The anxiety attack came on fast and hard, bringing with it a crushing sensation of suffocation. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't—there was no... No breath in her lungs.
Opening her mouth, she tried to reassure herself that she was in fact drawing in air. She felt it passing over her lips and her tongue but it seemed to travel no farther. As her body ran away from her mind, she braced herself on the desk and broke out in a cold sweat. Quick breaths went in and out of her. Frantically, she brought a hand up and wiped off her forehead. Hell of a lot of good that did. Her fingers were numb now and all they did was tangle in her hair.
Grace wheeled around, caught sight of the big windows and the overpowering view and let out a moan as her head spun. She doubled over, leaning on the back of the mighty chair and putting her head down on her arms.
She tried to picture happier times. Her father at her college graduation, beaming from the crowd. The way she'd felt when she'd finished her first marathon. That Thomas Cole she'd just bought.
Good things, happy things. Things that didn't have anything to with death. Invasion. Terror. Things that would block out that picture of Cuppie lying dead on a marble floor.
Gradually, almost imperceptibly, she began to notice that her legs were shaking. So were her hands. And her bra was still jabbing her in the back.
Her breathing began to return to normal. Her heartbeat slowed.
When she felt up to, she raised her head and ran an unsteady hand over the chignon. A piece of hair in the front had been dislodged and she tucked it behind her ear.
Exhaustion came over her in a rush but it was a relief. Anything was better than the crushing explosion of fear.
Oh, God.
She didn't know how she was going to keep going.
Minutes later, Grace walked across the office to the double doors that led out into the reception area. When she opened them and met the irritated eyes of Lou Lamont, she had herself back under control.
"Sorry to keep you waiting." She was proud of her smooth smile and casual words.
Lamont brushed by her, issuing a command over his shoulder. "Katy, whip me up some Earl Grey, would you? And make it hot this time.”
Kat grimaced and rose from her desk as Grace shut the door with annoyance.
As soon as he took a seat, Lamont carefully unbuttoned his suit jacket and brushed something off his pant leg with a flick of the hand. A staccato beat sounded out, the rhythm of his shoe hitting the corner of the desk. His impatience was one of the first things she always noticed about him. Well, that and his cologne.
Grace covered a sneeze with her hand.
"God bless," he said solicitously. "Are you getting sick?"
As if he secretly hoped she had something lethal and efficient.
"Not at all.” Grace sat down, watching his eyes flicker over her. She knew the attention wasn't sexual. He didn't want her body, he was after her job and the piece of furniture she'd put her butt onto.
His cell phone went off.
"Excuse me," he said, taking it out of the jacket of his stick suit.
As the man started in on a chorus of yeses and absolutely she reflected on how long she'd known him. He'd started years ago on the lowest rung of the ladder, working part-time as a grant application sifter while he got through a master's degree in art history at NYU. By the time she came onboard full-time, he’d risen in the ranks and his piece de resistance had been when her father had promoted him into senior management.
He was a good-looking guy, tall and thin, and as his salary had increased, so had the quality of his clothes. He'd also gradually left behind his Bronx accent until it was only noticeable when he was angry. Over the years, he'd grown adept at accumulating power and he got what he wanted by any means necessary—hard work, blatant bullying, or charming persuasion. He was also good at his job. He'd turned into a first-rate chief development officer, able to raise phenomenal amounts of cash for the Foundation from wealthy donors and major corporations. The flip side was that he was brash, ambitious, and frustrated that he'd been passed over in favor of Cornelius's daughter.
He was looking for other jobs and, with a wave of grief, Grace remembered that she owed Suzanna for the heads up. Late last week, the woman had called to say that Lamont was sniffing around the museum, looking to take over their Development Office. Suzanna, as chair of the board, had turned him down flat, telling him that she didn't want to endanger the museum's relationship with the Hall Foundation. Evidently, Lamont had left angry.
He flipped the phone off and slid it into his pocket. "We need to talk about the Gala. It's six weeks away and I need to take charge. I mean, you're so busy getting a handle on things, it's going to be impossible for you to do it all."
Shooting him a smile, Grace reached over and picked up one of her father's gold pens. As she twirled it through her fingers, Lamont's eyes lit on the thing as if he wanted to wrench it out of her hand.