The Key. Jennifer SturmanЧитать онлайн книгу.

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      This book is dedicated to Anne Coolidge Taylor

      Thanks to Laura Langlie, Selina McLemore, Margaret Marbury and the team at Red Dress Ink for their help and advice, and to my family and friends for their encouragement and support.

      Contents

      Chapter one

      Chapter two

      Chapter three

      Chapter four

      Chapter five

      Chapter six

      Chapter seven

      Chapter eight

      Chapter nine

      Chapter ten

      Chapter eleven

      Chapter twelve

      Chapter thirteen

      Chapter fourteen

      Chapter fifteen

      Chapter sixteen

      Chapter seventeen

      Chapter eighteen

      Chapter nineteen

      Chapter twenty

      Chapter twenty-one

      Chapter twenty-two

      Chapter twenty-three

      Chapter twenty-four

      Chapter twenty-five

      Chapter twenty-six

      Chapter twenty-seven

      Chapter twenty-eight

      Chapter twenty-nine

      Chapter thirty

      Chapter thirty-one

      Chapter thirty-two

      Chapter thirty-three

      Chapter thirty-four

      Chapter thirty-five

      Chapter thirty-six

      Chapter thirty-seven

      chapter one

      I was having my favorite type of dream, a flying dream, when the phone rang.

      I opened one eye, testing to see if this was part of the dream. But in my dream the skies were blue and lit by golden sunlight. In my bedroom, it was dark, and freezing, since my new roommate liked to sleep with the windows wide open, even in March and even in Manhattan. And the phone was still ringing.

      Peter mumbled something unintelligible and pulled the duvet over his head. I thought about doing the same, but surely nobody would call in the middle of the night unless it was important. I reached out for the phone.

      “’lo?”

      “Rachel. Glenn Gallagher here.”

      This had to be a joke. “What time is it?”

      “Almost six. Listen, I need you in the office. We don’t have much time to get ready.”

      “Ready for what?”

      “I’ll tell you when you get in. See you in an hour.”

      “But it’s Satur—” I began to say before I realized I was talking to a dial tone.

      I was still half-asleep, so my reaction was somewhat delayed. It was nearly five seconds before I’d collected myself sufficiently to say the only appropriate thing that could be said in such a situation.

      “You asshole!”

      Peter gasped and shot into a sitting position. I’d spoken more loudly than I’d intended. “And a good morning to you, too.” Even in the dark, I could make out the silhouette of his sandy hair.

      “You look like Alfalfa.”

      “Excuse me?”

      “From The Little Rascals. You know, the one with the piece of hair that stuck straight up. He sang.”

      “‘I’m in the Mood for Love.’”

      “Uh-huh. He had a crush on Darla.”

      “And that makes me an asshole?”

      “No. Who said you were an asshole?”

      “You did. Just now.”

      “Oh. I wasn’t talking to you.”

      “Good to know, I guess.” He settled back into the pillows and reached for me. “So who were you talking to?”

      I snuggled into his embrace. Despite the Arctic chill to the room, his body radiated heat. “Glenn Gallagher. But he didn’t hear me call him an asshole. He’d already hung up.”

      “Ah.”

      “Yes. Ah.”

      “Who’s Glenn Gallagher?”

      “The new guy Stan Winslow brought in.”

      “And why was he calling us in the middle of the night?” Even as I answered Peter’s question I was marveling at the unfamiliar use of “us.” I’d lived alone from the day I graduated college until the previous week, and I still wasn’t accustomed to the first person plural being applied in reference to my household. Our household.

      “He said he needs me in the office. In an hour. Actually, more like fifty-five minutes at this point.”

      “Do you think he knows it’s Saturday?”

      “Probably.”

      “And do you think he knows we were going to sleep in? And have a nice leisurely brunch and read The New York Times? And then figure out where I can put all my stuff?” Peter’s worldly belongings had arrived from San Francisco a few days ago, and stacks of unopened cardboard cartons now occupied every available square foot of the apartment.

      “I doubt he gave it that much thought.”

      “Why do you do this again?”

      I sighed and detached myself from Peter’s arms. The rug was cold beneath my bare feet. “Because this is how you make partner at an investment bank.”

      “By letting assholes order you out of bed in the wee hours on weekends?”

      “If I keep it up, one day I’ll get to order other people out of bed in the wee hours on weekends.”

      “Something to look forward to.”

      “Go back to sleep. I’ll call you later, when I know what this is all about. Maybe I can rescue at least part of our day together.”

      But I wasn’t too confident about that.

      By Monday morning, the only thing I was confident about was that I wanted Glenn Gallagher dead.

      My brain was fried and my thoughts scattered from too much caffeine and not enough sleep, but I did know with absolute clarity that I despised Glenn Gallagher and would be delighted to see him die a slow and painful death.

      My firm, Winslow, Brown, had lured Gallagher from a competing bank six months ago, bringing him in as a senior partner and lavishing him with an enormous corner office and matching expense account. He’d been putting together leveraged buyouts for close to thirty years, and while LBOs were no longer as fashionable as they’d been in the junk-bond fueled eighties, Gallagher seemed to be