9½ Days

“All right. Let’s get out of here and then we can talk.” Danny leaned his head back and called up to Mike. “Ready when you are, Stonewall.”

“Anytime, L.T.”

He placed his hands on the woman’s upper arms, ignoring the way she flinched as he guided her toward the front of the elevator car. “I’m going to lift you up so that Mike can catch your hands. Don’t let go of him until you’re all the way out to the floor. Okay?”

She angled her head away, but he heard her whispered acknowledgment. “Okay.”

He grasped her waist, bending his knees as she raised her arms to the light-filled opening. Flexing his thighs, he boosted her toward the ceiling. When he saw that Mike held her securely, he shifted his hands to her bottom, trying to ignore the intimate knowledge that his hands had been under that red silk gown only moments before. He gave a gentle push and waited for Mike to help her the rest of the way.

“I’ve got her, L.T.”

Danny balanced on the balls of his feet then lunged up to catch the edge of the eighth floor. Using sheer arm strength, he pulled himself to chest height before pivoting to swing his legs up as well. He got to his feet and saw Mike holding the flashlight, trying to check on the woman.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine. Really. I just need to go—”

“Wait a minute,” Danny protested. When she turned in his direction, his heart slammed to a stunned halt. He completely forgot whatever else he’d planned to say. The words caught in his throat as it tightened in dismay.

Gaze downcast, the woman still refused to look at him. But he didn’t need to see her eyes to know they were the golden brown color of maple syrup. Despite the gloom in the hallway, he knew that her hair had mahogany highlights and that her skin was the warm tone of caramel. He also knew he’d just made one of the biggest mistakes of his life.

Her voice sounded tight with embarrassment. “Thank you very much for helping me. I appreciate it.”

Mike started to speak. “If you’re sure…”

But she was already hurrying away down the dark corridor. Danny sensed his colleague turning to him, but his attention followed the elusive glimpse of red silk.

“Well, I see you managed to get some of her lipstick.” Mike’s voice held a note of jealous humor. Danny drew the back of his hand across his mouth and looked down to see a smear of color on his knuckles. “Did you get her name and phone number, too?”

“No, I didn’t get her number.”

“Too bad, L.T. She looked hot.”

Danny had no intention of getting the number now. And he already knew her name. Jordan Gregory.

His brother David’s girlfriend.

“KRISSY LYNN. What the hell kind of name is Krissy Lynn?”

Jordan leaned back in the conference room chair and watched her newest client, Susan Brandywine, pace the expensive wool carpeting. Her hands were jammed into the pockets of her palazzo pants, the kind Katherine Hepburn always wore in the late-night movies Jordan liked to watch.

“She’s blond and petite and just so gosh-darned eager.” Susan batted her eyelashes exaggeratedly. “And get this, she’s all of twenty-five years old. I’ve got sweaters older than this bubble-headed bimbo.”

Jordan didn’t look up from the note she jotted on a legal pad as she asked, “Aren’t you judging your replacement in the same manner you claim you’re being judged?”

Susan had been the female anchor on the WBNS nightly news team for ten years. After a messy and painful divorce, she began suffering from depression and put on some weight. At that point, she was shuffled from the prominent evening slot to a position reading the midday news.

The demotion fueled Susan’s depression, as did the comments of the news director and station manager, who suggested she lose weight, dress more femininely and grow out her “mannish” hairstyle. Then, just before her fortieth birthday, the station decided to “go with a more up-to-date look” for midday.

Susan stopped near the window overlooking the Camden Yards baseball stadium and sighed, running a strong hand through her short dark hair. “Yeah, damn it, I guess I am. But it hurts, Jordan. It really hurts.”

She made a sympathetic noise as her client continued to stare at the view. Jordan stood up and moved to the window. “I know exactly how you must feel.”

Susan eyed her up and down and scoffed. “Sure you do, honey.”

“You’re seeing me now. Not as the almost two-hundred-pound girl with bad skin and no friends I used to be.” She turned up the corners of her mouth, hoping it resembled a smile.

Susan nodded. “So as a former ‘fat girl’ yourself, you’re in the best position to defend me.”

Something inside of her twisted at the comparison, but Jordan focused on what was important. “I think we have a good chance with both the wrongful termination and the discrimination cases.”

“You know, I have a journalism degree from Columbia. I started out writing copy at a couple of newspapers. Journalism requires long hours, unbeatable dedication and street smarts as well as brain smarts.” Susan’s expression hardened. “It does not require looking like a Barbie doll. Especially not when my male co-anchors have gray hair, paunches and bags under their eyes. What does sex appeal have to do with my ability to tell an audience about a multiple rush-hour fatality on the Beltway?”

Susan was a very attractive woman: literate, funny, irreverent, and she had great personal style. And yet Jordan couldn’t suppress her reluctant aversion. It was like seeing herself the way she used to be, the way she’d worked so hard never to be again…

However, she wasn’t about to let her personal issues affect her zealous defense of a case. “In our favor, several successful lawsuits have set a precedent. For example, Connecticut anchorwoman Janet Peckinpaugh won her 1999 case against Post-News-week. You’re not too old, nor too fat, to do your job, Susan. And we’re going to prove it.”

From fifteen floors below, Jordan was distracted by the strident peal of a fire engine racing up Howard Street. The huge machine blared its horn at slow-moving cars until they pulled far enough toward the sidewalk for the engine to get by. She wondered if her elevator rescuer was onboard.

She also wondered what he looked like. Jordan had been too ashamed to look at him when he’d stood before her, too embarrassed to glance back as she fled. The firefighter from the elevator would never be more than a faceless memory.

3

JORDAN DOVE INTO the sea of bodies on the sidewalk and headed down Pratt Street past the Convention Center and the Garmatz Federal Courthouse. She’d conducted all of her meetings and handled her caseload on autopilot this morning, unable to concentrate.

She couldn’t stop thinking about…him. He was a complete mystery, this sensual stranger. And yet some air of familiarity had prompted her to let him kiss her, fondle and stroke her in the most intimate ways. Each time she closed her eyes, she experienced again the heat of his touch and the drugging taste of his kiss. Her lips actually tingled.

Jordan startled when someone jostled her elbow. Realizing she’d been lost in thought, again, she hurried to cross Charles Street before the traffic light changed. Downtown was teeming with tourists, many wearing Baltimore Orioles T-shirts in anticipation of tonight’s game. Exhaust fumes polluted the humid air while the sounds of crawling traffic echoed off the multistory buildings.

She waited through another red light by the Gallery mall on Light Street. She’d left her jacket at the office in deference to the heat, but the September sun seemed intent on burning a hole through her cotton shirtdress. Over the last few blocks, it felt as if her panty hose was melting and permanently adhering to her legs. Not to mention the way the waistband was strangling her. Queen-size? Yeah, right.

The early-autumn heat wave made everything hot and tight and sticky. Not unlike the heat she felt racing along her veins whenever she relived those mind-blowing moments at the St. Charles Hotel. Over the past two nights, the firefighter from the elevator had become the faceless lover of her dreams. In her midnight fantasies that first explosive orgasm was followed by several others as they made crazy, passionate love against the wood-paneled wall.

Jordan gave herself a mental shake as a truck horn blared impatiently. She had to stop this. There was probably a special area in purgatory for good girls gone bad. And she might as well get used to the idea because, if her daydreams were any indication, she was more than willing to be bad again.

She crossed the street with a determined stride, heading toward the Pratt Street Pavilion where she was meeting her college roommates, Sheris Smith and Melanie Walters, for their Monthly Monday lunch. In the tiny amphitheater between the two main buildings of the Harborplace complex, a crowd clapped and ignored the midday heat as a juggler tossed bowling pins in time to music.

The cool air inside the Pavilion was a welcome relief, and Jordan took a moment to let her body adjust and to check her watch. Five minutes early. Which meant Melanie would arrive at exactly twelve-thirty, and they should only have to wait another fifteen minutes after that for Sheris to show up.

She opened the door to the Cheesecake Factory restaurant, gave her name to the hostess and asked for an inside table. Once seated, she settled in with a raspberry iced tea, idly gazing out the tinted glass window.

Families and couples of all ages strolled along the red brick promenade on the harbor’s edge. Water taxis and duck boats carried tourists around the Patapsco River between the Inner Harbor and Fell’s Point. A line of people waited to tour the USS Constellation, a three-masted Civil War sloop anchored at Pier One.

Looking past the facade of the World Trade Center, Jordan could see the triangular glass roof of the National Aquarium. She’d been meaning to get over there and see the new Amazon River Forest exhibit…

“Hi!” Melanie bounced toward the table at twelve-thirty on the dot and waved to several people as she walked by. Mel was a diminutive dynamo and seemed to know everybody. With her petite figure and boy-short hairstyle, she looked like a happy pixie.

She dressed like one, too. Today she wore a bright yellow-and-white-striped pants set that complemented her coffee skin. Jordan smiled. You couldn’t help but smile at Melanie. She was like a walking dose of antidepressant. Her wide-set eyes always reflected her joy in life.