His Corporate Claim

by J. D. Fox

“Oh,” I said. My attempt at humor fell flatter than a gluten-free pancake.

  I stood there, waiting and feeling like a total fake. I so do not belong in here. I’m more Motel 8 than Grand Hyatt, and if I can’t even ride in a Jaguar with grace and dignity, how can I move about in a place like this? It’s so huge that I’ll have to attach a string to my door handle and follow it back to my room. Even then, I’d probably trip over the string.

  Sam returned with our room keys. “We’re on the same floor, in the same wing,” he said.

  “Your usual suite, Mr. Palmer?”

  “Yes, Henry. Ms. Winton has her own suite, though.” Sam handed Henry the keys.

  ​I do? How did that happen? Wouldn’t I be sharing a room with one of the other employees? Isn’t that how these things are done? I’d kill Lucius if he showed me favoritism that would alienate me from my coworkers.

  “Wait,” I said. “That must be a mistake.”

  “No, from what the desk said. Lucius will check in tomorrow, but he’s staying in my suite anyway. Can’t have you two in the same room, can we?”

  That would be bad form in front of the other employees, even if we were fake engaged.

  “I suppose not.”

  ​“Very good, Mr. Palmer. This way, Miss Winton,” said Henry. “It’s too bad you’re a week late for the Wine and Food Classic.”

  “That’s okay, Henry. We’re here for other reasons.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What’s the Wine and Food Classic?” I asked.

  “Celebrity chefs,” said Henry. “They come from all over the world and set up shop for the weekend. It’s a big event here- the rooms were booked solid.”

  “Yep. Aspen fills up for one glorious off-season weekend,” said Sam.

  “Yes, sir,” said Henry. “That and a few other weekends like it make it worth working the offseason.”

  The elevator brought us to the third floor, and Henry led us down a long hallway, opened a door, and handed me the key.

  “I hope you enjoy your stay, Miss. If you need anything, just call the desk, or you can ask for me if you like.”

  Sam took out his wallet and slipped him a bill. “Thank you, Henry. That’s for me and Miss Winton.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll just put your bag in your room.”

  “Please.”

  I watched this exchange with fascination. This is how people like Sam handled things— smoothly, expecting everything and getting exactly what he wanted. He didn’t even ask if he should tip the doorman for me. The few dollars he slipped the man probably didn’t even register with him, while I watched each dollar like a long lost child that needed to come home to me.

  “Well, goodnight,” I said.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to get dinner?” What was that look in his eye? Longing? No. A player like Sam Palmer only longed for one thing; to add another notch to his bedpost.

  “No, thank you,” I said. “What time do we meet in the morning?”

  He furrowed his brow. “Meet?” Sam sounded like he didn’t expect a meeting in the morning. “I suppose eight? For breakfast?”

  If he wants a breakfast meeting, we’ll do that. “You’re the boss,” I said.

  Again he gives me a funny look, but I just want to get into my room, out of these fancy clothes and into a hot bath.

  I entered and turned to shut the door, only to find Sam still there frozen in inaction. He had the most curious expression on his face, as if his insides were twisting. But Sam Palmer’s inner turmoil was not my business.

  “Is there anything else?” I said.

  Sam opened his mouth and then closed it and shook his head.

  “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Good night.”

  I closed the door and stared in amazement. I didn’t have a room. I had an apartment, almost the size of my own, and with much better furnishings. It seemed every care had been taken to make it not seem like a hotel room. A small hallway opened onto a living area, complete with more furniture than I owned; two couches that faced each other and ran perpendicular to the fireplace, and a fifty-inch television hung over the mantel. A window set in a red brick arch sat to the left side of the fireplace, and on the wall catty corner to the window, a grand view of Aspen Mountain ran parallel to the sofas as a large ceiling to floor window display. As I turned, I finally noticed the kitchen— complete with marble counters, a full set of cabinets and steel appliances. I realized I hadn’t noticed when I entered it because a wooden pull-down screen that came to the counter hid it from sight as you entered from the hall. I turned again to face the opposite wall and spotted a door. Crossing the room I opened it to find a long closet graced with folding doors and across from it the bathroom done in varying shades of blue rough ceramic and gleaming white porcelain with chrome fixtures. At the end of this short hallway sat a luxurious mahogany sleigh bed, piled with a thick white comforter and four pillows. The large pane window looked out on another mountain peak.

  I fell on the bed, exhausted and overwhelmed. This is how the rich lived while on vacation, at a standard that I couldn’t imagine, even with it in front of me. The room, the furnishings, the carpets all looked brand new, and like they’d shriek with alarm if a dust mote hit them. It made my plain, single gal apartment look like it belonged to the adult child who refuses to live up to her potential and scandalizes the entire family. In my head, a little fantasy plays out that anthropomorphizes this apartment as the rich older mother taking her badly dressed rebellious daughter out to lunch. “Why can’t you be like the Hyatt Apartment Suites? Why do you have to look like those trashy Motel Eight rooms? I can’t hold my head up at the country club because of you.”

  I feel I’m in the middle of those commercials that councils you to not “put bacon on your hamburger because it will spoil regular hamburgers for you.” I can see where it would be very easy for me to get spoiled by this lifestyle, and proceed to despise my real one. The reality is that while I had a good job, I also had big bills. It was likely that living in luxury like this, even for just a vacation, is far out my reach— at least for years to come. And as much as I hate to admit it, I am jealous of people who have this kind of money and dismayed to learn that about myself. There was nothing wrong with being worker bee Talia Winton.

  Then it hits me why I am jealous. Sam lives like this each day, which means that the women he dates would too. They go to the spa regularly and get their nails done every week, whether they need it or not. Those women don’t blink an eye at a thirty-five thousand dollar engagement ring or a two thousand dollar ensemble. That’s just how life is for them. My empty bank account can’t compete with women like that.

  Sam Palmer was definitely the bacon on my hamburger that I shouldn’t eat.

  I fumbled for the phone on the nightstand, dialed room service and ordered a hamburger—without bacon. But it didn’t taste like it should, and I missed that bacon, damn it. There was only one way to get Sam Palmer out of my mind. I pulled out my laptop, connected to the hotel’s WiFi and looked for evidence of Sam’s trail of broken hearts.

  What I found surprised me... and disturbed me.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sam

  Talia shut the door in my face, leaving me to be a damned idiot staring at her room, wondering how to get closer to her. Worse yet, I couldn’t care less if Talia was engaged to Lucius, which made me a rat brother.

  But her door was shut, and despite my wishful thinking it would remain closed, because Talia was an honorable woman who would not cheat on her fiancé. Damn. Where can I find a woman like that?

  You never cared about finding a woman like Talia. You were too concerned with not disappointing your father, like your older brother did.

  That much was very true. There is nothing like carrying the water for the family by competing against an older brother’s bad reputation. I’d spent my entire childhood being the “good kid.” How fucked up is that?

  Now I worse than my brother, bec
ause my most ardent desire was to poach a lovely woman from his life.

  I shook my head to rattle my stubborn thoughts lose, and turned toward my suite. Because my family owns part of this hotel we command a permanent block of suites. Lucius and I share one, and my dad has another. We also have a third for our personal guests, which Talia occupied now.

  The lock pad buzzed for my key card, and I pushed hard on the handle to open the door. I’m so immersed in my traitorous thoughts that I start when I spot a movement in the shadows cast by the lit fireplace in my dark room.

  I flicked on the light and saw my father holding a drink as he stared out of the large window at a mountain peak. The deep amber color of the liquor told me my father had raided the bourbon Henry stocks in cupboard over the sink during my visits. My father’s hair seemed more white than gray against the backdrop of the night sky, and his shoulders stooped forward. He appeared a little older, frailer, and more concerned than he had just a few days ago, when I’d left him in Boston. Maybe the altitude had gotten to him already?

  “Dad? I wasn’t expecting you tonight.”

  He continued to gaze out of the window, appearing to contemplate weighty matters. “No reason not to hop a plane. Besides, I want to get to know my new daughter-in-law before Lucius marries her.”

  My stomach dropped as I realized I wouldn’t get to spend any time alone with Talia before Lucius arrived. And I hate myself again, because Talia should get to know my father. He would soon be her father-in-law.

  “That’s good, Dad. We’re getting together for breakfast at eight.”

  “Fine,” he said. “Have you heard from the forensic accountant?”

  “He requested more records, but when we spoke our Boston office had closed already.”

  “Contact my assistant, Robert, and he’ll get the corporate copies of whatever the accountant wants. Actually... never mind, I’ll do it now.” Dad pulled his phone from his inside jacket pocket and tapped into it. “There,” he said with a huff. “Done.”

  Dad seemed too clued in to what he’d sent me to investigate.

  “Corporate copies?” I said. I’m caught like a fly in amber and I’m not sure what the right move is here.

  “I require Lucius to send copies of invoices and banking records to my office directly.”

  “Every month?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “I see.”

  Dad sucked down another sip of whiskey, and my gut hollowed with a sick realization. Dad had more than a suspicion that Lucius had been doing wrong. My stubborn father probably wrangled the books himself. My visit wasn’t an opening salvo to save Lucius; it was a parting shot.

  My hands curled into fists. I hated this; Dad seemed totally unconcerned he was about to ruin his eldest son by using his youngest to do the deed. While I understand that my father has a fiduciary responsibility to the business with serious legal and financial consequences, I despised how he was acting on it. There had to be a better way. I, for one, did not want to take the brunt of Lucius anger when he toppled.

  “Dad,” I said, “you shouldn’t have made me the middleman me when you’ve already decided your move.”

  Dad continued to stare out the window as he took another sip of bourbon. “Nothing is set in stone. At least, not yet. And no one will complain you weren’t fair to Lucius. Everyone knows that you have his best interests at heart.”

  I smoothed my collar for no other reason than to do something with my hand. This stinks, and if I were smart I’d climb a plane immediately and go home.

  But you won’t see Talia again, will you?

  Why should that be my overriding factor in deciding to stay or go?

  If she weren’t important to you, it wouldn’t be. Face it; you’ve started falling for her.

  I don’t like this train of thought— it makes me feel as if I’m being squeezed from two sides. In fact, I resent it; and if I were the bad son that Lucius is thought to be, I’d tell my father off. Instead, I default to good boy mode.

  “Damn it, Dad. It’s not fair to make me the apparent judge and jury in this.”

  Dear Lord, I hope I didn’t sound as whiny to my father as I did to myself.

  Dad pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “I know, but I need your help. I recognize I’m biased against Lucius, and I don’t want to go off half-cocked. I trust you to make a reasoned evaluation.”

  He turned toward me before moving toward the couch to sit. Dad put one hand to his forehead, sighing. “I can’t afford to lose either of you. You two are all I have.”

  His tired voice stirred a warning in me. He definitely seemed weaker, as if the weight of the world bore down on him. Was he ill? Was his heart troubling him again?

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is. You two are my legacy. And I’d hate that legacy ruined by a damaged reputation because one son is a thief.”

  I shook my head. “I refuse to believe that about Lucius.”

  “And I’m glad, but you need to prove it. We have to file our yearly report to the SEC, and then have an independent company audit it.”

  “I just don’t understand why you’re having me redo the work you’ve already done.”

  “Because I know what, but not who. We can fix the books but there’s no point if we’re going to leave a leaky financial sieve in place.”

  I disliked this situation even more now; if it wasn’t Lucius then it had to be another person in Lucius’s company, and then we’d be faced with the nasty business of investigating all of his employees.

  Dad set his empty glass on the coffee table and pressed his mouth into a grim line. “Tell me about this girl.”

  “Talia? As I’ve said, she’s smart, organized and a hard worker.”

  Dad looked away.“Not Lucius’s type, then.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe he’s matured.”

  My father snorted. “Have you seen evidence that he’s matured?”

  I shook my head. “I’ve barely seen him since I got to Denver. He left for a business meeting out of town soon after I arrived.”

  Dad rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “When he’s about to be married? Sounds strange to me.”

  I thought so too, but I wouldn’t second my father’s suspicions out loud.

  My father sighed. “Well, I’m still on Boston time. I’ll head to my room now.”

  “You know what they say when you get to altitude.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said with a dismissive hand wave, “drink plenty of water.” Dad grabbed the neck of my bourbon bottle. “I’ll just take this to flavor my water.”

  “Dad,” I said with exasperation.

  “No?” he said, cocking an eyebrow, an expression he’d used often when I was a child to ask, “you’re going to argue with me?” I sighed.

  “Take it. I’m not drinking.”

  “Good,” he said. “I’m glad one of us isn’t.”

  He shut the door with a soft click and I am alone. I glanced around the room and checked my closet to find the single bag Henry had put inside. I unpacked and ordered dinner.

  Room service came and went and I tried to eat, but the food stuck in my throat. My nerves were on edge. I tried to tell myself it was because I worried about Lucius, my father’s suspicions, and what it all meant for my family’s businesses. My father had funded the start of Palmer Media because he’d believed Lucius’s enthusiasm for “alternative media advertising” would steer a wayward grownup child on the path to true adulthood. The online ad sales hadn’t panned out as they should have, but Lucius had managed to bring on a crew of decent sales managers who’d brought in billable business.

  But Lucius always managed to screw things up. Was he congenitally unable to walk a straight path? Why, then, was he so hot to get married? And why to Talia, who was one hundred eighty degrees away from the type of women he usually dated? The women he liked were flashy— never classy like Talia. And they never seemed to care about much of anything but their looks and what Luc
ius could buy them. I could see where it would be refreshing to be with a woman with a different set of values, but Lucius? It didn’t make sense. The more I tried to put the pieces together, the more my brother’s behavior didn’t add up.

  I couldn’t escape the flash of her eyes, or how her sassy mouth moved when she spoke, or the full curves of her breasts, or her scent. I tossed on my bed, determined to find a position where I feel relaxed, but every one of my muscles was tight with stress. This was ridiculous.

  A knock on the door was, for once, a welcome relief. I jump out of bed and throw on a bathrobe, but I’m not prepared at who stands at the door.

  “Talia?”

  “Sam, can I come in? I need to talk to you.”

  Why? And at this time of night?

  What do you care? She wants to enter your room. Are you going to let her stand there? That would be my little head talking, and he’s not known for giving the best advice.

  “Come in.”

  Talia walked in and started pacing, as she wrung her hands. Her distress tugged at my heartstrings.

  “What’s wrong, Talia?”

  “I’m unsure if I should say anything or not....”

  Talia’s stressed voice put me on guard immediately. What could’ve upset her? Something about Lucius?

  “Sam, Lucius gave me the wrong information about you.”

  Of course he did. Figures.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He told me... oh good God, I should just leave. I’d feel like an idiot saying this and what’s between you and your brother is none of my business.”

  “Talia, you can tell me.”

  Talia pursed her lips.“No, this was a bad idea. I’ll go.” She hurried past me, going too close to the sofa and banging into it.

  “Damn it!” she gasped. “My little toe.” Talia sucked in her breath as she tried to hop forward.

  “Talia, let me help you. Sit.”

  She let me take her elbow, and I helped Talia to the sofa, pulling the ottoman forward to place under her foot.

  “Now, let me look.”

  “Ouch,” she said as I turned her foot. It was swelling and turning bright red.