Chapter One
Jenna McArthur wrapped her lips in a tight “O” around the slender shaft, sliding it back along her tongue as she gently began to suck.
She drew back with a sigh, choking a little on a mouthful of Diet Coke as she reread the note she’d pulled from her lunch bag.
Visualize your inner sex goddess today, sweetheart!
Love, Aunt Gertie
Jenna slid the little neon pink card into the small pocket on the back of her iPhone case and toed off her high heels beneath the desk.
I gave it my best shot, Gert, Jenna mused as she unpacked the rest of her insulated lunch tote. Performing fellatio on a soft drink may not have been the best starting point.
She pulled out a menagerie of glass containers with bright plastic lids, followed by a napkin edged with hand-stitched lace.
“God bless you, Aunt Gertie,” Jenna said aloud, eyeing her aunt’s homemade fettuccine in red pepper cream sauce, garlic rosemary focaccia, fresh strawberries hand-dipped in chocolate—
“Jenna, I’m so glad I caught you.”
She looked up to see the public relations director hovering in the doorway. Marie clasped her hands at her waist the way she did when trying to avoid biting her nails or punching someone in the face.
So much for my peaceful lunch, Jenna thought as she set down her fork. “Marie, what can I help you with?”
“Have you seen the headlines?” Marie stepped into the room and glanced behind her as though expecting a swarm of rabid journalists armed with sharp pencils and sharper machetes. She pushed the door shut and seated herself at the edge of the chair in front of Jenna’s desk.
“I haven’t touched the newspaper yet today,” Jenna said. “I’ve been in meetings all morning. What’s up?” She made a discreet attempt to shove her feet back in her shoes but only managed to wedge the left one awkwardly on her right foot. Marie didn’t seem to notice.
“The landfill discovered a bunch of medical waste. Dirty gauze, bloody surgical tubing, that sort of thing.”
Jenna glanced at her container of fettuccine tangled in a sea of luscious red sauce and pushed it aside. “The medical waste is ours?”
Marie nodded. “The Belmont Health System logo was all over everything.”
“We have procedures in place for medical waste disposal. What the hell is going on?”
“Off the record?”
“Marie, I’m the Chief Relations Officer, not a reporter. My job isn’t to broadcast our problems, it’s to fix them.”
Or to sweep them under the rug like I always do, she thought grimly.
“Right.” Marie bit her lip and leaned closer. “Well, rumor has it some vigilante members of the nurses’ union are doing it on purpose. You know, to get a bunch of scandalous headlines in the paper so the public pays attention to what’s going on with the contract negotiations.”
Jenna felt her temples start to throb. “Find out if it’s true. In the meantime, tell any reporters we’re reviewing the purchase of an on-site unit for medical waste incineration. It would save up to sixty thousand a year and improve efficiency by forty-three percent.”
“Really?” Marie stood up and smoothed her skirt. “Okay, I’m on it.”
“And find out who the hell is trying to make us look bad,” Jenna called as Marie marched out the door.
Alone with her lunch again, Jenna reached for the Caesar salad. It was drizzled with her aunt’s homemade dressing and dotted with croutons she’d helped Gertie bake the night before. She should probably run down the hall and heat up the focaccia bread, but with her luck—
“Jenna, I’m glad I caught you.”
She sighed and set down the salad. “Jon, what can I do for you?”
The CEO folded himself into the same chair Marie had just vacated and thumped his briefcase down on Jenna’s desk. He popped it open and pulled out a sheaf of paperwork, giving Jenna a clear view of the risqué-looking paperback beneath it.
Panty Dropper by G.G. Buckingham.
Jenna grimaced and forced her attention back to the CEO.
“It looks like the nurses are getting serious about striking,” he said, waving the papers at her. “We have to avoid this.”
“We have to avoid the ugly verbal battles around the bargaining table,” she said, trying not to let her gaze drop to the dog-eared novel in the briefcase. “That’s not helping.”
“I wouldn’t call it ‘ugly,’ exactly. Let’s not take things out of context.”
“Brett Lombard told you to shove the proposal up your ass, and you retorted that his mama got there first. In what context would that be a form of respectful discourse?”