© 2006 by Jennifer Sturman

Thanks to Laura Langlie, Selina McLemore, Margaret Marbury and the team at Red Dress Ink for their help and advice, and to my family and friends for their encouragement and support.

I was having my favorite type of dream, a flying dream, when the phone rang.

I opened one eye, testing to see if this was part of the dream. But in my dream the skies were blue and lit by golden sunlight. In my bedroom, it was dark, and freezing, since my new roommate liked to sleep with the windows wide open, even in March and even in Manhattan. And the phone was still ringing.

Peter mumbled something unintelligible and pulled the duvet over his head. I thought about doing the same, but surely nobody would call in the middle of the night unless it was important. I reached out for the phone.

“’lo?”

“Rachel. Glenn Gallagher here.”

This had to be a joke. “What time is it?”

“Almost six. Listen, I need you in the office. We don’t have much time to get ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“I’ll tell you when you get in. See you in an hour.”

“But it’s Satur-” I began to say before I realized I was talking to a dial tone.

I was still half-asleep, so my reaction was somewhat delayed. It was nearly five seconds before I’d collected myself sufficiently to say the only appropriate thing that could be said in such a situation.

“You asshole!”

Peter gasped and shot into a sitting position. I’d spoken more loudly than I’d intended. “And a good morning to you, too.” Even in the dark, I could make out the silhouette of his sandy hair.

“You look like Alfalfa.”

“Excuse me?”

“From The Little Rascals. You know, the one with the piece of hair that stuck straight up. He sang.”

“‘I’m in the Mood for Love.’”

“Uh-huh. He had a crush on Darla.”

“And that makes me an asshole?”

“No. Who said you were an asshole?”

“You did. Just now.”

“Oh. I wasn’t talking to you.”

“Good to know, I guess.” He settled back into the pillows and reached for me. “So who were you talking to?”

I snuggled into his embrace. Despite the Arctic chill to the room, his body radiated heat. “Glenn Gallagher. But he didn’t hear me call him an asshole. He’d already hung up.”

“Ah.”

“Yes. Ah.”

“Who’s Glenn Gallagher?”

“The new guy Stan Winslow brought in.”

“And why was he calling us in the middle of the night?” Even as I answered Peter’s question I was marveling at the unfamiliar use of “us.” I’d lived alone from the day I graduated college until the previous week, and I still wasn’t accustomed to the first person plural being applied in reference to my household. Our household.

“He said he needs me in the office. In an hour. Actually, more like fifty-five minutes at this point.”

“Do you think he knows it’s Saturday?”

“Probably.”

“And do you think he knows we were going to sleep in? And have a nice leisurely brunch and read The New York Times? And then figure out where I can put all my stuff?” Peter’s worldly belongings had arrived from San Francisco a few days ago, and stacks of unopened cardboard cartons now occupied every available square foot of the apartment.

“I doubt he gave it that much thought.”

“Why do you do this again?”

I sighed and detached myself from Peter’s arms. The rug was cold beneath my bare feet. “Because this is how you make partner at an investment bank.”

“By letting assholes order you out of bed in the wee hours on weekends?”

“If I keep it up, one day I’ll get to order other people out of bed in the wee hours on weekends.”

“Something to look forward to.”

“Go back to sleep. I’ll call you later, when I know what this is all about. Maybe I can rescue at least part of our day together.”

But I wasn’t too confident about that.

By Monday morning, the only thing I was confident about was that I wanted Glenn Gallagher dead.

My brain was fried and my thoughts scattered from too much caffeine and not enough sleep, but I did know with absolute clarity that I despised Glenn Gallagher and would be delighted to see him die a slow and painful death.

My firm, Winslow, Brown, had lured Gallagher from a competing bank six months ago, bringing him in as a senior partner and lavishing him with an enormous corner office and matching expense account. He’d been putting together leveraged buyouts for close to thirty years, and while LBOs were no longer as fashionable as they’d been in the junk-bond fueled eighties, Gallagher seemed to be doing just fine, judging by the addresses of his homes on Fifth Avenue and in Bridgehampton.

Regardless of his impressive real estate holdings, it hadn’t taken long for him to become the most hated man at Winslow, Brown-no easy feat in a place where there were a lot of hated men and even a few hated women. By the end of his first week he’d terrorized enough junior bankers to earn some interesting nicknames, including Adolf and Saddam.

Gallagher had learned late on Friday that Thunderbolt Industries, a Pittsburgh-based defense contractor, had chosen Winslow, Brown as its advisor on a management buyout. He hadn’t wasted any time scheduling a meeting with Thunderbolt’s CEO for Monday morning, which left just the weekend to get ready. Meanwhile, I wasn’t sure how my name had ended up at the top of the staffing list, but I’d lost this particular game of Russian Roulette without even realizing I was playing. I’d spent most of the past forty-eight hours in the office with Jake Channing and Mark Anders, the other unfortunates who’d been shanghaied into working on the deal.

The “team” had gathered in Gallagher’s office for a final prep session. He had called another 7:00 a.m. meeting but hadn’t sauntered in until half past, and he was now attending to a few personal matters before we began. First we were treated to a conversation, on speakerphone, between Gallagher and his lawyer regarding his ex-wife’s complaints that he was behind in child support. Gallagher earned more in a year than most people earned in a lifetime, and the fees he paid his lawyer probably far exceeded the sums he coughed up for the basic care and feeding of his daughter, but he apparently was not the sort to open his checkbook on behalf of others without the threat of legal action.

The next call was to a tailor to complain about the imperfect fit of a custom-made suit, which seemed futile, at best. Gallagher could spend every penny he made on his clothes, and he still wouldn’t be much to look at. He had the physique of a scarecrow, with stooping shoulders and sallow skin. What hair he had was a mousy shade, and the cut did nothing to disguise the way his ears stuck out.

I stole a glance at Jake, who rolled his eyes in shared exasperation. Like me, he was a vice president, although slightly more senior, and while he’d transferred only recently from the Chicago office, we’d quickly become friends. But I still hadn’t figured out how he always managed to look as if he’d just come from a GQ photo shoot. Today was no exception-his blue eyes were bright and every blond hair was in place-nobody ever would have guessed that he was running on only a few hours of sleep.

Mark, on the other hand, took nondescript to a new level: brown-haired, brown-eyed, neither short nor tall, and in no danger of being mistaken for a male model. Still, he seemed like a decent guy, unassuming and mild-mannered, and as the junior-most person on the team he’d more than pulled his weight over the hellish weekend.