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  chair, I picked up my AlphaSmart Neo, the portable

  keyboard/word processor I used rather than a notepad

  and pen. Paul might be a slow writer, but he could be a

  superfast talker, and typing was the only way I could keep

  up.

  I couldn't decipher half of what they talked about. Profit

  margins, balance sheets, long-range planning. I was

  ignorant, and fine with that. I didn't need to understand

  what they were saying to take it down. In fact, the less I

  knew the better, because my mind could wander while my

  fingers kept track.

  Not so many years ago I'd have been expected to hover

  on the edge of my seat, pen poised over my steno pad

  while I took vigorous shorthand. Typing was so much

  easier. I'd learned shorthand in school, one of those skils

  they stil found necessary to teach even if nobody would

  actualy use it. The clacking of my nails, kept to a practical

  length, tap-tapping on the keys couldn't replace the

  sensual scratch-scratch of a pen sliding across paper, in

  my opinion, but typing was much faster, and being able to

  download the document directly into my computer for

  processing was better than having to retype it al.

  The cal ended abruptly, at least to me. I looked over the

  last few sentences and saw I'd actualy typed the

  goodbyes without paying attention. God bless multitasking.

  Paul sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Wel, that's over.

  Thank you, Paige."

  Thank you, Paige."

  Brenda could say what she liked. Paul might be particular,

  but he was also very polite. "You're welcome."

  I'd been sitting with both feet planted firmly on the floor

  with the keyboard on my lap. When I shifted to get up, the

  sudden flaring sting of pain from my invisible splinter

  surged so fiercely I gasped. The keyboard fel to the thick

  carpet with a muffled thump, and I bent to grab it at once,

  hoping it hadn't been damaged.

  Paul had already rounded the desk. "Paige, are you al

  right?"

  "Yeah, I just…I caught my leg on something earlier. I think

  there's a splinter."

  The keyboard hadn't broken, thank God. I put it on the

  conference table pushed off to the side of Paul's desk.

  Warmth trickled down my calf and I strained to see it.

  Blood.

  "You're not fine, you're bleeding. Stay right there. Don't

  move."

  Paul's office had pale beige carpet. I assumed he didn't

  Paul's office had pale beige carpet. I assumed he didn't

  want me staining it, so I did as he said for the thirty

  seconds it took him to grab a handful of tissues from his

  desk.

  He ought to have handed them to me so I could tend my

  own wound. Like compliments and free lunch, taking care

  of my boo-boo was probably a no-no. So why didn't I

  protest when Paul told me to put my hands on the table?

  Or when he knelt on that pretty beige carpet and slid the

  soft tissue from just above my anklebone al the way to the

  back of my knee?

  I said nothing because no sound would come out. I didn't

  move because my fingers refused to do more than twitch

  on the polished surface of the table. I could see the faint

  shadow of my reflection in it, the startled O of my mouth

  and the curved arch of my raised eyebrows. But I didn't

  move, and I didn't speak.

  "There," Paul said in a low voice. Through the tissue the

  warmth of his fingers pressed against my suddenly chiled

  skin. "I can see it. Stay right there, Paige. Let me find

  some tweezers."

  I'd placed my hands slightly more than a shoulder width

  I'd placed my hands slightly more than a shoulder width

  apart and far enough toward the table's center I had to

  lean forward just a little. I didn't want to know what I

  looked like, my skirt riding up the backs of my bare thighs

  and my face flushed.

  "It's a big one," Paul said in a moment. "Hold stil."

  I pressed my lips down on a squeak trying to escape at the

  touch of the cold metal tweezers. Paul's hand curled

  around my knee, holding it stil, while he probed and

  puled.

  I felt the splinter slide free, snagging my flesh, and the

  further slow trickle of my blood painting a line down my

  leg. I closed my eyes so I wouldn't have to see the blurred

  woman in the table, the one with my face looking as I'm

  sure lovers had often glimpsed, but I never had.

  The soft press of tissue again slid up my leg as Paul wiped

  away the blood. I heard the crinkle of paper and his

  fingers smoothed something on me. An adhesive bandage.

  I could feel it puling the soft hairs I never managed to

  shave. Then the stroke of his fingers along the secret place

  at the back of my knee, so swift I might have imagined it.

  "Al done."

  "Al done."

  I turned. Paul had already stepped away. In one hand, he

  held the tweezers. In the other, the shredded paper

  wrapper of the bandage.

  I didn't strain or stretch to look at his handiwork. "Thank

  you."

  Twin spots of bright color bloomed on his cheeks. "No

  problem."

  Before he could say anything else, I grabbed up the

  keyboard and left his office with a nod.

  Later, in bed, I would fal asleep thinking of two things.

  One was the smooth, expensive card and the beautifuly

  written list. I wanted that paper, that pen, whatever it was.

  And two, the feeling of Paul's fingers on the back of my

  knee.

  Chapter 09

  My Monday-night gyno appointment went as wel as

  could be expected for an event that had my legs in the air

  and my ass exposed to the entire world. I weighed less

  than I had the last time I'd been to the doctor, which was

  good, and I found out I no longer qualified for the same

  reduced fees I'd been used to getting based on my income,

  but that was fine. I had insurance now.

  "Wish I could lose ten pounds," said the nurse-practitioner when she read my chart and looked me over. "But I like to

  eat too much."

  "Me, too. It just takes…" Discipline was the word that rose to my lips, and I was thinking of that note again.

  "Work."

  She patted her round hips and bely and sighed. "Yeah,

  doesn't everything?"

  Of course it did. You didn't get very far in the world

  thinking you could get away with anything less. But I didn't

  say anything else, just took my shot and paid my bil and

  went on my way.

  went on my way.

  I thought about it, though.

  Discipline.

  I thought about it on the drive home and up the elevator to

  my apartment, where I changed into a pair of black yoga

  pants and a formfitting white T-shirt with the words

  Frankie Say Relax in block letters across the front. It was

  a good conversation starter. On my feet I put a pair of

  trainers that had actualy cost more than the Madden

  pumps and were the most expensive shoes I'd ever

  owned. I'd d