Free Leave It to Cleavage by Wendy Wax Page A

before heading off to greet his next client.
    Determined to keep her greater goal in mind, Miranda paid for the haircut and drove to Phipps Plaza in Buckhead, where she made her way to the designer department of Saks.
    “I need a suit,” she told the silver-haired saleswoman. “Something corporate but feminine. And I’ll need shoes and a bag to go with it. And I wondered if someone at the Lancôme counter could freshen me up?”
    An hour and a half later she was seated in the reception area of the Atlanta office of Fidelity National in a black Armani power suit over a winter white silk blouse. A new Coach bag sat on the floor at her feet next to the matching shoes.
    Any minute now she would have to walk into John Anderson’s office and start lying. If she was very lucky and he believed her tall tales, she would then go back to Truro and find a way to make those tales come true.
    Miranda reached up to flip her hair over her shoulder in an automatic gesture she’d been making since childhood, but encountered nothing but shoulder. She was still adjusting to her lack of locks when an assistant arrived to escort her to John Anderson’s office.
    “John,” she said, extending her hand for a brief, but firm, handshake as the banker came out from behind his desk to greet her. “Thank you for fitting me in today.”
    “Glad to do it.” He led her to a seating alcove in the large corner office and motioned her to a chair.
    Miranda sank down smoothly, folded her hands in her lap, and continued to maintain eye contact, something John Anderson wasn’t managing so well.
    “I was surprised to hear from you rather than your husband.” He raised his gaze from her legs. “What can I do for you?”
    Careful not to fidget, Miranda tilted her head and gave her version of the truth. “Tom is in China establishing suppliers for a new line we’re considering producing. We felt it made more sense for him to stay until everything’s set up satisfactorily, rather than waste time and money flying back and forth.”
    As she spoke, she modulated her voice and controlled the speed of her delivery, being careful not to speak so fast as to appear nervous, or so slow as to appear uncertain.
    “Very sensible.”
    She smiled. “He’s asked me to keep things running while he’s away. You know, my husband and I met at Emory while we were working on our MBAs.”
    “I didn’t realize . . .”
    “Many of the decisions made at Ballantyne since my father retired have been made jointly by Tom and me.”
    She didn’t mention that those decisions had been about wallcoverings and carpet. After all, she’d had better grades than Tom all the way through college, and her MBA carried just as much weight.
    “I’m here because there’s a problem with some of our receivables.”
    The banker looked surprised. “Yes, I sent a letter to your husband a couple of weeks ago stating our concerns.”
    “I know.” She smiled again and managed not to mention where and in what condition she’d found the letter. She reached up to toss her hair, but, of course, it was no longer tossable.
    “When I noticed the auditors were due next week, I decided to take a look at the receivables myself.” She smiled yet again and moved to the crux of the visit. “I called all the accounts to verify the amounts and the dating.” She paused and allowed concern to show on her face. “I’m afraid quite a few of them are having difficulty paying for the goods they received.”
    Once again he looked surprised by her admission. Walking into a lender and admitting to bad receivables was highly irregular. But not quite as irregular—or dangerous—as the bank discovering those receivables had never actually existed.
    “I’ve contacted all of them to work out repayment plans,” she continued. “But I don’t want our line of credit jeopardized.” She paused but kept her gaze locked with his. “I’ve come prepared to pledge personal assets to secure it.”
    Surprise