The Chosen

a.m.

In an hour The Emerald Room would open for lunch.

Dan B., Donna. She’d make some arrangement to stay with them for a few days, until she could figure out what she wanted to do. The bank account was joint; after being caught, Paul was probably at the teller’s now, cleaning it out. She’d just have to scrape by until payday, get a place, restart her life.

Then she stopped.

Her mouth opened. The cold wind burned her eyes.

Feldspar.

Vera ran, suddenly a sleek maniac in a Burberry overcoat and high heels. Feldspar had told her he was staying at the Radisson. Checkout time was eleven!

On the off chance that you should change your mind, please contact me.

She ran on, stopped again, hopping, took off her shoes, and continued. Pedestrians gaped after her. A Yellow screeched to a halt when she dashed through a don’t walk crossing. Her feet pounded the stone-cold sidewalk, the air whipped against her face. Just as she turned into the hotel court, the gleaming red Lamborghini idled up to the light, which then turned green.

“Wait!” she screamed.

The car turned away, accelerated down West Street.

“Oh, no, oh, shit, wait!”

She scampered through pedestrians. The bottoms of her stockings wore out as she shouldered through clusters of business suits on their way to work. The Lamborghini had stopped before the red light at Cathedral Street. Vera’s lungs felt fit to explode:

“Wait!”

The light blinked green just as Vera trampled up. Feldspar’s goateed face looked astonished in the window. He leaned over.

The passenger door raised.

“Ms. Abbot—what’s wrong?”

“I—” Vera sunk into the plush leather seat. The door lowered closed automatically, sealing in the heat “I wanted to catch you before you left.”

Concern lined Feldspar’s broad face. “Something’s quite wrong, I can tell. What is it?”

Vera let the heat sink into her skin. How could she explain herself without sounding daft? The way she looked now, shivering, stocking-footed, must already have reduced her former credibility to the lowest ebb. So she would make no excuses.

“Mr. Feldspar, is that job still open?”

««—»»

He turned around and drove straight back to the Radisson, booked another room, and took her up. “What changed your mind?” he asked, and opened the door.

He’d rented a conference room. Vera took off her overcoat, for the first time since last night. Feldspar set an alligator-skin briefcase on the meeting table.

“Your fiance turned out to be open to the idea?” he ventured when she didn’t answer.

He’s open to ideas, all right. “No. I never discussed it with him. We’re not together anymore.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Feldspar sat down, lit a Sobraine. “I do hope that it wasn’t the job offer that caused your separation.”

“It wasn’t,” Vera said. “It had