Free Holding the Dream by Nora Roberts Page B

drop by Pretenses to shop.
    A partnership. At twenty-eight, she would be the youngest partner ever at Bittle. She would have exceeded by years her own rigid expectations of herself.
    And wouldn’t it, in some way, erase this taint she felt? This secret she had buried inside. If she was a success, it would overshadow all the rest.
    She allowed herself to dream about it—the new office, the new salary, the new prestige. She would be consulted on policy, her opinion would be weighed and respected. Giggling,she leaned back in the chair and spun again. She would have a private secretary.
    She would have everything she’d ever wanted.
    Kate imagined picking up the phone, calling the Templetons in Cannes. They’d be so happy for her, so proud of her. Finally, she would be able to believe that everything they’d done for her was deserved.
    She’d have a celebration with Margo and Laura. Oh, that would be sweet. At long last Kate Powell had come into her own, had done something important and solid. Years and years of work and study, of aching shoulders, tired eyes, and a burning stomach would have paid off.
    All she had to do was wait.
    Forcing herself to push the dream to the back of her mind, she swiveled to her computer and got to work.
    She hummed as she ran figures, calculated expenditures, logged tax deductions, clucked over capital gains, and figured depreciation. As usual, she tuned in to the work and lost track of time. Kate came up blinking when the beep from her watch told her it was five o’clock.
    Another fifteen minutes to close the file, she decided, then glanced up in mild annoyance at the knock on her door. “Yes?”
    â€œMs. Powell.” Lucinda Newman—or the Dragon Lady, as she was unaffectionately called among the rank and file—stood imposingly in the doorway. “You’re wanted in the main conference room.”
    â€œOh.” Kate’s heart gave a wild, joyful leap, but she kept her face composed. “Thanks, Ms. Newman. I’ll be right there.”
    Well aware that her hands were trembling with anticipation, Kate pressed them together in her lap. She had to be cool and professional. Bittle wasn’t going to offer a partnership to a giddy, giggling woman.
    She had to be what she always was, what they expected her to be. Practical, levelheaded. And, oh, she was going to savor the moment, remember every detail. Later, when she was outof sight and earshot, she would scream all the way to Templeton House.
    Kate rolled down her sleeves, shrugged into her jacket, and smoothed it into place. She hesitated over taking her briefcase, then decided it only made her look more dedicated to the job.
    With measured steps she took the stairs to the next floor, walked past the partners’ offices toward the executive conference room. No one who chanced to see her in the quiet corridor would have realized her feet weren’t touching the tasteful tan carpet. She thumbed an antacid out of the roll in her pocket, knowing it would do little to calm her jittery stomach.
    She wondered if a bride on her wedding night could feel any more nervous and thrilled than she did as she raised a hand to knock politely on the thick paneled door.
    â€œCome in.”
    She lifted her chin, put a polite smile on her face as she turned the knob. They were all there, and her heart gave another skipping leap. All the partners, the five powers of the firm, were seated around the long, glossy table. Large tumblers of water stood by each place.
    She skimmed her gaze over each of them, wanting to remember this moment. Fusty Calvin Meyers with his usual suspenders and red bow tie. Elegant and terrifying Amanda Devin, looking stern and beautiful. Marty, of course, sweet and homely and rumpled. Lawrence Junior, steady, balding, and cool.
    And of course, the senior Bittle. She had always thought he looked like Spencer Tracy—that lived-in face, the sweep of white hair, the stocky,