He could have sworn she'd run her flattened palms over her breasts as a tease. It stood completely at odds with the way she'd been the night before, stiff and formal, with the kind of keep-your-hands-off-me haughty superiority that many of the female tenants at Hillside Heights Apartments wore like a suit of armor.
Rick shook his head. Either he knew nothing about women, or something very peculiar had just taken place before his eyes.
It had been like watching a tabby cat change the color of her stripes and turn into a tiger.
Even his Matisse-the-Painter trick had fallen flat. Normally it worked a dream with women, because they wanted to demonstrate how cultured they were. This one ignores him at first, and then rattles out more facts than he knew himself, even after having looked up Matisse on Wikipedia.
Rick snatched the Toronto Blue Jays cap from his head and smoothed his hand over his cropped hair. Slowly, he replaced the cap, staring at the doorway which had swallowed up Georgina.
He'd be damned he if knew what was going on.
Perhaps he should ask Angelina about it.
Nah, he decided after a moment of consideration. Not yet, anyway. The girl had enough problems of her own right now.
The overhead traffic light turned amber just as Georgina was about to sail past. She rammed her foot on the break. The red Chevy Cobalt from AVIS lurched to a dead stop. Shoving the curtain of hair out of her eyes, Georgina conducted a careful survey through the windscreen. A smug smile spread on her face.
She was getting the hang of it, being behind the wheel again, despite having to drive on the wrong side of the road.
In London it made no sense to have a car. The underground was faster, and there was nowhere to park. She'd got her license at eighteen, but with hardly any practice since then, she'd worried about being rusty.
No need to be concerned. Her reflexes were good. She'd overshot the white line only by a couple of yards.
She slid the gear into reverse, carefully loosening her seatbelt to turn around, so that she could see where she was going. And it was a good thing too that she had turned to look, because there was no room for her to back up behind the white line. Why on earth was that other car so close? And why was the man behind the wheel glaring at her, his mouth moving in what appeared to be a silent curse. Georgina scowled at the man. What a jerk, now he was hooting his horn! Some drivers had absolutely no manners.
When the light turned green, Georgina pressed her foot on the accelerator. A block later she took a sharp right into the Pacific Bank parking lot.
After slotting her car next to a white Mercedes with ‘Surfers Do It Standing Up’ decal on the rear bumper, Georgina rushed inside and crossed the lobby to the elevators. She loved the noise her new spiky heels made on the gleaming marble, even if it made her gait a bit wobbly, particularly when it was wet. As it hardly ever rained in California, she wasn't going to worry about that.
The up-arrow on the wall glowed red. Georgina pushed her way past a tall chap in beige chinos hiding behind a Wall Street Journal spread open at eye height, and gave the button another jab, just in case. Then she spotted something interesting on the back page of the newspaper and craned her neck to read. She was only halfway through the article when the lift arrived with a ping.
The tall chap with the Chinos lowered the newspaper and found Georgina, her up-tilted face only inches away from his.
"Hi,” he said with a big lecherous grin.
Georgina felt her face burn with embarrassment.
"I'm Simon from Compliance,” the man said. “What's your name?"
"I'm Georgina from Settlements.” She slowly backed toward the elevator.
"Georgina?” Simon's brows winged into his forehead. “That's a cute name. You must be new.” He gave her a wink, although it looked more like a twitch. “If I'd seen you, trust me, I'd remember."
"I'm not new,” Georgina replied, her voice a mousy squeak. “I've just transferred in from London.” She took a backward step into the elevator, blocking Simon's way, and pressed the button. The elevator doors slid between them, leaving the perplexed-looking Simon standing in the lobby, the Wall Street Journal dangling limply from his hand.
What's happening to me
, Georgina fretted.
Yesterday I corrupted a minor and exposed my breasts to a man, and today I've made an idiot of myself before eight o'clock in the morning.
When the elevator doors opened again, she hurtled down the hallway, until she reached the safety of her corner office. The computer dominating the cherry-wood desk obeyed her every command and never did anything unpredictable. She powered up, slumping in relief as she immersed herself in the familiar workday routines.
An hour later, when her secretary Annabel Fairfax arrived, Georgina leapt out of her chair. She'd dissected the problem and she'd come up with a solution, and she was bursting to tell someone about it. In the six weeks they'd worked together, Annabel had not only become a friend, she'd proved a good keeper of secrets.
"Annie?” Georgina peeked out through the gap in the door. “When you have a moment, can we talk?"
"Now's fine,” Annabel said, hanging up her Burberry trench coat.
"Do you want to get a coffee first?"
"I'd love one, if you can wait."
"Of course I can wait.” Georgina pulled back from the doorway. Why would anyone think she'd object to them getting a refreshment before they came into her office? It sometimes happened, people making remarks that suggested they considered her some kind of an ogre. In fact, it happened quite regularly, and it never ceased to amaze her.
Georgina shook her head. Then she switched on the electric kettle she'd smuggled into the office and prepared herself a cup of Earl Gray tea.
Appliances were not allowed in the offices, only in the break room, she'd been told. Could there be anything sillier than that? A copier was an appliance, as was a computer, and a fax machine, and the office was littered with them.
Georgina didn't drink coffee, and no way would she tolerate that foul stuff they called tea that gurgled out of the beverage machine in the kitchen. No, not the kitchen,
the break room
, Georgina corrected herself. To satisfy her perfectly reasonable desire for a cup of tea during the working day, she had to behave like a criminal, sneaking into the kitchen to fill the electric kettle. Every night she emptied the leftover water into the potted palm in the corner of her office and hid the kettle in the safe, next to her collection of ID tokens and the passwords for the wire transfer systems.
"Do you want a cookie?” Annabel asked.
"What do you have?"
"If you mean, do I have oatmeal raisin, the answer is yes."
"Thanks.” Georgina shot out a greedy hand. “It's my turn to pay. Take the money out of the till.” She pointed at the little red jar in the shape of a London double-decker bus on the shelf behind her.
"Sure,” Annabel said.
Georgina stared at her through narrowed eyes. “I know exactly how much money I have in there, and if it's still the same tomorrow, I'm going to sack you."
Annabel sighed. “Yes, boss."
"Good.” Georgina nodded as she bit into the biscuit, scattering crumbs over the lined notepad in front of her.
Annabel's little generosities were a delight, but they were also a problem, since they were something Annabel could ill afford. Georgina had realized that shortly after she'd started her new job and tuned into the office grapevine.
Anyone could have been fooled, she consoled herself, since Annabel Fairfax was the most elegant creature ever to walk the earth. Her layered blond hair curled softly around a pale gold skin. A straight nose was teamed with classic cheekbones and a calm wide mouth. Her clothes were to die for, and she had the figure to carry them well.
'Old Money’ was stamped loud and clear all over Annabel Fairfax.
"Fairfax, as in Pittsburgh Steel,” the chairman's secretary had told Georgina in a whisper loud enough to overcome the gurgling of the beverage machine in the break room. “She's just divorced her husband. Carl Gundersen. He builds shopping malls."
In another week Georgina had learned that Annabel's paternal grandfather, the founder of Pittsburgh Steel, held a firm belief that women shouldn't control wealth. Annabel's brother and male cousins had inherited the company. That wouldn't have mattered, if it hadn't been for the fact that eight months ago Annabel had walked out on her husband with nothing but the clothes on her back, a handbag containing forty-eight dollars and seventeen cents, and a stack of credit cards which by the following morning had become useless.
Although, as Annabel had confessed to Georgina over drinks one evening after work, she'd sent her maid back a few days later to retrieve the rest of her clothes.
"You were able to keep on your maid?” Georgina had asked, her eyes wide with curiosity.
Annabel had burst into giggles, her spirits even higher than usual after she'd consumed nine-tenths of the bottle of wine they were sharing. “No, she kept me!"
And that was how Georgina discovered that Annabel Fairfax was penniless. For the first six months of her life as a newly single woman, Annabel had slept on the sofa in the tiny house of her former maid, doing the housework, helping with the children, and generally learning about life in poverty. She had stayed on until she completed her office management course and got the job at Pacific Bank. After that, her salary allowed her to rent a small apartment on the unfashionable side of San Diego, and she bid a tearful goodbye to her maid.
"Any regrets?” Georgina had asked, pouring the last of the wine into Annabel's empty glass.
"Yes.” Annabel's normally serene eyes had blazed with fury. “That I didn't leave the bastard sooner.” Despite the drink, nothing had enticed her to reveal what had brought her marriage to such a sudden end.
"So, what did you want to talk about?” Annabel said now, finishing off a double chocolate chip cookie and reaching out for a white chocolate macadamia nut.
"First, I wanted to thank you for helping me with the clothes."
"The shoes look good, but I think you ought to take the skirt up a couple of inches.” Annabel gave her a measuring look. “How was the bikini?"
"A riot,” Georgina replied smugly. “I'll tell you later. But first, I have some really important news."
"Shoot."
"I've cracked it.” Georgina's voice rose in excitement. “I have the perfect solution for my lack of social skills and my limited sexual experience."
Annabel stopped mid-bite. “What
are
you talking about?"
"You know how I am at work? Very task oriented?"
"You can say that again. You're like a killer shark with a hyperactive thyroid gland."
"Right.” Georgina beamed across the desk. “When I work on a project, I go all out to achieve my goals. I don't allow anything to stand in my way."
"That sounds about right."
"So, what I'm going to do is set up my social life as a project. I'm going to do a flowchart, with deliverables and deadlines, and an action plan for how to achieve them. Once I've done that, I won't back out. It would be against my nature."
Annabel stared at her. “That's crazy."
"No. That's brilliant.” Georgina gave a satisfied nod. “Absolutely brilliant."
"What exactly are you trying to achieve?"
"I'm going to seduce a man. Lure him into bed and have my way with him."
Annabel's jaw fell open. “What man? Any man?” she asked finally.
"No. Of course not.” Georgina swept the cookie crumbs from her desk and dropped them into the trashcan by her feet. “I've chosen a man. His name is Rick Matisse. He's one of my new neighbors."
"You want to have a relationship with this guy?"
"No. I just picked him to practice on."
Annabel's brows drew together. “What
are
you talking about?"
"Think about it,” Georgina said earnestly. “If you have something really important lined up, like a job interview, you wouldn't rush in unprepared. You'd practice first."
"For a job interview,” Annabel agreed.
"This is no different. I've got to practice on someone unimportant first, so that if I meet someone who really matters, I know what I'm doing."
Annabel shook her head in disbelief. “Georgina, do you even like this guy?"
"Of course not. He's a Neanderthal. But that's beside the point. He's a man, and he's got the relevant hormones. He's good enough to practice on."
"Is this guy attractive?"
Georgina gave an irritated shrug. “I guess some women might say so. If you go for the type. Dark and menacing. More muscles than brains."
Annabel spoke gently. “But Georgina, what if he falls in love with you? And you've just been toying with him. You could really hurt him."
"Hurt him?” Georgina blurted out in disbelief. “Are you nuts? He's a macho man. He doesn't have that kind of sensitivity. He'll just buzz on to the next flower."
"Are you sure?” Annabel regarded her evenly.
"All right. He might be angry for a while if he catches on. But he won't. He's not smart enough."
Annabel tugged a Kleenex out of the box on Georgina's desk and wiped her greasy fingers. “Just don't come crying to me when it all goes wrong."
"Of course it won't go wrong,” Georgina said breezily. “It's a work project. It will be like any other project, well within my competence."
Georgina parked in the garage underneath her apartment. She got out of the car and yanked her briefcase from the back seat. What a day! She was exhausted. There hadn't been a single spare moment to work on her seduction project plan. Instead, she'd spent most of the day tangled in a stupid fight with a bunch of men who resented taking orders from a woman.
The computer analysis Georgina received every morning about the cash deposits at every branch of Pacific Bank had contained a series of suspicious transactions. Someone was structuring deposits.
When a bank customer made a cash deposit greater than $10,000, the bank was required under money laundering regulations to file a CRT, a Cash Transaction Report, with the OFAC, the Office of Foreign Assets Control, which was part of the Treasury Department.