Secret Life

ANTHONY VERDUN knew he should feel guilty, but he hadn't felt anything but free since three o'clock Friday afternoon when he fired Clarista Phillips. He drew a deep, cleansing breath as his feet pounded the pathway between the pond and the artists' gate of Central Park on his Monday morning jog. The woman was great with word processing and ap-pointments, but her flirtatious manner had become em-barrassing. Her fixation on Anthony had culminated in a pair of red lace panties in the interoffice mail, along with an explicit invitation involving peaches, whipped cream and silk scarves. It wasn't that he had anything against silk scarves, or lace panties for that matter. But he was an old-fashioned guy. He preferred a little dinner, maybe even a drink before the first blatant proposition. He tapered his run to a jog as he exited the park, slowing for the traf-fic lights on Sixth Avenue, and finally switched to a walk. His wet, khaki T-shirt clung to his skin in the warm, September breeze, while beads of sweat dampened his short, dark hair. He stretched his neck from side to side, listening to the vertebrae pop in relief as he crossed the street and headed for the Moulin Coffee Bar. The bells on the door jingled against the rush hour traffic sounds, and the aroma of fresh coffee beans greeted him like an old friend. He approached the counter, picking up a newspaper from the rack and stuffing it under his arm as he smiled at one of the regular counter clerks. "Large, black Co-lombian, please." Young and pretty, with a tousled ponytail and bright red lips, she returned his smile as she rang in the pur-chase. The glint in her eyes invited conversation, but Anthony had a full day ahead of him. And after Friday's experience, he sure wasn't in the mood for ingenuous chitchat. He pulled his cell phone from the hip pocket of his jogging shorts, pressing the speed dial for Kent Living-ston's direct line. As he waited for the connection, he considered the bagels and sticky buns behind the glass case. He'd made time around the lake this morning, and he was in the mood to celebrate, so he pointed to the sticky bun and held up one finger. Kent picked up on the first ring. "Livingston, here." "Hey, Kent. It's Anthony." "Anthony," Kent cooed in a singsong voice. "You sly son of a bitch." "Huh?" "Congratulations." Anthony handed the clerk a twenty, trying to zero in on Kent's meaning. Had he heard about Clarista? If so, it was more than a little embarrassing. He sure world knew why he'd fired his assistant. "Thanks," he muttered into the phone, dropping a couple of bills into the tip snifter and pocketing the rest of his change. He carefully balanced the coffee and the bun while working out an exit from the confusing con-versation. "Zane Randal's worried about the promotional copies making it to Berlin on time," he tried. "Not a problem," Kent responded, his voice turning more serious as he shuffled some papers in the back-ground. "I'll confirm with marketing this morning. Is Zane heading over on Friday?" "Thursday," said Anthony, pushing open the coffee shop door with his elbow, giving up the buzz of con-versation for the honks of Sixth Avenue. "His publicist set up a couple of radio spots and a reading." "That's what we like to hear," said Kent. "The mar-keting rep will catch up with him on Saturday morning. He's at the Hilton?" "He is," said Anthony, pleased that this pivotal leg of Zane's book tour was under control. As he paced up the sidewalk toward the Prism Literary Agency of-fices, he mentally clicked through the other priorities involving Kent. "I'll have to call you this afternoon on the new Jules Burrell contract," he said. He was still waiting for a phone call from Joan to confirm the manuscript deadline. Kent chortled. "Think I'll be passing that one up to Bo." Anthony paused. They were passing Jules Burrell toDunlop, Barbara is the author of 'Secret Life ', published 2007 under ISBN 9780373389476 and ISBN 0373389477.