“André!” Charles Lyon bellowed. “You sly fox. I didn’t believe... had to come see for myself what the staff’s buzzing about. So you finally let Margie twist your arm. Son of a gun! All I can say is it’ll be damned good to have another vote on my side.”
“Uncle Charles.” André pulled out of the hearty bear hug. Glancing over his uncle’s shoulder, he saw Gabrielle’s eyes turn wintry. “I, ah, was headed out with Gabrielle for a meeting. For the record,” he said lightly, “I’m not on anyone’s side. I make up my own mind.”
Charles flashed an equally chilly look at Gabrielle. “Gaby can carry on without you while you catch your favorite uncle up on this latest development. Or maybe you haven’t been here long enough to know that Gabrielle’s really Wonder Woman in disguise.”
Gaby’s lips tightened. “I am quite capable of conducting this or any other meeting by myself, Charles. I wouldn’t presume to break up your reunion.”
“But I...” André frowned as Gaby sprinted off. Plainly there was no love lost between her and his uncle.
Charles clapped him on the back. “Forget the gal. She’s nobody. Come along, son, I’ll treat you to a drink.”
“It’s not even lunchtime,” André protested.
Charles, refusing to take no for an answer, hustled his nephew determinedly toward the elevator.
CHAPTER THREE
ANDRÉ ENTERED THE OFFICE whistling, hands buried in his pants pockets. He saw Gabrielle seated at her desk, almost hidden behind a stack of ledgers.
She barely glanced up. “Managers don’t take three-hour lunches. Employees resent it, as do clients. And right now we need every client we can get.”
The tune died on André’s lips. “Believe it or not, I wouldn’t have gone if you hadn’t disappeared so abruptly. And I wasn’t away for three hours. More like two. We detoured past my cousin Alain’s office. Last time I saw him, Alain was a teenager. Now he’s an attorney. Hard to believe he and Jason have grown up and both work here. Makes me feel old.”
Gabrielle leaned back in her chair. “I wouldn’t have hired either of them, no matter how Charles whined, if it’d been up to me. He wore Margaret down. But then, I assume you know what a soft heart she has.”
“Aren’t you lucky she does? Otherwise, where would you be?” André wasn’t normally one to trade insults. But he didn’t intend to let this woman walk all over him. “Jason suggested you might be the reason for the station’s declining revenue. Alain didn’t disagree.”
Gaby stiffened. For a second anger flared in her eyes. “Will I be wasting my breath if I rebut that lie?”
André pulled up a chair and faced her across the desk. “Where this family is concerned, I don’t wear rose-colored glasses. Just so we understand one another, I’ve spoken to various of the department heads and I’ve studied the station’s budgetary figures for the past five years. So don’t try to snow me. Something—or someone—is responsible for the drop in revenue.”
This time she made no effort to check her anger. “Now you understand me. Margaret instructed me to familiarize you with what it takes to run WDIX-TV. So I will, as long as it doesn’t interfere with operations. I expect you to adjust to my schedule. I’ll answer questions when and if I have time.”
“Fair enough,” he said, after turning the edict over in his mind. “I still have a question on the table—if you have time.” He leaned both elbows on her desk. “The drop in revenue.”
Gaby selected a ledger from the stack, opened it and spun it toward him. “Cash flow is our greatest problem. Unless you’ve had your head buried in the sand, you know the entire nation is staggering under a recession.”
“I know. Don’t forget I started a business recently. The energy crunch hurt tourist-based operations, too. But I’m not talking about items like increased power bills.” He tapped one column with a neatly clipped fingernail. “What caused the revenue loss? Uncle Charles thinks my parents ought to dump this albatross. He said they’ve turned down several solid offers.”
“Margaret and Paul believe the way advertisers have tightened purse strings is only temporary. It’s worth mentioning that Charles is one of the major drains on our revenues,” she said. “He could buy advertising for his restaurant, instead of expecting us to run prime-time ads for free. And his son might work a little harder to bring in new accounts. Jason’s been on the marketing payroll six months and has yet to sign a new client.” She grabbed another book, flipped through pages and smacked it on top of the other. “In January we invested a large chunk of capital in memory TV. Portable microwave. It’s an innovative process capable of storing one or more frames of a signal and it’ll make it possible to broadcast from coast to coast simultaneously. Paul bought the patent. Eventually all stations will need this technology to compete. Charles balked so long we almost lost the deal to a competitor. He resents the fact that Paul had so much authority.”
André’s dark, brooding gaze followed the animated movements of Gabrielle’s hands. “My parents have the controlling stock. If Charles lacks vision and wants out of the business, why don’t they buy out his forty percent and get him off their backs?”
“Ah. It seems you aren’t up on the terms of your grandfather’s will. Both brothers and/or their male descendants have to agree to a sale. Frankly, Margaret believes that family should always remain involved in the business, regardless of commitment or skills. I don’t. Which is why I’m so unpopular,” she added wryly.
“Yet Charles said you take his youngest son, Scott, to the movies and such.”
“Scott’s different. He’s a sweet little kid. Nothing at all like those other two—or that creep, Raymond. Scottie’s a lot younger than the other three. He’s smart and sensitive.” She sounded almost defensive.
André held up his hands. “Hey, you don’t have to apologize for finding one good Lyon in a barrelful of rotten ones.”
“Very funny.” She threw a pink eraser at him. It bounced off his broad shoulder. “You asked. I’m telling the story the way I see it affects WDIX.”
“Mm.” He scooped the eraser off the floor and placed it in the center of her desk. “Enlightening. But it’s only your perspective. I can see I have a lot to learn. Could you provide me with a list of all departments and how they mesh?”
Gaby shouldn’t have been disappointed by his cavalier dismissal of her perspective, as he called it. But she was. For a minute there she thought he might actually be open-minded regarding the negative effect Charles and his brood had on the company. She should have known better, tight as André was with his uncle. Gaby had lived with the Lyon family long enough to have gained some insight into problems that existed long before she came to live at Lyoncrest. She didn’t know everything of course. But none of that really mattered, because Gaby’s allegiance would always lie with the woman who’d taken her in and given her so much more than a home and a job.
Few people knew that Margaret had gone into a most unsavory part of town to pay off Marc Villieux’s accumulated debts for booze, gambling and women. Marc owed men who’d stop at nothing to collect. Men who would have forced Gaby to abort her baby and turn tricks or be killed. She’d seen enough ugliness to make her gladly put in fourteen-hour days to keep this job and see her daughter safe from people like Marc Villieux. Leslie would never experience life as Gaby had.
André snapped his fingers in front of Gabrielle’s vacant stare. She’d left him for a minute there. It shocked him, discovering that he wanted to protect her from whatever had caused that bleak look.
Gabrielle closed the ledgers with a snap. Briskly she extracted a ring of keys from her center desk drawer and unlocked a file cabinet. “Here’s a flowchart and a packet of job descriptions.” She tossed them at André.
“Do we have any openings at present?”
“No. Neither have we laid off anyone. A lot of stations have, so if any experienced people call in, get their résumés.” She rose and pulled out two drawers filled with neat folders. “Résumés fo
r potential department executives are here, filed by technical expertise. There’s also a copy of each one in personnel.” She nearly jumped out of her skin when André whistled through his teeth right next to her ear.
The woodsy scent of his aftershave made her stomach knot unexpectedly. Gaby clenched her fists to ward off the silliest urge to smooth a hand over his stubborn jaw. A jaw already fetchingly in need of a second shave. Paired with his ponytail, it gave André Lyon a roguish look she found far too attractive.
She didn’t want to find anything attractive about him. He’d turned his back on Paul and Margaret once. In Gabrielle’s estimation, the prodigal son had some atoning to do before she’d believe in his right to stand at the helm of Lyon Broadcasting.
She, on the other hand, had spent many long nights at this desk, poring over ideas on how to turn profits around. If she could accomplish her goal of setting the company in the black before the twenty-fifth anniversary celebration, Margaret might put her and not André in charge. To achieve that, she had to stay focused.
André moved closer. He reached around her to riffle through a folder of résumés and whistled again. “You have them in alphabetical order inside each folder. My filing system at the tour office was chaotic. So are my armoire drawers. I’ll bet yours are as orderly as rows of tin soldiers.”
The soft laughter that accompanied an all-too-personal innuendo pinched the breath from Gabrielle’s lungs. “Alphabetical order is pretty standard office procedure,” she managed to say.
“Uh-huh.” He studied her solemnly, his gaze traveling down her crisp suit. His eyes swept up again, lingering a moment too long on the rise and fall of her full breasts. Her blouse shimmered under the light.
Heather-green, Andre thought they called that color. The variegated shades matched the mix of colors creating a storm in Gabrielle Villieux’s hazel eyes.
Ignited by a sudden wave of heat, Gaby tried to step back. She nearly fell over the file drawer she’d left pulled out.
“Whoa! Careful there.” André caught her before she took a tumble. His fingers flexed in the fabric that covered her arms. “I liked your hair better down, the way it was Saturday night,” he blurted, removing half his support as he ran two fingers along the ornamental clasp that held her waist-length hair in a twist at the back of her head. “With the weight of that doodad and your hair, don’t you have a whopping headache by bedtime?”
Not only did Gaby tilt precariously, his nearness made her head spin. “I, ah, André...” She flattened her hands on his chest and wedged a space between them. “My hair is none of your concern. I don’t want to appear rude, but I have a lot of work to do and we keep getting off the subject.”
He stepped back immediately, righting her again. He still had a grip on her arm when Raylene charged through the door, carrying a wire basket heaped with mail. Though she plunked the basket down on Gaby’s desk without a word and proceeded to collect an outgoing stack of letters, her interested gaze bounced between the two of them.
Gaby wrenched herself from André’s hold and hoped the small kick she aimed at his shin wasn’t noticeable to Raylene. Gabrielle could practically hear the wheels spinning in the talkative receptionist’s head. The flush she felt heating her cheeks didn’t help Gaby appear as nonchalant as she would have liked.
Pausing at the door, Raylene turned and wiggled her fingers at André. Then she bestowed Gaby with the barest twitch of a smile and withdrew.
Silence thickened the air left in her wake. Slowly releasing a hiss, Gabrielle slammed the offending file drawer shut. She closed her eyes and massaged the bridge of her nose.
“What was all that about?”
Gaby opened her eyes. “Raylene Miller has dreams of becoming a world-famous television talk-show host. You could say she practices in-house. Which wouldn’t be so bad except that she can’t resist adding a few interesting details to give her news shock value.”
André’s eyes lit up. “How sweet of you to worry about my reputation, Ms. Villieux.”
Gabrielle snorted in a most unladylike fashion before she gave up and allowed an answering snicker. Sharing an office with him might not be so terrible, at that. A person needed comic relief occasionally, and she tended to be far too serious. Her ability to see the humor in situations involving herself had been virtually nonexistent of late. “I can always hope Raylene’s scoop will make the staff quit calling me a workaholic.”
“But you are, aren’t you? That’s what I’d call a person who left the house at 6 a.m. and worked till midnight.”
Gaby’s chin lifted in defiance. “Some nights I leave here at eleven.” An engaging smile broke out again. “Come on.” She gave him a gentle shove toward the door. “If I introduce you around, it’s bound to steal part of Raylene’s thunder. I expect you’ll be here a few weeks before you meet everyone, though. Reporters are out on field assignments. News, production and sales all work split shifts.”
André fell in behind her, his focus locked on the trim feet and ankles that navigated swiftly in spite of T-strapped shoes with the highest heels he’d ever seen.
Gabrielle stopped suddenly and he plowed into her. “Lock the door, will you? By the way, how did you get in today?”
“Surely you don’t expect me to reveal my sources.” André waggled his brows before he turned back and engaged the lock.
“So Margaret gave you her key?”
André, enjoying her pique immensely, shook his head. He believed she would have continued interrogating him if two women hadn’t grabbed Gaby and boxed her in. One a platinum blonde trying to look like Marilyn Monroe, the other a sleek-as-a-peacock brunette.
“Gabrielle,” the brunette said, pouting. “Miles promised a week ago that I could interview Donny and Marie Osmond the morning of their concert. Now I find out he’s scheduled them with Chatty Cathy at five.”
The Marilyn look-alike flew at the brunette. Gaby caught the hand with its curved burgundy nails before she did major damage.
“Tiff always makes snide remarks as if ‘Breakfast with Tiffany’ has more class than ‘Chat with Cathy.’ She’s such a bitch,’ declared the blonde.
The brunette might have responded in kind but she suddenly caught sight of André. “Well, hel-lo! You look familiar. Some one worth interviewing, I’m sure.” She fingered his jacket. “I’m Tiffany Edwards. I’m sure you’ve seen my morning show.’ Never taking her eyes off André, she murmured, ”I want to book this man, Gaby. Let Cathy interview the entire singing Osmon clan.”
Gaby was amused for all of ten seconds—until Cathy attache herself to André’s other arm and, instead of shrugging the ladie off, he boosted his charm. For two cents, she’d leave him to hi fate. Or she would have, if something resembling jealousy hadn’t niggled.
Deciding to play by their rules, she pried both women away “Tiffy and Cathy, I have it on good authority,” she purred marching them down the hall, “that he’s a member of the family.” Gaby rolled her eyes toward André. Could she help it i these two nitwits believed he’d blown into town on the coattail of the mob?
They took somber peeks at him before Gabrielle hustled ther around a corner.
“What did you say about me?” André asked when she re turned and led him in the opposite direction.
She smiled benignly. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” He sounded skeptical. “It’s not my imagination They looked at me as if I were some notorious swamp mur derer.”
“That’s very good. Too bad I didn’t think of it. In a way swamp creature is more appropriate for you than what I dreamed up.”
“So you did warn them off. Come on—give.”
Gaby laughed up at him. “How you malign me. I said yo belonged to the family. I suppose they could have gotten th wrong impression—particularly when I mentioned that we were on our way to see Vic Napier. He’s the assistant news director.’ She batted her eyes the way Tiffany had. ”Well, I’d never take you for a hit man. But then, Vic’s running an exposé on
Mafi activity in town.”
André reared back. “You didn’t!”
Gabrielle tried but couldn’t contain her glee. “You should thank me, Lyon. Ask any man who works here. Those two are bona fide sharks.”
André enjoyed the joke with her. They were still laughing when a harried, balding man burst from an office, practically bowling Gabrielle over.
“Whoa, George. What’s your rush?”
He bobbed a blue film canister past her nose. “I borrowed this tape from McKillop at WEZY for our noon news. I promised I’d have it back to him before six. I don’t have time to drive across town. I’m going to ask Raylene if she’ll deliver it.”
Gabrielle glanced at her watch. “I think you missed her. She’s got a three-o’clock dental appointment. If you’re really tight for time, I’ll drop the film off. By the way, this is André Lyon. You’ll be seeing a lot of him. André, meet George Collins, our film manager.”
André shook the man’s hand. “You have a fun job. Provided you get to preview new segments of the ‘Planet of the Apes’ series.”
Gaby made a face. “I won’t let Leslie watch that program.”
“You’d better warn Rachel,” he said as she tucked the canister under her arm and waved at the departing film manager. “Rach got me hooked,” he said. “They didn’t have television at home. Took me a while to realize she’d pop by asking for help with her homework every night there was a new ape episode.”
“You actually helped her with schoolwork?”
“I did graduate from college.”
She started to say something sarcastic but had a change of heart. “You just seem so...I don’t know. Too much of a jock to spend time helping a kid crack the books.”
“A jock?” André mulled that over while Gaby introduced him around another department. An hour later, as they made their way back to their office, he was still trying to figure out if she liked jocks or not. He could speculate till hell froze over. If he wanted to know, he’d obviously have to ask.
The Lyon Legacy Page 13