Free Fair Play by Deirdre Martin Page B

nightmare. Not only did she wake up to find she had no hot water, but the subway was late, and some lollypop in a sky-high pair of Jimmy Choo’s had stepped on her left foot, nearly severing her pinky toe. By the time she limped into the office, she was in a foul mood.
    â€œAren’t we Little Mary Sunshinetti this morning,” Terrence noted as she hobbled into reception.
    â€œDon’t start with me,” Theresa warned.
    â€œMaybe this will help.” Terrence tapped the top of a small, white box.
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œDo I look like John Edward?” Terrence drawled. “It came for you about five minutes ago.”
    Intrigued, Theresa approached the box, and with Terrence watching, carefully opened it. Inside was a large, luscious square of tiramisu, along with a small white envelope, which she immediately extracted and opened. “Surrender, Theresa,” was all it said. Theresa smiled, delighted in spite of herself as she slid the card back inside the envelope.
    â€œWell?” Terrence demanded impatiently. “Spit it out. Inquiring minds want to know.”
    â€œIt’s tiramisu and it’s none of your business who it’s from.”
    Terrence’s lips pursed in cool assessment. “Oh yeah? Well, I know a thing or two, Madame Mysterioso, and that is that you are sweet on whoever sent you that darling little cake.”
    â€œWrong.”
    â€œTake it from one who knows you: Your sour little face lit up like a G.D. roman candle when you read the card. It’s been a lo-o-o-ng time since I’ve seen you smile like that.”
    â€œI was smiling because I love tiramisu,” Theresa insisted.
    â€œUh, huh, and Boy George is engaged to Rosie O’Don nell. Nice try.” Terrence pulled the box toward him and looked inside. “Are you going to eat it? Because if you’re not, I’ll take it.”
    â€œYes, I’m going to eat it,” Theresa replied with fake annoyance.
    Terrence pushed the box back her way. “A minute on the lips, a lifetime on the hips,” he trilled.
    â€œTell me,” said Theresa, closing up the pastry box. “Would you like me to fire you now, or should I wait until Friday?”
    â€œWait until Friday. That way my entire weekend will be ruined.”
    â€œFriday it is, then.”
    Walking to Janna’s office, Theresa found it hard to keep from smiling. Loath as she was to admit it, she was charmed. But being charmed was different from being impressed. And she was not impressed. Not in the least. Unless, of course, he meant her to be charmed, in which case she wasn’t. Whatever Michael Dante wanted her to be, she was the opposite.
    She arrived to find Janna looking like she was about to lose her breakfast.
    â€œWhat?” Theresa asked, concerned. “What is it?”
    â€œYou will not believe who I just got off the phone with.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œRobert Turner.”
    Theresa groaned as she deposited the pastry box on Janna’s desk along with some papers and pulled up a chair. Turner was Janna’s ex-boyfriend, a poet whom Theresa had hated on sight when their paths first crossed well over five years ago. He was pretentious, spoke in a fake French accent and claimed to be a “poet of the people.” He was also a jerk.
    â€œWhat did he want?” Theresa asked, dreading the answer.
    Janna’s eyes met hers, stunned. “Aegis Press is publishing a book of his poems.”
    â€œWhat?” Theresa knew she had just squawked like a deranged parrot but she couldn’t help it.
    â€œThey’re doing in-house PR,” Janna continued, “but he wants to hire us to do some as well.”
    â€œYou could tell him no.”
    Janna was already shaking her head. “We need to make as much money as we can right now.” She peeked inside the pastry box, then looked at Theresa. “Did you buy this on the way to work?”
    â€œI’ll