“I’ll handle it,” Shay said shortly, hanging up the receiver and striding out of the office, with Richard right behind her. As she passed Ivy’s desk, she gave the young receptionist a look that, judging by the heightened color in her face, conveyed what Shay thought of the idea of hiding behind Todd Simmons, Ivy’s fiancé, just because he was a man.

Shay was wearing slacks and a blue cotton blouse that day, and her heels made a staccato sound on the metal steps leading down into the showrooms. She smiled faintly at the customers browsing among glistening new cars as she crossed the display floor and stepped out onto the lot. Sure enough, there was a crowd gathered around the recently acquired Corvette.

She pushed her way between two of the newer salesmen, drew a deep breath and addressed the wild-eyed young man standing in the driver’s seat of the sports car. “Get down from there immediately,” she said in a clear voice, having no idea in the world what she would do if he refused.

Remarkably, the orator ceased his discourse and got out of the car to stand facing Shay. He was red with conviction and at least one coffee-break cocktail, and there was a blue stain on the pocket of his short-sleeved white shirt where his pen had leaked. “I was only—” he began.

Shay cut him off swiftly. “My office. Now.”

The errant salesman followed along behind Shay as she walked back into the building, through the showroom and up the stairs. Once they were inside her office, he became petulant and not a little rebellious. “No woman orders me around,” he muttered. Shay sat down in her chair, folded her hands in her lap so that—she glanced subtly at his name tag—Ray Metcalf wouldn’t see that they were trembling just a little. “This woman, Mr. Metcalf, is ordering you out, not around. If you have any commissions coming, they will be mailed to you.”

“You’re firing me?” Metcalf looked stunned. He was young and uncertain of himself and it was obvious, of course, that he had a problem. Did he have a family to support?

“Yes,” Shay answered firmly.

“You can’t do that!”

“I can and I have. Good day, Mr. Metcalf, and good luck.”

Metcalf flushed and, for a moment, the look in his eyes was ominous. Shay was a little scared, but she refused to be intimidated, meeting the man’s contemptuous glare with a level gaze of her own. He turned and left the office, slamming the door behind him, and Shay let out a long breath in relief. When Ivy bounced in, moments later, she was going over sales figures for the month before on her computer.

Despite the difference in their ages—Ivy was only twenty while Shay was nine years older—the two women were good friends. Ivy was going to marry Todd Simmons, an up-and-coming young real-estate broker, at Christmas, and Shay would be her maid of honor.

“Todd’s taking me out to lunch,” Ivy said, and her chin-length blond hair glistened even in the harsh fluorescent lighting of the office. “You’re welcome to come along if you’d like.”