like a child’s, despite the fact that he appeared to be somewhere in his mid-thirties.
    “Hi.” His voice, deep and loud, pounded against her eardrums. He stuck his hand out, grabbed hers, and pumped her arm, shaking her whole body. “My name’s Jules.”
    “Mine’s Max.”
    “Max? That’s a boy’s name.”
    “It’s short for something else.” Not that she’d ever tell anyone what that was.
    He shook her hand until the bones of her fingers felt as if they’d been crushed. Jules reminded her of slow Lenny in Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men . Sweet without knowing his own strength. He leaned down to stare into her face, his breath scented with chocolate peanut butter cups.
    “Jules? Where’s that box?” Pippa’s strident tone rang out.
    Jules dropped Max’s hand immediately. A shadow crossed his ruddy features, his eyes widened.
    Pippa Lamont stood by her desk, one high-heel clad foot tapping on the carpet, her arms folded beneath her breasts, and her gaze pointed.
    “It’s in the trunk of your car, Pip-pa.” He said the name slowly, as if the syllables gave him trouble. Or as if the harsh sound of the woman’s voice made him stutter.
    “Well, go get it and bring it in here.”
    Despite his bulk, Jules moved quickly and gracefully down the hall.
    “Max,” Pippa snapped with command.
    “Yes, ma’am.” Max kept her lips straight, though Pippa’s condescending tone threatened to bring out a snarl.
    “Jules has the mind of a child. He talks too much, then doesn’t get his work done. All the girls here know not to encourage