Lipstick Jungle

Bruce raised his eyebrows in outrage but quickly recovered. “Playing mommy again?” It sounded like he was joking, but there was an edge to his voice.

Ten minutes later he was in her office. He shut the door. “We need to talk,” he said. “Don’t you ever tell me what I can and can’t do in front of my staff.”

“They’re my staff too,” Nico said evenly. “I need to make sure this magazine stays on schedule.”

“I handle my own schedule.”

“Suit yourself.” Nico shrugged. “I’m only watching your back.”

He snorted in disbelief and walked out.

Sure enough, he took the bait. While he was off skiing in Chile with bikini models, Nico and Victor chose his replacement—a woman. Mike Harness could have protected Bruce, but Nico suspected that Victor was using the Bruce incident to keep Mike in his place, by insisting that Bruce had to go.

Bruce was scheduled to get the ax the day after he returned from Chile. He must have suspected that something had happened in his absence, because the afternoon he returned, he called Nico and insisted they have dinner that night in order to “strategize.”

It was an offer Nico couldn’t resist, and one of the early high points of her career. She would always remember that evening, sitting across the table from Bruce as he went on and on about how they had gotten off on the wrong foot but should try to work together as a team. And she’d nodded and agreed with him, knowing all the while that by noon tomorrow, he’d be finished and out of the building and she would have won. There had been a few brief moments during the dinner when she’d felt sorry for him, when she’d actually considered telling him the truth. But she quickly rejected the idea. She felt the sweet, creamy sensation of power. This was big business, and Bruce was a big boy. He’d have to learn to take care of himself.

Just as she’d had to learn to take care of herself.

At twelve-thirty, half an hour after the announcement was made, Bruce called her. “This was your doing, wasn’t it?” he asked, bitterly congratulatory. “Well, I’ve got to hand it to you. I didn’t think you were capable of it. I didn’t think you had the guts.”

“It’s just business, Bruce,” she said.

God, it was a heady feeling. She’d never experienced anything like it in her life. It was oddly centering. From outside her consciousness, she knew that, as a woman, she should have felt guilty. She should have felt bad or frightened for not being “nice.” And for one tiny moment, she was afraid. But what was she afraid of? Her power? Herself? Or the archaic idea that she had done something “bad,” and therefore would have to be p

unished?

Sitting in her office that afternoon, having just hung up the phone with Bruce, she suddenly saw that she would not be punished. There were no rules. What most women thought were “the rules” were simply precepts to keep women in their place. “Nice” was a comfortable, reassuring box where society told women if they stayed—if they didn’t stray out of the nice-box—they would be safe. But no one was safe. Safety was a lie, especially when it came to business. The only real rules were about power: who had it, and who could exercise it.

And if you could exercise it, you had it.

For the first time, she felt that she was equal to anybody. She was a player in the game.

That night, she bought beluga caviar and Cristal champagne, and she and Seymour celebrated. And later, Seymour wanted to have sex, and she didn’t. She remembered the feeling so clearly: She didn’t want anyone else inside her. She seemed to have filled all the empty nooks and crannies inside herself, and for once, her own being was enough.

But was it still?

She walked to the window of the bedroom and looked out. In the years since Bruce Chikalis, she had carefully exercised her power, using its full force only when absolutely necessary. She had learned not to gloat over her conquests or to even admit to them, because true power came from using an unseen, always controlled hand. She couldn’t help feeling a thrill when she won, but that didn’t mean other people had to know about it.

And thinking of Mike, and what she was going to do to him, caused her to feel the unavoidable buzz of impending victory. It was slightly hollow, though, and a little bit sad. There was a part of her that still hoped that people at the top of corporations would behave decently, but experience had taught her that when money and power were involved, it was always the same story. If only Mike were older and looking forward to retirement . . . but he wasn’t, and if she didn’t eliminate him, he would make her life miserable. He had taken two swings at her already; his next blow might be a knockout.

She turned away from the window and walked back and forth across the Oriental rug. It was just business, she reminded herself. Mike Harness knew how Splatch-Verner worked. He had to know that someday Victor might chop off his head. And it wasn’t like Mike hadn’t done his share of head-chopping . . .

But you always thought it would happen to other people. You never thought it would happen to you.

Maybe that was the difference between her and the other, mostly male executives at Splatch-Verner, she thought. She knew it could happen to her. And after she took Mike’s job, depending on the circumstances, she might be able to hold on to it for two years, maybe five, and if she was really lucky, possibly ten. But eventually she would get the ax too.

Unless she got Victor Matrick’s job.

She looked down at the dark street below and smiled. Nico O’Neilly, CEO of Splatch-Verner, she thought. It was a definite possibility.

Chapter 6

WENDY AWOKE WITH A JOLT.

She was having the same dream. She was somewhere (anywhere) and she was weak and sick. She could barely walk. Someone was telling her that she had to get into the elevator. She couldn’t make it. She fell to the floor in a dramatic heap. She couldn’t get up. Her life force was ebbing away. It was out of her control. Now that she knew she was dying, she didn’t care. It was so peaceful lying there, knowing that she had no choice but to give up . . .

She opened her eyes. Goddammit. The room was still dark. She knew it was four a.m., but she was determined not to look at the clock. In a couple of hours it would be another day. Day forty-three, to be exact. It was now forty-three days and five hours since Shane had destroyed their perfect little family.