Executive Sweetie

by Carolyn Foulkes

  She stood, waiting for the short, thickset man with thinning hair to invite her to sit. When the invitation didn’t come she lowered her tall, thin frame into the chair directly across from him. An errant thought flew into her mind: this Simon Ferraro looked like a fireplug wearing a suit. Now, where would the fireman stick his hose?

  “We have a problem,” Simon stated abruptly. Darcy was immediately confused. She’d known of Ferraro for several years, but had never had a personal conversation.

  “I’m sorry, what sort of...problem?” Her voice quavered, as much from being intimidated by the 34th floor office overlooking midtown Manhattan as finding her way through the maze of offices to Ferraro’s corner aerie.

  Ferraro was in his early 30s, buttoned down from his white shirt to his suit that probably cost what Darcy made in a week’s salary. She wondered what magic had propelled him to a senior vice president’s spot at headquarters.

  “I understand you never actually graduated college,” he said evenly. “Human Resources says you lied on your application.” He stared up at her from behind the desk, challenging her for an answer.

  “Of course I graduated. I mean, I don’t have a diploma, but it was only because....”

  “No diploma. I guess that sums it all up.”

  “My God, I never completed the swimmin’ requirement. A stupid swimmin’ test!” She shrieked out the last words before controlling herself. “But I began grad school. There was no problem. No one ever questioned me.”

  Simon held up his hand. “I want us to have a clear understanding, Darcy. No misunderstandings.” He waved his finger toward the door, dismissing her. “Oh,” he said to her retreating back, “I expect your weekly activity report on my desk first thing every Monday. Ship shape. No misunderstandings. Go.”

  She was shaking as she took the elevator down 10 floors. Darcy was slim, with high breasts balanced by broad hips, and as well-tailored as a meager budget allowed. But every muscle in her body was as tense as a racehorse at the gate. This was not what she expected!

  “Who is that fuck head?” Darcy demanded of the editorial assistant she had inherited with the job.

  Andrew Vrohovak dropped his feet from the desk, put away his cell phone and smiled wolfishly. “I presume you’re referring to the counterfeit executive, Simon Ferraro. He was kicked upstairs from the skunk works in Massachusetts. A big screw-up there, but his daddy’s on our board of directors.” Andrew leaned back and laughed. “After he screwed me out of a raise, the guys in the Mail Room asked if I wanted them to break his legs.” His mouth puckered as he seemed to think. “Maybe I’ll ask them to break a pinky finger.”

  “Just do me a favor and wrap up the rest of those stories for the company paper.” Her voice was filled with dejection and disgust as she returned to her office. Would it be worth the salary increase having to be subjected to a shithead boss? Was it worth commuting to New York and leaving her comfortable office and friends in Jersey?

  “Darcy, my dear,” Andrew shifted his hip in her doorway, “pay no attention to the assholes at Metropolitan Publishing. Some of us are quite civilized.” He blew a kiss. “And, I meant to ask you, where’d you get that lovely jacket? Saks or Bloomies?”

  “Macy’s, you jerk.” And she tried to laugh.

  Four of them were sitting around a table in the back of PJ Clarke’s on Third Avenue. The smell of beer and forbidden cigarette smoke was exciting and alien. Darcy didn’t feel up to drinks on an empty stomach, but Andrew had insisted on partying, bringing another male friend from Accounting and balancing the gender mix with a mid-40s woman in Information Technology who was regaling them with her cabaret patter.

  “So,” the techie asked, “I challenge you to tell me, if a cannibal eats a clown, will he think it tastes funny?” She was ripping off one-after another. “If a cop arrests a mime on Fifth Avenue, does he have a right to remain silent?”

  “Private gathering that’s planning a coup or can I join you?”

  Darcy looked up as a man in a dark suit put a hand on her chair back. “I think you’re Darcy McManus,” he said looking down, “I just want to welcome you aboard at HQ. I’m Alex Werner, the guy who tries to make our outfit profitable.”

  “Mr. Werner,” Andrew said, getting up. “It’s an honor. Join us, please.”

  Darcy was surprised to see an officer of the company who looked like he’d stepped out of Rolling Stone magazine. Business was usually the place where old, ugly white guys became stars. This guy was of medium height with a shock of blond hair that threatened to fall over his forehead.

  “Darcy, I heard great things about you from our people in New Jersey.” She let his warm, dry hand linger in hers for a moment longer than was necessary. “Your presentation to our HR Director knocked them out on top of the division president weeping over your loss as a speechwriter. Something about John Paul Jones, was it?”

  Darcy laughed self-consciously. “I was tryin’ to explain how important corporate communications is. During the Revolutionary War, Jones’s ship was bein’ shot to pieces. A wounded sailor heard his captain say those words, and said, ‘What we have here is a failure to communicate.’”

  When she finished, she wondered self-consciously if the lame-ass joke should have been dropped. The others at the table ha-ha-ed politely, but Werner laughed so hard he began choking. “A drink,” he said. “Somebody give this man a drink.”

  “I also told the HR Director that bad communication was like peeing while wearing a blue serge suit. It gives you a nice warm feeling and no one notices.” This did break up the gathering and Andrew called for another round of drinks.

  The chatter regained its momentum, congenial and of no consequence. Darcy allowed herself one more glass of wine before the other three excused themselves. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea,” she said deferentially to the company’s CEO. “I mean, about your staff going out getting snockered during the week.”

  “I don’t worry. The only thing that counts is getting the job done, thinking clearly and believing in the work we’re all doing.” He put his hand on her arm. “I face an average of three crises a day, so whether someone lets off steam....”

  “Mr. Werner....”

  “It’s Alex. Please. I’m not much for formality either.”

  “Okay, Alex. If I seem to be in a bad mood, it’s ‘cause I’m still steamed that my boss called me into his office complainin’ I lied about graduatin’ college six years ago. Our first meetin’! Just because....”

  “That’s Simon, right? I’m aware of your credentials. If you promise never to tell anyone, I placed about last in my graduating class at Colgate. My grandpa told me the secret of success is that there’ll always be people richer, or better looking, or better connected than me, but I can always outwork ‘em. Good advice, Darcy. And with that, I’ll leave you and catch a cab back uptown.”

  She felt warm with gratitude. There were some appreciative people on earth, perhaps even at Metropolitan.

  “Congrats on the promotion,” he added. “By the way, I love your Jersey accent - and I’ll get the check on the way out.”

  Metropolitan was a tangle of small subsidiaries, with a hodgepodge of loyalties from the rash of recent tuck-under acquisitions that had never been fully absorbed into Metropolitan’s culture. By the end of the week, Darcy had drafted a strategic communications plan that called for print newsletters, an intranet to blanket the company, feedback mechanisms and - most important - a schedule of employee meetings that would take senior management to each of the key offices.

  “Do you have a budget for this?” Simon asked, tossing the three-page plan on his desk.

  “The figures are estimated, subject to bids for printin’ and stuff, but I’ve never been told what my....”

  “You assume a lot, Darcy. And you think you can take a CEO out of the office to walt
z him around the country? Who do you think is running the company? And, there’s another item I want to bring to your attention. Your dress and demeanor....”

  “Excuse me, but before we get off topic, is this plan acceptable? Will you buy into it and present it to the senior people?” She had summoned up every bit of guts she had to confront Simon.

  He sat up straight with an open mouth. “You’re telling me to stay ‘on topic’! You’re not in this office to correct me. Which leads me to what I want to tell you. I’ve had my eye on you. Your clothing is provocative, your behavior and tone are lascivious, your anatomy is a crime against nature. Now, don’t even think about crying ‘sexual harassment.’ I’m talking bona fide occupational qualifications. No man in this office is able to concentrate when you....”

  Darcy slapped her open palm on Ferraro’s desk. “Stop right there! Just stop. My wardrobe and my body have nothin’ to do with my work or your comments. I am an experienced, credentialed, educated professional hired to do a job. Do not ever - ever! - parade your personal biases in front of me again.”

  She stalked to the door. “And I expect a fair hearin’ on my proposal.”

  Betty Simmons was an older woman sitting at the desk outside Ferraro’s office. She looked up, smiled briefly, then her hand rose with fingers extended in a V for victory sign. “You go, girl,” she said softly.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen anyone white with anger,” Andrew said. “But, you are it. What did Simon Legree say?”

  Darcy looked up, blotted her nose and stuffed her handkerchief back in a pocket. “Andrew, am I provocative? Lascivious?”

  Andrew slapped his forehead. “Darcy, you are very, very attractive, and if had a thing for girls I’d’ve jumped your bones your first day on the job.”

  “I’m not talking attractive. I said, am I lascivious - and go look it up if the word confuses you.”

  “Well, noooo. But Frank - the fellow with us Monday night - he said you were the epitome of tits on sticks. I’d take that as a compliment.”

  The next month was the longest Darcy felt she’d ever experienced, but the fatigue from working 10- and 12-hour days was mitigated as she sat in Alex Werner’s corner office editing notes for his presentation to employees.

  “I want to make sure our guys recognize they’re ‘associates’ - not employees,” he emphasized. “Everyone brings unique talents to the company.”

  “I was goin’ to have you introduce a little humor. Just so they’re not too, too in awe of you. Perhaps somethin’ like ‘Be glad you have so many problems to face each day. Otherwise we might need only half as many people.’”

  “Darcy, that’s the dumbest joke I’ve ever heard. I don’t want to scare the bejesus out of these people.”

  She shrugged an apology.

  “You’re tired, aren’t you?” he asked. His left hand, the one with no wedding band, knuckled into a fist and softly punched her long brunette hair, bringing a smile to her face.

  “Little a bit.” In turn, her hand reached out involuntarily to run lightly down his arm, barely feeling the tickle of the hairs under his rolled up sleeve, loving the silkiness of his skin. Was his chest hairy, or his back, she wondered. His wrists were thick, and she knew other managers jockeyed to play golf with him and envied his six handicap. He obviously kept in physical shape, but anything like muscles would have been out of character for this entrepreneur whose name appeared in Forbes and Business Week. As she stared into his brown eyes, she ruminated over what it would feel like to be in bed with him and feel him slide over her body to cover it, protect it, define it with his cock.

  She flushed. Stop it, she told herself.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “I was thinkin’ lewd thoughts, Totally inappropriate. I’m sorry.”

  Alex’s hand moved down to cup her ear, and then slid to her chin as he leaned over to drop a kiss on her mouth. It happened so quickly she wondered if she’d imagined it. “That’s just a sign of appreciation, Darcy. Pax. Peace. For your long hours and commitment.”

  She wanted to make the kiss continue, to let her tongue probe his mouth and to let her hands roam over Alex’s body. “This is not good,” she exhaled. “There’s a policy. Or somethin’ in the handbook about fraternizin’ with employees.”

  “Let’s stop for the day. We’re both tired. We can think - seriously - about what’s happening and, if it’s agreeable later, take it to the next step.” He kissed her once again, quickly. “Get a good night’s rest.”

  “You look more tired than I feel.”

  “Well, yeah. One of the day’s crises. Metropolitan Publishing is being given the Grizzly Bear Hug.”

  Her blue eyes widened and her eyebrows made little parentheses of inquiry.

  “Bellwether Media is making a hostile takeover offer,” he explained. “Now, listen, you can’t ever breathe a word. The Securities & Exchange Commission would nail our balls to the wall if anything got out before it’s public knowledge. Now go.”

  Simon had summoned her, and in disgust she closed out the document in her computer to take the elevator upstairs.

  “Yes?” she asked after Betty told her to go right in.

  “Not now. Later. Something just came up.” Simon pushed back his chair and dashed out the door and down the hall to the CEO’s office.

  “What the hell?” Darcy muttered.

  Betty stopped her on the way out. “Darcy, be a dear and put this fax on Simon’s desk. My arthritis is killing me.”

  Not recognizing the strange look in Betty’s eyes, she took the paper and did a 180 to return to the office. That’s when the letterhead of a well-known brokerage firm at the top of the fax caught her eye. The letter was a confirmation of Simon Ferraro’s trade for 4,000 shares of Bellwether stock, bought on margin. She tossed the paper on his desk and ran the numbers in her head. Four thousand at $38 a share was over a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. “Wow,” she whispered, and went back to her office. Where had she heard Bellwether’s name? Then she remembered Alex’s caution about the takeover manipulations.

  “What’s buying on margin mean?” she asked Andrew.

  “Like stocks? It means you put down about ten percent and pay the rest when the margin call comes in.”

  “If you’re free, I’d like to buy you a drink,” the text message said. “And, later, dinner.” There was no signature, but the return address had come from werner176 at an AOL account. It had to be Alex using his personal e-mail account.

  “I’m not free, but I don’t cost much,” she replied, wondering if her response was over-the-top cute as she hit “send.”

  He was waiting for her in front of PJ Clarke’s. Hesitating for a moment, she saw an unspoken indication that told her he wanted to kiss her, to let him know there had been no missed signal in his office three nights earlier.

  “I don’t carry much cash,” he said, “but I’m willing to pay anything for a chance to talk.”

  “Oh, my God, I was kiddin’! I must’ve sounded like such a whore!”

  “I got the joke, Darcy. Not a problem.”

  “But I have to ask somethin’.” She put the flat of her hand on his chest. “Don’t be pissed, but is there a Mrs. Werner?”

  “My wife left me two years ago. We were just oil and water.”

  “Children?”

  “No, we couldn’t have kids, which may have been part of the problem.”

  “I’m more of a vinegar type. Oil and vinegar go together well, on salads and such.”

  “You know, you say the damnedest things in the fewest number of words.”

  “For a high-priced salad dressing,” she laughed.

  “Then can I suggest skipping the bar and cabbing up to my place? I have a chef make up catered meals and put them in the fridge. We can choose t
he menu and open a bottle of Montepulciano d’Abruzzo.”

  She tucked her arm through his and said, “Lead on. I don’t speak Italian.”

  In fact, her arm barely left his as the car took them up to East 60s. A doorman nodded them in, and he ushered her into a classic pre-war apartment filled with inviting davenports, inlaid tables, oil paintings on the wall, and a vase of fresh flowers in the foyer.

  “Alex,” she exhaled, “I’m totally jazzed! This is beautiful.”

  “Thanks, it was my late mother’s place and I haven’t thought to redecorate. I’m more of a mid-century modern kind of guy. Anyway, I’m glad my gestures in the office weren’t misinterpreted. Glad to have found you. Glad....”

  Her fingers went to his lips to shush him. “You’re Mr. Wonderful and I have to admit I’m becoming a teensy bit infatuated.”

  “I can’t believe there’s no one knocking your door begging to be invited in, wanting to embrace you, to spirit you away to wherever.”

  “What do you mean, wherever? A castle? A sublet in Hoboken? Alex, I’m realistic. There is no other Prince Charming. I’m a 28 year old career woman with an anemic 401(k).”

  “I’m the 39-year-old co-founder of Metropolitan who loves media and publishing so much I haven’t taken time to search out companionship, let alone love. Thirty-nine doesn’t make me too old, does it?”

  “Well, I heard a guy should go with a woman who’s half his age plus seven, so that means I’m...hmmm. I’m a year and a half too old for you.”

  Both of those warm, dry hands framed her face and he leaned over to kiss her. His aftershave or cologne and his sandpapery cheeks were overwhelmingly inviting. This time, she was able to put her tongue deep into his throat and simultaneously slip his jacket from his shoulders. His body was warm and taut with tension.