Margo kicked aside the door and stormed into the parking garage. She had the urge to strip off her Armani suit right then and there, and she swore that as soon as she got home she’d tear off her damned clothes and burn them.
Tears came as she approached her car, but what did it matter? Margo was alone in this cement-and-steel tomb. Upstairs at the law firm, the Three Weasels, as she called them, wouldn’t be having a good day either. Margo visualized the scene: her elderly client would be in the fetal position, groaning in mock agony while the law firm’s partners gathered around and babbled apologetic nonsense. Ashley, the firm’s precocious and oh-so-sweet, front-desk eye candy, would be waving a towel over the prostrate groper and breathing her favorite mantra: “Oh sir, oh sir, oh sir.”
Margo stopped cold.
Like skulking urchins, silence crept from behind the skirts of automobiles. Margo knew what came next. That nagging voice in her head would chide her for overreacting, again.
Idiot! What’s wrong with you? You should have never let that creep get behind you, you know how he is! March yourself right back up to that conference room and smooth things over, take one for the firm. He’s a very important client! And you think of yourself as an up-and-coming attorney, do you?
“Hell no!” Margo shouted, and the strength of her voice frightened away the last orphans of doubt. She should have kicked the old pervert and kicked him hard. A sharp elbow to the groin was such a polite way of saying “hands off me!”
Margo’s Lexus blinked awake and greeted her in a leather-bound embrace of wood and luxury—her champion of comfort and steel. She slid behind the wheel as the instrument panel activated, and refrigerated air issued from a phalanx of vents, cooling her angry mist. Margo stared into the vanity mirror: violet eyes (red-rimmed, of course); passable makeup; and her dark, pixie-cut hair sitting almost perfect, as usual. She was past her fortieth birthday, but she could still turn a head; she hadn’t lost her cute.