Good
girls
finish
last...

That's Belinda Hennessey's new philosophy in life, work, and love after moving to Atlanta to escape a disastrous six-hour marriage. Now she has a killer job, spunky carpooling gal-pals, and the velvety voice of a traffic helicopter reporter to guide her on her way. She's even feeling lively enough to contribute to the manual on relationships and men her friends are writing to kill time during their commute.

But then a traffic mishap with a drop-dead gorgeous cop unleashes a series of events that bolsters Belinda's new bad-girl attitude -- she gets a tune-up from "Officer Goodbody," catches the eye of the throaty traffic reporter, and is targeted for a big promotion. But before Belinda can say "corner office," a coworker is murdered, and evidence points to a carpool conspiracy! With a killer on the loose, her friends at one another's throats, and two men offering southern comfort, Belinda knows only one thing for certain: climbing to the top can be murder on a girl.

Belinda Hennessey opened the shower door and leaned out, hair dripping, her soapy ear piqued for the voice of the predominant man in her life -- although granted, the fact that she'd never even met the guy was a tad on the pathetic side.

From the clock radio on the crowded vanity, a sexy, Southern-bred accent reeled into the room over the whir of helicopter blades. "Traffic is jammin' up on I-85 south-bound below the I-285 junction due to a three-car accident in the rightmost lane. Southbound Peachtree Industrial and Buford Highway are feelin' the effect, so my advice is to hop over to Georgia 400 while it's still a speed limit ride, which won't be for long." He whistled low. "If you're comin' into Atlanta from the northeast this mornin', I hope you're not runnin' late. I'm Talkin' Tom Trainer for the MIXX 100 FM traffic report."

Oh, that voice. Belinda shivered, then glanced at the time and swore softly. She yanked a towel around her, made wet tracks to the bedroom, and let the ho-hum carpet soak up most of the water dripping down her legs. With one hand she ran the towel over the rest of her while flipping through hangers in her closet. Her shoulder muscles still twinged from an "iron arms" session in the gym -- a degrading experience she had allowed herself to be talked into in lieu of lunch a couple of days ago. According to a fitness report on the radio, now that she had entered her thirties, she was losing muscle mass at an alarming rate.

Yes indeed, it was a fine time to be single again.

When her fingers touched a knee-length gray jersey dress, she pulled out the garment and tossed it onto the unmade bed. An indignant yowl sounded from beneath the leopard print comforter, and Downey's black head appeared.

"Sorry," Belinda offered. "I'm running late."

Downey blinked. The feline's morning disposition reminded her of the man who'd given her the cat, her ex, Vince Whittaker. She hesitated to refer to Vince as her ex-husband, since their marriage had lasted a mere six hours. Downey was the best thing to come out of that train wreck, despite her current slit-eyed disdain.

"I know -- I shouldn't be late on my first day driving the car pool."

The shower was her downfall. This town house was the first place she'd ever lived in that had an adequate hot water heater, so she leaned under the spray every morning until her skin was just short of a good scald. The indulgence was heavenly, but the trade-off was hell.

With the agility of a hurdler, she leapt into underwear, panty hose, dress, jacket, and pumps, then gave her unremarkable auburn hair a one-minute blast from a blow dryer. A touch of translucent powder, mascara, and lip-stick would have to pass for makeup; her cheeks were still pink enough from the shower to skip the blush. There wasn't time to make the bed, although she knew she'd be plagued with thoughts of dropping dead before the day ended and her mother's tsk, tsk when her parents came to gather her personal effects. "I knew this move to Atlanta so soon after the you-know-what was too much for her, Franklin." (Her mother refused to make direct references to the reneged wedding.) "Look, she didn't even make her bed -- I heard on the Today show that untidiness is a sure sign of depression."

Little did her mother know, she didn't have time to indulge in a good cathartic bout of depression. Her new job was consuming every waking hour, and for that, she was eternally grateful ... because the urge to wallow was so close to the surface. . . .

Don’t miss the next book by your favorite author! Sign up now for AuthorTracker by visiting www.AuthorTracker.com.