Dirty Harriet

The contessa walked into my office on a Tuesday clad in Chanel from head to toe — the pink suit with white trim, the pearls, the black-toed shoes, the white quilted bag with the chain strap — with her Chihuahua, Coco, ensconced on her left arm. The scent of Chanel No. 19 wafted in with her. Eau de parfum, eau de dog and eau de dollars hit me at once. My sinuses rebelled immediately and I went into a sneezing fit.

Glancing around imperiously at my barren office as she flipped back her mahogany pageboy hair, the contessa pronounced, "Harriet, what you need in here is some foliage. You know, the leaves will absorb the toxins, oxygenate the air, clear those allergies right up."

I just love it when people tell me what I need, don't you? She could take that little rodent-disguised-as-a-canine and —

"Yes, Your Excellency," I said. I learned long ago that you don't mess with the contessa. She was aristocracy, after all. The Boca version, that is. Her true origins were unknown. Whether she had acquired her title through birth, marriage, or purchase, no one knew. There was no count in her present, and she didn't speak of ... read full excerpt from Dirty Harriet ebook