Beatrice Walker             “But I need you here tonight!” He shouted.            I was not surprised to hear the aggrieved note tinged with truculence in my boss’s voice.            Benedict Walker had not made his millions by allowing little things like air-traffic controllers’ strikes to stand in his way and he expected his staff to display an equally robust response to such obstacles to his wishes, even when that member of the staff was his own daughter.            Actually, especially when that employee was his daughter!            “I am sorry, dad.”          &nbs

“Mr. Sancho,” I muttered. “I was just talking about you.” And I raised the phone that I still held in a white knuckled grip.He just fucking kissed me.Two years didn’t change him. He looked perhaps a little leaner, a little harder, the angles and planes of his incredible face perhaps more sharply defined. But basically, he was still the same.But I am not the old Beatrice. I’ve moved on, and became wiser. I reminded myself.He just kissed you. My brain keeps on saying this.Preston is just standing in front of me waiting for his breathing to return to something approximating normal and watched me, fascinated to see denial this up close. Yeah, he may brand me as a denial queen. But I don’t mind, I’ll keep doing this is I want to. I was just addressing my remarks to some point over his shoulder, and my attractive contralto voice had an audible edge of hysteria. Though, the open neck of my

            I turned my head. The woman standing there was tiny, barely an inch above five feet. The last time I had seen the petite brunette, the older woman had been wearing a ring; but today her hand was bare, but nothing else, it seemed, had changed.            Roxanne Sancho was still the most beautiful woman I had ever met. Never a hair out of place, she looked like a porcelain ornament with big brown eyes, a rosebud mouth, and a delicate nose. She had this sort of delicate fragility that aroused the protective instinct in men.            And she is Preston’s ex-wife.            “I did call, but you were...” Roxanne raised her darkened brow and lifted her inquiring gaze to Preston as she teased “... occupied.&rdqu

            I squashed the flash of sympathy I felt for him. It might explain why, but it did not begin to excuse the way he had used me.            “It is in the cards, though uncertain as yet. You sound surprise to me?”            “I am.”            Not as surprised as I had been when I had learned that the couple who had seemed a perfect match on every level were breaking up. Until the moment that the divorce had been announced, I had expected a dramatic reconciliation, but the Sancho divorce, like the break-up. Had been low key and bizarrely amicable based on what they called a mutual decision.            But had that mutual, civilized, still-good-friend

            I was drumming impatiently on the steering wheel, trying to suppress my anger. Beatrice noticed me. She keeps on glancing in my direction. The taut lines on my face are a clear sign that I wasn’t happy. The tension was waving at Beatrice, feeling it.            “I hate driving in heavy traffic, too. You can’t wonder that road rage happens.”            Her soft, contralto voice dragged me free of my dark reflections. I turned my head and felt something squeeze tight in my chest as I read the sympathy on her face and all my submerged protective instincts rose to the surface.            “I do not feel rage towards the road.” Just every person who has ever hurt you. “But you still carry on work