"Sixty-two." Roger glanced over his shoulder. "And you know how his wife likes those cruises. She's always bugging him to take one to Europe, around the Med, that sort of thing."
"How do you know that?"
"Beth. Assistant to the assistant. She got brochures for the old man. The Bittles' fortieth anniversary is coming up this year. If he retires early, there's going to be a partnership slot up for grabs."
"A new partner." It made sense. Perfect sense. All the meetings, the account checks. The current partners would have to weigh and judge, debate and discuss who would be most qualified to move up. She barely stopped herself from dancing a jig. She had to remember who it was she was talking to. Roger was her toughest competitor.
"Maybe." She shrugged, though inside, glee was spreading like a lovely pink balloon. "But I don't see Larry sailing off into the sunset yet. No matter how much his wife nags him."
"We'll see." Roger kept a sly smile on his face. "But something's going to happen, and it's going to happen soon."
Kate walked sedately back to her office, closed the door, put her supplies neatly away. Then she danced her jig.
She didn't want to get ahead of herself, didn't want to start projecting. The hell she didn't. Dropping into her chair, she spun herself around once, twice, and a giddy third time.
She had an MBA from Harvard, had graduated in the top ten percent of her class. In the five years she'd worked for Bittle, she had brought in twelve new accounts through client recommendations. And had lost only one. To that jerk Roger.
But even that hadn't gone out of house. She personally generated over two hundred thousand a year in billing. So did Roger, she admitted. She kept an eye on him. But when Marty had awarded her a raise last year, he'd told her she was considered the cream of Bittle's associates. Larry Bittle called h
er by her first name, and his wife and daughters-in-law had been known to drop by Pretenses to shop.
A partnership. At twenty-eight, she would be the youngest partner ever at Bittle. She would have exceeded by years her own rigid expectations of herself.
And wouldn't it, in some way, erase this taint she felt? This secret she had buried inside. If she was a success, it would overshadow all the rest.
She allowed herself to dream about it—the new office, the new salary, the new prestige. She would be consulted on policy, her opinion would be weighed and respected. Giggling, she leaned back in the chair and spun again. She would have a private secretary.
She would have everything she'd ever wanted.
Kate imagined picking up the phone, Calling the Templetons in Cannes. They'd be so happy for her, so proud of her. Finally, she would be able to believe that everything they'd done for her was deserved.
She'd have a celebration with Margo and Laura. Oh, that would be sweet. At long last Kate Powell had come into her own, had done something important and solid. Years and years of work and study, of aching shoulders, tired eyes, and a burning stomach would have paid off.
All she had to do was wait.
Forcing herself to push the dream to the back of her mind, she swiveled to her computer and got to work.
She hummed as she ran figures, calculated expenditures, logged tax deductions, clucked over capital gains, and figured depreciation. As usual, she tuned in to the work and lost track of time. Kate came up blinking when the beep from her watch told her it was five o'clock.
Another fifteen minutes to close the file, she decided, then glanced up in mild annoyance at the knock on her door. "Yes?"
"Ms. Powell." Lucinda Newman—or the Dragon Lady, as she was unaffectionately called among the rank and file—stood imposingly in the doorway. "You're wanted in the main conference room."
"Oh." Kate's heart gave a wild, joyful leap, but she kept her face composed. "Thanks, Ms. Newman. I'll be right there."
Well aware that her hands were trembling with anticipation, Kate pressed them together in her lap. She had to be cool and professional. Bittle wasn't going to offer a partnership to a giddy, giggling woman.
She had to be what she always was, what they expected her to be. Practical, levelheaded. And, oh, she was going to savor the moment, remember every detail. Later, when she was out of sight and earshot, she would scream all the way to Templeton House.
Kate rolled down her sleeves, shrugged into her jacket, and smoothed it into place. She hesitated over taking her briefcase, then decided it only made her look more dedicated to the job.
With measured steps she took the stairs to the next floor, walked past the partners' offices toward the executive conference room. No one who chanced to see her in the quiet corridor would have realized her feet weren't touching the tasteful tan carpet. She thumbed an antacid out of the roll in her pocket, knowing it would do little to calm her jittery stomach.
She wondered if a bride on her wedding night could feel any more nervous and thrilled than she did as she raised a hand to knock politely on the thick paneled door.
"Come in."
She lifted her chin, put a polite smile on her face as she turned the knob. They were all there, and her heart gave another skipping leap. All the partners, the five powers of the firm, were seated around the long, glossy table. Large tumblers of water stood by each place.