Bruce wasn't quite sure how he had landed in his current predicament. However, he was quite sure he didn't like it. It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon. Sunny, seventy-five degrees, light breeze. On days like today, he was supposed to be sailing on Lake Michigan with his lovely wife. Instead, he was literally shackled to the enormous antique desk in his basement home office--a cuff around his right ankle was connected to a similar cuff around the leg of his desk by a heavy six foot chain. He was captive. That, of course, was Tamara's intent.
There was a formidable stack of work to be done. Work that he'd put off, admittedly, for far too long. Legal briefs to finish. Cases to prepare. Depositions to review. Phone calls to return. Due to the past two weeks of gorgeous spring weather, coming on the heels of a brutal winter, the "to do" list had gotten rather lengthy.
Tamara, who also served as his business manager, was completely fed up with his procrastination. Being the one who answered the phone, she had to deal with all the irate clients. They'd call at all hours of the day and night. She was feeling the pressure, and now she was making sure Bruce felt it as well.
At first, Bruce was pissed. How
dare
she? He had considered just watching television all day. Fix her wagon! There was a big screen TV on the other side of the room. However, that plan was quickly dashed when he discovered that Tamara had moved the remote control out of his reach. This was no spontaneous decision! She had apparently thought it through. Bruce's anger slowly morphed into a grudging admiration for his resourceful wife.
Well, nothing to do but buckle down and get busy. Bruce knew that when Tamara got that look in her eyes there was no changing her mind. He'd tried before, and although he believed himself to be extraordinarily persuasive, he'd failed miserably. There were no cracks in her armor! He had no doubt that she really meant it when she said he'd not be freed until the work was finished.
After four solid hours without a break, Bruce realized he was famished. Had he known what was in store, he'd have eaten a heartier breakfast. The coffee and toast were just not tiding him over, and his hunger was making concentration difficult.
As if she'd known just when he'd run out of steam, Tamara appeared with a lunch tray. One wimpy sandwich and a glass of water. Prisoner's rations. She wore shorts and a halter top, hair pulled back in a pony tail. From the grass stains on her knees, Bruce deduced that she'd been working in the garden.
Lawyers are good at that deduction stuff
, he congratulated himself. Her forehead, cheeks, and shoulders were pink from the sun, and she looked quite fetching. For a moment Bruce forgot his hunger as he admired his wife's curves.
In an instant, she was gone again. Bruce devoured the sandwich and downed the water. It was far from satisfying, but it did take the edge off so that he could once again concentrate on the work at hand. However, before long, he realized he needed a break of a different sort.
Bruce yelled. Waited. Yelled again. Waited. No response. Certainly Tamara wouldn't leave him there to piss in his pants. Would she?
Giving it one more try before he resorted to using the empty water glass, Bruce finally heard Tamara's footsteps on the stairs.
"What is it?" she demanded, sounding less than pleased to be summoned. She had apparently been in the shower, for she was dripping wet and wrapped only in a towel. Another one of those brilliant lawyerly deductions.
