Her Man Friday Read Free Page A

toe. "There aren't many bookkeepers who look like football linemen. Perhaps if you slouched a bit…"
    All right, that was enough, Leo thought, dropping his hand back down to his side. He owed it to bookkeepers everywhere to put a stop to this egregious stereotyping ASAP. Otherwise, he'd have Trixie and Jamal up here kicking corporate butt in no time flat.
    "Look," he bit out, barely able to contain his growing outrage. "You guys are out of line. There's no reason for me to affect any kind of damned stereotype. I'm perfectly capable of handling this assignment the same way I've handled hundreds of other assignments over the years. Just sit back and let me do my job."
    "Oh, we'll let you do your job, Mr. Friday," Cohiba Man said. "But don't forget who's paying your salary here."
    "Fine," Leo conceded sharply. "I'll play by your rules,
to an extent
." He emphasized those last three words as much as he could. "I'll go by another name, and I'll be the simple, lowly bookkeeper doing a perfunctory and very standard survey of the records. But I
won't
be a buffoon."
    "We never asked you to be that, Mr. Friday," Cohiba Man said. But he smiled as he puffed his cigar.
    Leo shook his head once more, not bothering to be imperceptible about it this time. These guys were flat-out nuts. Too much living in the corporate ivory towers would do that to a person, he supposed.
    Fine, he thought. He'd play a part. Whatever it took to get these guys off his back so he could do his job, collect his paycheck, and leave them in the dust. One thing, however, was absolutely certain. He
wasn't
going to go by Leonard Freiberger, and he
wasn't
going to slouch, and he
wasn't
going to wear tweed or mood glasses.
    He didn't care who was paying his salary.
----
Chapter Two

    "Leonard Freiberger, ma'am. We spoke on the phone yesterday afternoon?"
    Lily Rigby gazed at the man standing on the other side of Schuyler's front door, blinked a few times in rapid succession, and realized she had no idea what to say in response. His appearance simply left her at a loss for words. She reminded herself that Mr. Freiberger
had
identified himself over the telephone the day before as a bookkeeper, but still… She hadn't thought anybody wore that
Goodbye, Mr. Chips
tweed stuff anymore.
    "Lily Rigby," she finally said, extending her hand toward him. "I'm Schuyler Kimball's social secretary. It's nice to meet you, Mr. Freiberger."
    Actually, she was quite a bit more than Schuyler Kimball's social secretary, she thought. She and Schuyler had, after all, gone to college together. And he had, after all, been her first lover, however briefly. And they had, after all, lived together for years and years and years. But that was undoubtedly a bit more than Mr. Freiberger wanted to know, wasn't it?
    So she said nothing further as she extended one hand toward him in greeting, then skimmed the other over the straight black hair she had wound into a sleek French twist. She forced a smile as she catalogued the rest of him, scrambling for a bland, polite addition to her salutation. When he took her hand, his fingers closed over hers, virtually swallowing them. He had big hands and a strong, capable grip, and his flesh was warm and rough against hers.
    When she glanced up at his face, it startled her to realize that beneath close-cropped, medium brown hair, and behind round, wire-framed glasses, Mr. Freiberger had beautiful hazel eyes—not quite green, not quite blue, not quite gray. They were eyes that reflected intelligence, wit and a generally easygoing disposition, and not a little heat. His other features were craggy, but pleasant—a square jaw, full, but finely chiseled lips, a straight nose, nice cheekbones. Oh, yes. Very nice cheekbones, indeed.
    Quickly, she shook his hand and released it. Then she skimmed her gaze downward, and back up again, hoping he noticed neither her hasty inventory, nor the reluctant blush she felt warming her face when she completed it. Because even the