"Roberts, Nora - Private Scandals" - читать интересную книгу автора (Roberts Nora)

perfection. If Angela had been a man, those traits would have been celebrated. But because she was a woman, they
were considered flaws.
As she stepped off the elevator on sixteen, Deanna promised herself that she would follow Angela's example, and
the hell with the critics.
"Hi, Simon."
"Dee." He moved past her, double time, then stopped short and rushed back. "It's not her birthday. Tell me it's not
her birthday."
"What? Oh." Seeing the horror on his face as he stared at the armload of flowers, she laughed. "No. These are a
thank-you gift."
He let out a sigh, pressing his fingers to his eyes. "Thank God. She'd have killed me if I'd forgotten. She was
already chewing off heads this morning because her flight was delayed getting in last night."
Deanna's friendly smile faded. "I'm sure she was just tired."
Simon rolled his eyes. "Right, right. And who wouldn't be? I get jet-lagged on the el." To show his complete
sympathy with his boss's mood swings, he sniffed deeply at the flowers. "Well, those should brighten her mood."
"I hope so." Deanna continued down the corridor, wondering if Angela was taking Simon to New York. If she wasn't
taking Lew ... just how much of her staff would be laid



off? Simon, the perennial bachelor and fussbudget, might be a bit twitchy, but he was loyal.
The twinge of guilt at knowing, when he didn't, that his career was on the line made her wince.
She found the outer office deserted. Puzzled, she looked at her watch again. Cassie must have had an early
errand. With a shrug, she approached Angela's door.
She heard the music first, quiet, lovely. The fact that the door was open several inches was rare. Deanna knew that
Angela was obsessive about keeping it firmly shut whether she was in or out. Shrugging, she crossed over, knocked
lightly.
She heard other sounds now, not as quiet, not as lovely as the music. She knocked again, easing the door open
wider.
"Angela?"
The name stuck in her throat as she saw the two forms wrestling on the love seat. She would have stepped back
immediately, with embarrassment flaming in her cheeks, but she recognized the man, and the heat drained away
into cold shock.
Marshall's hands were on Angela's breasts, his face buried in the valley between them. Even as she watched,
those hands, ones she'd admired for their elegance, slid down to tug at the stylish linen skirt.
And as he did, Angela turned her head, slowly, even while her body arched forward. Her eyes met Deanna's.
Even in her haze of shock, Deanna saw the quick smile, the cagey delight before the distress clicked in. "Oh my
God." Angela shoved against Marshall's shoulder. "Deanna." Her voice held the horror she couldn't quite bring to her
eyes.
He turned his head. His eyes, dark and glassy, fixed on Deanna's. All movement froze, hideously, as if a switch had
freeze-framed them. Deanna broke the tableau with a strangled cry. She turned and ran, trampling the roses she'd
dropped at her feet.
Her breath was heaving by the time she reached the elevator. There was pain, a terrible pain radiating out from her
chest. She stabbed the Down button again and again. Driven, she whirled away



and ran for the stairs. She couldn't stand still, couldn't think. She stumbled down, saving herself from a fall by instinct
rather than design. Knowing only that she had to get away, she plunged down, floor after floor, her sobbing breaths
echoing behind her.
At street level, she rammed blindly against the door. She battered against it, weeping, until she found the control to