As if that made it okay. Jenessa felt her chest constrict. Sharona was being Sharona, of course, but could the woman at least show a little humanity?
The VP’s tone hardened, becoming brisk. “So, let’s talk damage control. There’s going to be a backlash out there.”
“I know.” Jenessa laced her fingers and set her chin upon her hands, drawing her brows together. There was absolutely nothing she could do to stop the layoffs, but if the tide of public opinion should turn against Bianchi’s once they became common knowledge, then she’d be called upon to do her job: protect the company’s reputation.
“I want you on top of that. Do whatever it takes. If you have any ideas, I’d like to hear them. If you need extra funding, I’ll see what I can do.”
She almost laughed. Sharona was offering her more money to smooth over any damage done to the company’s reputation after it sent home a sizeable percentage of its staff for lack of funds.
But what Sharona said next extinguished even the meerest flicker of humor. “And don’t forget the other thing we talked about. This could be a golden opportunity for you to prove yourself. If you manage this to Tony’s liking, consider yourself halfway home.”
“I. . . . ” Jenessa swallowed. There it was, out in the open. The other thing. She could feel her pulse pounding in her temple, like a backbeat to the thumping of her heart. According to Sharona, she, Jenessa, had a shot at becoming Vice President, Corporate Services. She could be sitting in Sharona’s office, the one with the view of the bandstand at De Menzes Park, doing vice-presidenty things. Making plans for Bianchi’s. Helping shape their destiny—and hers.
Life was a strange thing indeed. Right now, dozens of people all over the company were hearing the worst news of their careers, while at the same time, she was being offered the opportunity to take hers to the next dizzying level. She should have been elated . . . she was elated, down inside, beneath the layer of concern that covered her hope like an oil spill.
She drew on her inner strength to respond with grace and poise. “Thank you, Sharona, for thinking of me. I’m . . . grateful you believe I’m worthy of filling your shoes.”
A plump hand closed over hers. “Jenessa, listen to me. I’ve known you for five years. We’ve helped turn this company into a national brand, and it’s got a whole way to go again. I rely on you. You know the business, and you know what Bianchi’s believes in. There’s nobody I’d recommend but you.”
Sharona paused theatrically, knowing full well the weight her recommendation carried. When she left for Japan with a few hand-selected, high profile colleagues to begin laying the groundwork that would help take Bianchi’s international, there’d be a huge vacuum in the executive wing. Neither woman was a fool; they both knew there’d be competition, from within and outside the company. But Bianchi’s founder, Tony Goodman, trusted Sharona. He’d worked with her elsewhere, before he founded his company, and after fifteen years as colleagues and friends, he’d brought her over with him when he started up. In Goodman’s eyes, Sharona’s recommendation was as weighty as a sack of gold.
“We’ve only got a few months, give or take, before this Japan thing.” Sharona gave a dismissive shrug, as if the ‘Japan thing’ was a joyride, a trivial business junket, though they were both aware it was a quantum leap for her career.
Jenessa felt compelled to state the obvious. “The American public’s not going to like the fact that we’re cutting jobs at home while looking to set up business abroad. Do you think we could maybe ride out the next few months before—”
A look from Sharona cut her dead. “The Japan project’s going full speed ahead, so I wouldn’t worry about it. What I’d worry about, if I were you, is the opportunity this presents for you to shine. Be your usual competent self, but be visible. And believe me, when this situation hits the fan, you’re going to be visible. So manage it like a magician. Sleight of hand. Distract attention from the staffing issue. Come up with a stunt that’ll make Bianchi’s look good. Something community-based.” She gave Jenessa a conspiratorial grin. “Remember, the Board’s watching. Work this thing, and you’re in!”
Jenessa sat back, ambition blotting out her objections. Vice president. She wanted this so bad, it was like honey on her tongue. She closed her eyes for a second, and then forced them open, shaking away the visions. “I will,” she managed. “I’ve got loads of ideas. There are so many things I’d like to . . . ” She stopped and laughed hoarsely. She was getting ahead of herself. “I won’t let you down.”
Before Sharona could say something Sharona-y like You’d better not, there was a knock at the door. Jenessa jumped, startled. “Merlin?” she called.
Immediately her assistant’s sandy blond head poked around her door. “Jenessa?”
“Is there a problem?” she asked, but what she really meant was, What the hell are you thinking? Can’t you see I’ve got a visitor?
“You’ve got a visitor,” Merlin said.
“Can it wait?” she asked sharply. She glanced down at the blotter on her desk. She didn’t have anyone penciled in for this morning. So who the hell . . . ?
He looked hesitant, as if sensing he was in the doghouse, but not understanding why. “Um. . . . ” He threw a glance back at whoever was standing behind his shoulder, at the other side of the door. “I guess . . .”
But Sharona was already on her well-shoed feet. “It’s okay, I was just going.”
Jenessa shot up, one hand outstretched, palm facing out. “No, it’s fine. Please, you don’t have to go. . . . ” Sit yourself back down and help me work out my strategy! she wanted to yell, Give me pointers! If you’ve got any more inside info, give me that! She darted out from behind her desk with inelegant haste.
But Sharona’s back was turned. “Confidentiality,” she reminded her over her shoulder as the door opened . . . and in walked Mitchell. His work denims fit him like tailored clothes fit other men. He immediately searched out and found her eyes, and his lips moved almost imperceptibly.
He sucked the air from the room, Jenessa was sure of it. One minute her lungs were full of oxygen, and the next, she was floundering, hurting for a single breath. She hadn’t seen him in days, at least not in the flesh. But despite the fact that she was certainly not going out with him again, he’d crossed her mind several times, by stealth or by force.
He walked in easily, slipping past Merlin with a nod, and standing face to face with Sharona, who stopped short of him.
“Mrs. Holmes,” he greeted her politely, the lazy timbre of his voice resonant.
Sharona riffled her fingers through her short hair. She had to tilt her head way back to look at him. “Mr. Cooper, good morning. How was Christmas?”
“Wonderful,” Mitchell responded smoothly, but the loaded look he gave was not for Sharona, but for the woman standing flustered behind her. “And yours?”
Sharona didn’t answer, but instead, sensing something she couldn’t identify arcing over her head, asked, “Did you come to see about something? You know, to fix . . . ?” She twirled her fingers, a ‘whatever’ gesture.
He shook his head and held out his tool-free hands. “No. I was just paying Miss Sterling a visit.”
A sharp, discerning glance, and Sharona uttered a barely audible, “Ah.”
Oh, God, Jenessa thought.
Sharona’s perfectly plucked brows arched eloquently, and then she said, “Well, when your . . . conversation . . . is over, would you mind dropping by my office? There’s something I’d like to discuss.” She threw Jenessa another glance that cut through her like a laser. “It’s quite important.”
Jenessa nearly choked on her spit. There was a little tidbit she’d forgotten. The Corporate Services Division, which Sharona oversaw with all the aplomb of the Queen of the Nile, was a large one. It didn’t only cover Corporate Communications, but all of Bianchi’s infrastructural affairs, such as telecommunications, administrative services . . . and maintenance. Sharona was Mitchell’s immediate supervisor, and
if Jenessa won the vice presidency from the rabid horde vying for the prize, the responsibility would fall to her.
Wouldn’t that beat all.
Didn’t matter, though, because she’d made up her mind on Christmas day, and she was sticking to her decision. Whatever plans he had for her—whatever she’d fleetingly imagined for him—wasn’t going to happen.
At the outer peripheries of her consciousness, she heard Mitchell and Sharona agreeing on a time for their meeting, and then she was aware of her VP gliding out like a ship with sails unfurled. Merlin scampered, and the door clicked shut.
8.
Jenessa wished her desk offered her protection, but hurrying over there now would only bring that knowing grin to Mitchell’s face. Matter of fact, she wished she’d had the presence of mind to shove the desk up against her door before he’d even made it in.
He stood in front of her, not close enough to touch, but near enough for her to feel the influence of his thrall, drawing her nearer like a moon orbiting too close to a planet. His hands were deep in his pockets, his face neutral. Memories of their heated session on the couch, with his hands sliding up under the lace of her bra and his hard bulge pressing against her belly, came rushing back. Something deep inside her awakened.
His question was totally unexpected, and it ran her over like a car coming from the wrong direction. “Something going down around here?”
Her mind blanked. “Huh?”
“There’s a . . .” He struggled for the word. “. . . buzz rising. Not a nice one. Lots of closed-door meetings. There’s more electricity in the air this morning than a lightning storm. What’s up?”
Confidentiality, Sharona had warned. Jenessa chewed on the inside of her cheek and shook her head sadly. “I can’t.” She didn’t have to guess why Sharona wanted to meet with him. Lower level employees, she’d said. Factory workers. Sharona was going to hand him a pile of pink slips, which he, in turn, would have the honor of passing down to his own people. She examined the patterns in the floor tiles, afraid of becoming entangled in his discerning gaze. “I guess Sharona will . . . uh . . . talk with you. . . . ”
He nodded slowly, and it was clear he could read the writing on the wall; he wasn’t going to like what he’d hear, but he didn’t press her.
“You came to see me,” she reminded him. Not that the next conversational topic to roll down the chute was likely to be any more comfortable than layoffs for his staff. This was the part where she told him firmly it wasn’t going to work between them. With luck, it was also the part where he accepted her decision gracefully and left her the hell alone.
“Mmm. Yeah, I did.”
She hadn’t realized it, but she’d been slowly backing away from him. Now her desk was impeding any further retreat. “Well?”
“Didn’t hear from you.”
“Were you expecting me to call?”
He shrugged. “I figured, since you’re the one setting the pace for this game—”
She threw his own words back at him. “It’s not a game.”
He went on nonetheless. “I figured I’d sit back and let you take the next step. For a while, at least.”
She plunged. “I don’t think it’s wise—”
“I didn’t hear from you,” he cut in, as if he wasn’t planning on listening to whatever she was going to say, “so I came over.”
“I thought I was calling the shots.”
“You defaulted.”
Her competitiveness flared inside her. “Defaulted? It’s only been a few days.”
“Maybe, but a critical consideration forced my hand.”
“What critical—”
“Tomorrow’s New Year’s Eve.”
Thump, thump, thump. The drumbeat Sharona’s revelations had started a-rollin’ in her temple kicked up again. She knew what he was about to ask, and prayed he wouldn’t. She tore her eyes away, unable to bear the way he pierced her, as if she had no mental screen to hide behind. Instead, she spread her fingers and carefully examined her manicure.
God must have been preoccupied, because her prayer went unanswered. Mitchell’s hand rose to meet hers, until their palms were touching. He didn’t grasp her hand, but kept his there, under hers, like they were playing rock-paper-scissors, and they’d both gone ‘paper’. “Will you see the New Year in with me?”
“I’m busy,” was the first thing out her mouth. She snatched her hand back, and clasped them in front of her.
“Are you?”
“Yes. I’ve been invited to a party. By friends.” Which was partially true. Her elderly neighbors usually had a get-together, not more than twenty or thirty people, most of them over age sixty. The roof wouldn’t be raised tomorrow night, nor was it going to be on fire, but it was someplace to be. And as of now, she was accepting the invitation. “I do have friends, you know,” she added defensively.
The creases at the sides of his eyes radiated like thin webs. “I’m sure you do.” His hands were back in his pockets again. “Glad you won’t be alone.”
She wondered with a pang whether turning him down meant he’d be alone, but her survival was at stake. Speaking of which, she needed to get this over with. Kill the idea of him and her together, before it took root.
She filled her lungs as if she was sinking underwater. “Mitchell, I have to tell you. . . . ”
“Ask me a question.”
She blinked, and the air rushed out in a gust. Some deep-sea diver she’d make. “What?”
“Ask me.”
“Ask you . . . ?”
“The question that’s been burning in your mind since Christmas. Since we were . . . interrupted.”
Just one question? she wanted to shoot back. How ‘bout a dozen? But he was right, there was one, a big one, that sat atop the pile of others like a glowing hot coal, its heat more than enough to ignite and incinerate everything else. “What’s with your sister?” she blurted.
He gave a small nod, silently acknowledging her for not playing coy or pretending to sweep the whole disturbing scenario under the carpet. “Want to sit down?” He gestured toward her chair.
Inviting me to sit in my own office, she thought irrationally. She sat behind her desk, glad for the barrier it offered. Something told her she’d need something firm and strong to lean against—and she didn’t mean him.
He perched on the edge, pretty much on the spot Sharona had been keeping warm minutes ago. What was it, she thought irritably, did Bianchi’s send out a memo that nobody had to sit in chairs anymore?
“My sister’s addicted to crack,” he said without preamble. “A few other things, some alcohol, but mainly crack. She’s been on it for a few years—on and off it, actually. In and out of rehab, you know.”
Jenessa could feel the shock showing on her face, but didn’t bother to wipe it away. “I don’t, Mitchell. I don’t know.”
He sighed. “Coral was as straight as you and me. She owned a waffle place in Catarina, a nice family joint. She had a few drinks occasionally, but nothing worrying. She was married, happy, with a little girl to take care of.” Mitchell squinted, as if trying to gauge how she was reacting.
Jenessa tried to relate the gaunt, raspy-voiced woman who’d confronted them while they were kissing on the couch—who’d called her a ho, by the way—with the normal wife and mother he was describing. “What happened?”
“Same thing that happens to hundreds of women every day. Her husband rode off; left her with a young child.”
“Doesn’t necessarily turn you into a user,” Jenessa pointed out.
“No,” he agreed. “But the next man she fell in love with did.” His face scrunched into a scowl. “Dude called Jamal. Didn’t like him the minute I laid eyes on him. Too slick. But Coral, by then she’d been alone for a couple of years. He was pretty and had a little money, and he was available. Knew precisely what to say, too. Just the kind of man a woman longing for company would be drawn to.”
In spite of herself, she wanted to hear more. “He t
urned her on to it.”
His lips twisted, a gesture of contempt for this Jamal and regret for his sister. “Some people can handle their poison. Some people can try it once, twice, and walk away. My sister. . . . ”
Jenessa watched, riveted by morbid fascination, as emotions flickered across his face. “Coral was hooked from the first hit. And she sank fast. Two months later, that asshole Jamal just turned around and walked away, not giving a shit what kind of damage he’d lift behind.”
“Couldn’t you help?” she asked, although she knew he would have.
He didn’t try to defend himself. “I knew from the start something was wrong. I just didn’t know what. She lost weight, stopped caring about her looks. I’d drop by and Ruby hadn’t been fed or bathed. I thought she was grieving, missing her man. Wasn’t long before she lost the franchise on the waffle place. She was out of a job and didn’t seem fired up about getting another. I gave her money, bought her groceries, paid her rent, but that wasn’t enough. Things started disappearing from her apartment. Mine too. Electronics—”
“She was selling them.”
He shrugged, like the conclusion was obvious. “The real problem came when she started neglecting my niece. Going off and getting high, not coming back for days. More than once I had to break into her place to rescue Ruby. I’d find her dirty and hungry, living off water and stale Cheerios, crackers, mustard, whatever Coral left in the cupboards. I’d take her home, and my wife took care of her. Wendy begged me to keep her, to take her away from Coral legally, so we’d be sure she was safe.”
His hands were unnaturally still on his lap. With the swell of emotion Jenessa could sense rising inside him, he should be fidgeting, but he was unmoving, his eyes steadily holding hers. “Wendy couldn’t have children, because of her heart condition. She wanted Ruby. So did I.”
“What happened?”
He hesitated for a beat. “I turned my sister in. It was the only thing I could do. I’d persuaded her to go into rehab three or four times, and every time she did, she came out clean. I’d hand her daughter back. And every time she let us down. She let Ruby down. So I turned Coral in. I asked the courts to take Ruby away and give her to me. Now I’m her legal guardian. And Coral’s in court-ordered rehab.”
The Irresistible Mr Cooper Page 8