Out of Order

Allison took the phone, waving it around for emphasis. “It’s not exploitation. It’s not even nepotism. Any job placement agency will tell you to use your contacts. And I’m your contact in Chicago. Use me.”

“Make sure you tell him I don’t know the first thing about being a receptionist.”

Allison grinned as she punched in a number and lifted the phone to her ear. “I won’t lie. Greg Smith, please.”

Shelby’s stomach tightened into a knot.

“Hey, how hard can it be?” asked Allison. “You answer a few phone calls, greet a few clients, file a few folders. You do know the alphabet, right?”

“I still sing it inside my head.”

Allison grinned, raking her messy dark hair across her scalp and shaking her head. “Greg?” she said into the phone.

“What?” she asked almost immediately.

She paused. “Because Shelby woke me up.”

Allison winked at Shelby. “Yes, she is very punctual.”

Shelby’s palms turned sweaty as, despite herself, she started to hope. A cushy job in a law office sounded so much better than delivering balloons in a French maid’s outfit or slinging hash at 5:00 a.m.

Some women just weren’t cut out for 5:00 a.m. Unless, of course, it had been a really great party.

“Of course I’m not mad,” Allison said into the phone. “Shelby did a fantastic job of entertaining me last night.” She gave a theatrical sigh. “Otherwise I would have been so lonely in the club all by myself.”

Shelby rolled her eyes.

Allison grinned unrepentantly as she listened to Greg’s response. “As a matter of fact, there is a way to thank her. She’s looking for a job as a receptionist.”

Now that was a stretch. Shelby was looking for a job requiring a warm body.

“Experience?” asked Allison. “Absolutely.”

Shelby’s eyes widened and she shook her head, making a slashing motion across her throat. Allison had promised not to lie.

“She’s worked with the public for years,” said Allison. “She’s greeted customers, handled cash, balanced expenses. She’s good with details, extremely organized and very personable.”

Shelby had to admit, it was all basically true. If keeping twelve drink orders straight counted as being organized.

“Debbie’s old job? Now why didn’t I think of that?”

Shelby bit down on her bottom lip, afraid to let herself hope.

“She can start on Monday…Of course…Bye, sweetheart.”

Allison hung up the phone and Shelby let out a sharp gasp, trying not to let terror overwhelm her excitement. She had a job. A real job.

“You’re in,” said Allison with a wide smile.

“I can’t believe you pulled that off.”

“Believe it.”

“You’re incredible.”

“And you’re going to be great. You’ve already met Dallas and Greg. And Allan, the other partner, is a pussycat.”

3

DALLAS NODDED to his partner, Allan Turnball, as he strode across the newly decorated reception area of Turnball, Williams and Smith, briefcase in one hand and a double mochaccino in the other. He loved Monday mornings—loved it when an entire week of untapped possibilities stretched out in front of him.

He had a meeting with Eamon Perth at ten, lunch with Judge Weinberger, and he was hooking up with Greg for racquetball and a beer before he caught the Cubs game on ESPN.

If he could convince Eamon Perth to put them on permanent retainer, he could announce the coup to Greg tonight, giving Greg bragging rights for his meeting with Preston International in New York on Friday. A couple of cornerstone clients like Perth-Abercrombie and Preston International, and the sky would be the limit for their budding law firm.

As Mondays with possibilities went, it didn’t get much better than this.

He headed toward the hallway that led to his office, but caught a bright flash in the corner of his eye, bringing him to a stop. Something was out of place.

He slowly turned toward the receptionist’s desk, and his mouth dropped open a notch as he stared at a pair of black, spike-heeled pumps, impossibly long legs, a shiny gold dress over a perfectly rounded rear end, and a head of riotous, auburn hair barely tamed in a knot.

His mouth went dry as last night’s dream popped, full blown, into his mind. His palm turned slick against his briefcase handle.

Allan appeared at his side. “Did you meet our new receptionist?”

Something settled like a lead weight in Dallas’s stomach.

The woman pivoted to face him and he nearly dropped his coffee onto the three-week-old, hand-knotted, golden-onyx carpet.

“Dallas Williams,” said Allan. “This is Shelby Jacobs.”

Shelby’s bright red lips curved into a friendly smile. The silky-smooth lines of the gold dress hugged her knockout figure. Gathered, capped sleeves barely covered her shoulders, and a heavy zipper was pulled just low enough to stimulate his imagination.

“What the…?” He barely sputtered out the question before his vocal chords shut down in sheer incredulity.

“We’ve met,” said Shelby. “Great to see you again, Dallas.”

Dallas? What were clients going to think when the receptionist called the partners by their first names? What were clients going to think when the receptionist looked like she belonged on a Vegas runway?

He glanced at the newly decorated wall behind her—its arched, Italian bookcase, leather-bound law books, bronze-and-marble statues, the wing chairs, the fresh flowers and the custom oil paintings that nearly screamed class and success. Then he looked back at Shelby—sexy, spectacular, totally inappropriate, Shelby.

Was this a joke? He turned his horror-stricken face to Allan. Blinking, waiting for the man to burst out laughing.

He didn’t.

“Can I get you anything?” asked Shelby, shifting in Dallas’s peripheral vision. “Coffee? Files?” She gestured to the bookcase behind her. “A reference book?”

Dallas spoke to Allan through clenched teeth. “Can I see you in my office for a moment? Bring Greg.”