Blindfolded Innocence
Page 4

I could call Ancient Dorothy, tell her that a file has been mis-delivered, but that was just silly. I was less than 20 feet from the East Wing. I could just walk over there and deliver it to the first secretary I saw. It would take less than a minute, and then the file would be properly handled. It was the obvious and responsible course of action.
Except that Broward doesn't want you going to the East Wing, my conscience nagged at me with a know-it-all tone. What am I, five? I countered, getting irritated at my conscience. I'm perfectly capable of returning a file without getting into any trouble.
Decision made, I grabbed the file and strode out of my office, ducking past Sheila and practically jogging past the remaining open doors. I felt like the red folder was a giant LOOK AT ME sign advertising my destination. Which, of course, it kind of was. I ducked the folder under my arm and willed myself to be invisible. My concern was unnecessary, no one even looked up, everyone absorbed in the ever-present pile of work. Broward being out of town didn't mean the presses stopped.
I took an unexpected detour into the restrooms located just to the right of the elevators, and took an appraisal of myself in the mirror above the sink. The light in the bathroom was muted, but it was bright enough to show me that it was not my best day. Whether intentional or not, my knowledge that Broward would not be in this week had caused me to dress down, and not put as much effort into my appearance. I was wearing khakis, a pressed white button-up shirt, and one of my new pairs of sensible, low, open-toed heels. My hair was, as always, up in a bun, and I had opted for glasses instead of my normal contacts. Some might think of glasses as sexy. Those people haven't seen my glasses.
At age six I started wearing glasses. By age twelve they were officially coke bottles. Around that age I start wearing contacts, and the ribbings from classmates dropped off. Slightly. I bring in that background information to let you know that me wearing glasses does not in any way increase my sexual intensity.
Getting back to my appearance, I had neglected to put on makeup, which mean I had pale, untouched skin and dark circles under my eyes. I knelt and opened up the sink cabinet and fished around behind the tampon box, reaching into the dark depths and feeling blindly until my hand bumped against what I was looking for, my small cloth makeup bag.
My first day I had packed an emergency makeup kit - one that includes mascara, lip-gloss and concealer. I had stored it here in case I ever needed to freshen up before a big meeting, or hadn't had time to "do my face" before work. I sent a silent "thank you" up to God for blessing me with such incredible foresight, and hauled myself back up to a standing position.
Three minutes later I looked reasonably presentable. I still had my coke bottle glasses, but I had long, plump lashes behind them and my lips had some color now. The dark shadows were still present, but minimized by the concealer.
I grabbed the red file folder, opened the door and scolded my nervous butterflies. Then I straightened my shoulders, pulled open the heavy bathroom door and headed for the East Wing.
CHAPTER 9
Rule 1: She is kept blindfolded for the first meeting. If the blindfold is to be taken off, it must be done by her alone.
The heavy East Wing double doors opened to a sea of noise and activity. People were everywhere, and everyone seemed to be very important, very busy, or very emotional. I stopped just inside the doors and tried to get my bearings.
The room was large, dominated by three large curved secretarial desks that created a semi circle at the back of the room. To get to the secretaries, there was a wide, wood path that was flanked on either side by leather seating clusters. Both seating arrangements were full, one seemed to hold a meeting in progress, the other had two leggy blonds and an older man in a suit, apparently waiting. To the right was a large, glass conference room, a meeting in progress. I could hear muted tones of what sounded like an argument coming from that side. On the left were offices, probably holding paralegals and Todd. Behind the secretaries was a large office with floor to ceiling windows, from which I could see the downtown skyline. I could also see a man, standing at his desk, a phone to his ear. From the size and the view of the office, I assumed that was De Luca's office. Okay, Julia. Get in, Get out, and Stop Gawking.
I moved quickly and (I hoped) confidentially toward the secretary cluster. Their three desks were elevated, and I felt like a defendant approaching the judge. The secretaries all seemed cut from the same cloth. Old, dignified, and spicy, headmistress-style seemed to be De Luca's preference. Or perhaps HR's preference for De Luca. The center headmistress worn a red suit and had a brass nameplate on her desk that indicated her name was Carol Featherston.
She looked up as I approached, and her sharp gaze immediately locked on the red folder in my now sweaty clutches. She skipped a greeting and held out her hand. I passed the file meekly over. Her phone started to ring. She ignored the phone and flipped quickly through the file, then snapped it shut and looked back at me.
"Where did you get this?"
"I'm Julia Campbell, from Broward's office. I -
"Where did you get this?" Her piercing gaze and shrill voice told me to get to the point.
"It was on my desk, ma'am."
"Alright, I'll handle it. Thank you." The snappy response seemed to indicate that I was done. I couldn't imagine this women planning stripper-filled parties. Todd must have been exaggerating. I smiled politely at the woman and turned to leave. My exit was interrupted by a large rapping, knuckles on glass. I paused, mid-turn and glanced back at Ms. Featherston. She held up a finger and glanced over her shoulder. I followed her gaze.
A bear of a man stood at the glass window of the large back office. He had the build of an ex-athlete, impossibly broad shoulders and muscular arms that his $1000 dress shirt couldn't hide. He had olive skin and a thick head of hair. Strong handsome features, he would have been too good-looking if it weren't for the fierceness of his features. He looked like the kind of man who chased confrontation down and then ate it for breakfast. Phone to his ear, his knuckles were still rapping the glass when my eyes met his. He pointed one finger at me and then motioned for me to come, turning his back and pacing away without waiting for a response. Uh-oh.
I must have had panic on my face when Ms. Featherston turned back to me. Her stiff expression softened slightly, and her tone was a little kinder, but still firm.
"Go on in," she said. "He wants you."
Ms. Featherston returned her attention to the file. I glanced around, looking for an escape, and then, wobbly made my way around the secretary stand, and to the door of De Luca's office. "Brad De Luca" was printed on a brass nameplate located in the center of the door. Broward is going to kill me. I opened the door without knocking, and walked in, shutting it quietly behind me.
I stood by the door, hands together in front of me, waiting for De Luca to get off of the phone. His office was long in length, and there seemed to be a silly amount of space between where I stood and where he paced. I'm not moving a damn step closer to this man if I can help it. I felt like I was having trouble breathing. My chest was tight, and beads of sweat were forming on my upper lip. I tried to discreetly wipe them off. What the hell am I so nervous about? He's not going to eat me, for Christ's sake.
He finished his conversation and hung up the phone, staring at me. Still standing, he picked up a stress ball and squeezed it while looking at me. I felt like an innocent little fawn, stuck in the lion's gaze. I stayed quiet and waiting for him to say something.
"I need a car," he said. His voice was sexy and deep, definitive. He sounded like a man who had never second-guessed a single action, his entire life.
"A car?" my voice came out a little higher than I had intended, almost a squeak.
"Yes. I know the Casino typically handles my transportation, but I plan to go on a side trip this weekend, and want a car. The normal type will do." The last sentence was said rather dismissively, and seemed to indicate that our conversation was over. He picked up his phone and started to punch in a number. Then he paused, looking at me again.
"Have you done something different?"
"Different?" I didn't really know what to say. This was the strangest interaction I had ever had with someone. I'm sure he was blown away by my verbose and witty conversation.
"You look different."
"I'm wearing glasses." I felt like I was in Crazy Town. Has he seen me before?
De Luca looked at me again, then shrugged and continued dialing the number. He turned away from me, and I understood that our interchange was over.
That was freaking weird.
I walked back to the center desk and waited for Ms. Featherston to look up. She did, after a moment.
"Mr. De Luca asked me to reserve a car? For this weekend?" I sounded inept, even to my own ears.
Featherston looked confused, and then her expression cleared. Her mouth curved into something resembling a smile.
"He thinks you’re Tiffany," she said wryly.
"Who?"
"Tiffany. The girl who works downstairs, who handles travel arrangements. You slightly resemble her - he must have gotten confused. I'll make sure she gets the message." She shot me an amused look and then re-focused on her computer.
I turned on my heel and headed for the doors, wanting to get back to the normalcy of the West Wing. Wow, talk about an ego-check. What a ... jerk! I could feel my irritation building. I pulled my shoulders back and straightened my head, enjoying the anger coursing through my body. It felt good having some of my backbone back.
Back at my desk, I pulled out my cell and sent a quick text to Olivia.
DINNER AND DRINKS TONIGHT?
Her response was quick, and affirmative. We agreed, through a series of texts, to meet at 8pm at Cafe Salsa, a downtown tapas bar known for their great bands. I locked my phone and put it back in my purse. I planned on enjoying this Broward-free week, and damn if I'd let that Asshole De Luca affect it. I attacked my pile of files with new gusto.
----
I dressed to kill - picking out a red minidress and sky-high nude Christian Louboutin stilettos. I straightened my hair and carefully applied my makeup. Putting on my sexiest lace bra and a matching thong, I shimmied into my dress and then dusted bronzer over my legs, chest, and arms. A small black purse in hand, I stood in front of the mirror and gave myself the once-over. Hot damn woman. You are looking good.
At five minutes before eight, Olivia pulled up outside my apartment in her old grey Ford Explorer, blaring Katy Perry. I skittered out on my heels, navigating the overgrown path with care. Entering Olivia's SUV was like crawling into a bubble gum bubble. It smelled yummy and completely feminine, and said GIRL as loud as the feather boa hanging from the review mirror could scream.
We sang and car-danced the 10 minutes to Cafe, and my spirits rose with every chorus. Parking was difficult to find, and Olivia ended up squeezing into a spot three blocks from the restaurant.
One benefit of being with Olivia is the guarantee to never have to wait for a table. She's made a point to get to know someone at every hot spot in town. We requested a quiet table and were, within minutes, put at a great corner table with a view of the dance floor and bar.
"So. Give me the goods," she demanded as soon as we sat down.
"What goods?"
"You know! On your new job, life, everything! I haven't seen you in over two weeks, and this weekend didn't count! Becca was there, and that prevents any real conversation from occurring." She giggled to soften her point, but we both knew she meant it. Becca was wonderful, but Becca was all about Becca, 24 hours a day.
"Any word from Luke?"
I rolled my eyes at her reference to my ex. "No, thank God. He doesn't know about my internship, and I don't think anyone has told him where I live. Has he called you any more?"
She shook her head in response. "Just that one time. I think I made it pretty clear to him then that he wasn't going to get any information from me."
I brought my martini up to signal a toast. She followed suit.
"To new beginnings."
"To new beginnings." she parroted. We clinked glasses and both took generous sips.
"So, tell me about the new job." Her eyes glimmered. "Anything going on with you and that gorgeous hunk we saw at Amigos?
"Todd?" I grimaced and shook my head. "No, he is too…. I don't know. Immature. Besides, I don't want to get involved with anyone at work - it's too complicated." I thought of De Luca and my face flushed. Olivia caught the tell.
"What - What is it?"
I told her about De Luca, Broward's warning, and today's interchange. She started to giggle and then clamped a hand over her mouth at my glare.
"It's not funny," I hissed.
"Oh, come on! It is funny! You trotted in there thinking that he would bend over backwards to woo you. Instead he gave you a menial task and sent you on your way!" She smiled affectionately at me, and patted my arm. "It's okay Jules. Not EVERYONE is insusceptible to your charms."
I shrugged and was on the verge of a witty comeback when a server materialized at our table with two martini glasses filled with blue, glowing liquid. "Ladies, these drinks are from the table by the stage." He deposited the drinks in front of us and disappeared before we had time to formulate a response. I drew my blue martini close and tried to glance discreetly over my shoulder. Three suits by the stage nodded and raised their drinks. I gave them a quick smile and turned back to Olivia.
"What do you think?"
Olivia sorta leaned to the side and spoke over the sugary rim of her new drink.
"Fairly cute, they look successful, a little old."
"How old?"