Winning Alex: The Cameron Family Saga

by Shirley Larson

  Winning Alex

  The Cameron Family Saga

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to persons living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright c 2015 by Shirley Larson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored on a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission by the author.

  Published by Shirley Larson

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 1

  Strange, isn’t it? Just when we think we have the world by the tail, fate slaps us upside the head and we end up a light year away from where we’d been. I used to wear Michael Held dresses and Jimmy Choo shoes and hit a security code to enter my own private office. Now I dress for work in a black uniform with my yellow name tag that says Susan, don’t bother with eyeshadow on my brown eyes, and put my brown hair up in a ponytail. Then I walk five blocks to spend my day behind a stainless steel counter serving coffee.

  I have the morning routine down to a science. I scuff out to my kitchenette in my paint peeling-off-the-wall apartment and put the coffee on. Then I jump in the shower, pull on my work outfit, pour my pitch black coffee into a paper cup, grab a diet bar and I’m off, hiking to work in the chilly pre-dawn darkness. I cover those five blocks in a race walk. I never do it without my can of pepper spray in one gloved hand, my hot coffee in the other and my heart in my throat. As you might have guessed, the neighborhood I live in is a little…iffy.

  I push through the glass doors to the shop, always with a huge sense of relief at arriving in the well-lit business tower that is in downtown Rochester, New York. I tell my boss Bob hi and don my apron. Then I begin the job of readying the shop for the day. I jockey pails of water around to dump into the big coffee urns, change the menu board if it needs to be changed, and put out the creamers, napkins and the containers with the toss away stirrers. All that stuff is routine, and by now, I can do it in my sleep. Which at four in the morning, I pretty much am.

  I’m not a barista and don’t plan to become one. I learned how to serve the customers from Bob. If you think it’s easy to work in a coffee shop, think again. It’s like any other job where you work with people.

  The customers start at six thirty, trooping down from the walkway that’s connected to the parking lot. They swing in through the glass door to stand in line. People used to be more impatient queuing up. Now they’re on their phone or their electronic reader or into their world of social media. Makes it easier for me since they are all occupied and not shooting angry glances at me to show they think I’m the slowest server in the world. The down side to that is, they may still be on the phone when it’s their turn, and they hold up one finger to you to indicate that they need to finish their conversation before they can give you their order. Because you are, after all, there to serve them. And never mind the people waiting behind them.

  Most of the regulars are more savvy and easier to wait on. They know me by name of course, since I wear that name tag. I know them as decaf latte, caramel cream small, mocha Grande, well, you get the picture. It’s gotten so it’s a game. It started by accident when I looked up and saw this darkly handsome guy…he had to be a business exec, but he looked more like he could have been a marauding pirate in another life…and I was a little rattled because he is, well, he‘s good-looking and well dressed, but it‘s more than that. There is something about him that is just so…right. It’s as if he knows there is trouble in the world and he’s faced it and accepted it as part of living. I know that’s crazy, but you look in those dark eyes, you know they are full of things you‘d really like to talk to him about. Anyway, as I said I was rattled and I called him by his coffee choice, Yes, Mr. Regular Black? I was horribly embarrassed but he just gave me that strange smile he has, like it’s an outside smile, not an inside smile. He didn’t say anything, which is pretty normal for him. He can do the whole transaction without saying a word to me. The amazing part is he always leaves a five dollar tip for a three dollar cup of coffee. When I empty the tip jar, I always think fondly of Mr. Pirate Man.

  Anyway, on that day of my giant faux pas, the next guy in line said, “Okay Susan, who am I?”

  “You’re ’make it a tall Brazilian blend cause I got a hard day ahead‘.” This guy, who was a suit, you know, a corporate exec like the Black Pirate, just laughed. They didn’t know it but once I was like them, full of myself, thinking life was my oyster. And probably just as rude to the gal behind the coffee counter. Not anymore. What’s that old saying, walk a mile in another girl’s moccasins?

  It got to be a shtick that I did every morning and of course Bob loved it because it brought in more customers, especially guys. But on this gloomy Thursday, the Black Pirate paid for his coffee, put his money in the tip jar and then shocked me out of my shoes by saying, “I’d like to talk to you, Susan. When do you take your break?”

  “I can‘t say exactly,” not sure I wanted to. Behind the counter, I was safe from his piratical charm. Standing anywhere close to him, his attraction was way more magnetic. “It just depends on when the rush lets up.”

  “Maybe around ten-thirty?” He had that look on his face of absolute assurance, as if his saying the time made it a done deal.

  Oh, boy. He stood there in his charcoal gray Armani suit with that black, black hair and those blue, blue eyes and he gazed at me with that intense concentration that made me extremely nervous. Why on earth would he want to talk to me? “That’s possible, but I…”

  Bob came out wiping his hands on his apron. He’d been doing dishes in the back, but he has an intercom so he can hear what goes on up front.

  “Mr. Cameron, you want to talk to Susan, you got her. I’ll take over here.”

  “I don’t know exactly how long we’ll be,” the pirate said, who I now knew was one of the Cameron brothers. Cameron, Inc. had a suite on the top floor of this building. The three Cameron men bought, renovated and sold properties all over the world and they had amassed several fortunes.

  I came out from behind the counter, and, as if he had the right to do so, Mr. Cameron put a hand on my back just above the bow of my apron. I could feel that warm palm right down to my toes. He steered me out of the shop toward the elevator.

  “We’ll go up and talk in my office, if you don’t mind.”

  “Would it matter if I did?” I surprised myself by sounding annoyed. I didn’t like being blindsided. Since when was pirate man such good friends with Bob?

  “No.” He surprised me by sounding amused.

  Well, at least he was honest. We stepped into the elevator and, as if he no longer had to worry about losing me, he dropped his hand and stood beside me. I swallowed a couple of times. He said office. Office was good. He was unlikely to do unspeakable things to me in his office. Mores the pity

  As we ascended alone in that elevator, I stood beside him, catching whiffs of the expensive scent he wore and staring down at his expensive shoes. Most of all my mind was whirling with questions. What did the black pirate, sorry, Mr. Cameron, want with me?

  After we went through the door that had Cameron, Inc. in gold letters, we ran the gauntlet past the cubicles. A guy popped his head up, another woman swiveled her desk chair around to stare at the strange sight of Alex Cameron escorting an
apron-wearing coffee server to his office. The woman rolled her eyes and the guy wore a smirk. What did they think I was there for, fantasy sex? Come on, people, get real.

  When we went through the door that said Alex Cameron in silver letters, there was a huge secretary’s desk turned at a right angle. The chair behind the desk was empty. No receptionist. We went straight through.

  He said, “Have a seat” and he gestured at a maroon leather side chair with nail studs outlining the back. I had been lusting after just such a masculine chair I’d seen on line. Way out of my price range. The chair was placed in front of his desk, a wide expanse of mahogany roughly the size of the Sargasso Sea covered with neatly stacked piles of paper. A discreet upside down glance as I settled into the chair told me they were offers on property with scrawled signatures on the bottom. The room was bordered with shelves of books. I saw titles like, Property: Principles and Policies, and Understanding Property Law by John G. Sprankling, alongside The Complete Works of Shakespeare and the Critique of Pure Reason by Immanuel Kant. Rather an eclectic reader, Mr. Cameron.

  “I see by that tiny frown between your brows you are wondering about my library. Are you always so observant?”

  “Sorry. It’s a habit I picked up. If you want to know a man, look at the books he reads. Or at least the ones he has on his shelf. The property tomes I understand. Shakespeare, almost everybody has. Immanuel Kant, hardly anybody has.”

  He gave me that slight smile that acknowledged the truth of my assessment. “My father was a professor of English and philosophy. I brought a few of his books from the family home to my office. I like…having them here. I even read them on occasion.”

  “You must have a lot of respect for your father. Is he still teaching?”

  “No. He died several years ago.”

  “I’m very sorry.”

  “Thank you.” Another person wouldn’t have noticed the change in his face but I did. His features grew taut with control, as if he didn’t want me to see how much he still mourned the loss of his father. That alteration in his expression made me think he might be human after all.

  Instead of taking his place in the chair behind the desk, he hitched up his trouser leg and perched on the desk corner. Which put him far too close to me. I suddenly went from sympathy to trepidation. I seemed to be having trouble breathing.

  “Do you enjoy working in a coffee shop?”

  Of all the things I expected him to say, that wasn‘t it. What did it matter to him whether I enjoyed my work? I said, “Like any job, it has its good points and its bad. I enjoy seeing the people every day. I don’t enjoy getting up at four in the morning. And I don‘t enjoy having people look down at me because I serve them coffee.”

  I couldn’t tell whether he liked my answer or not. He just sat there studying me with those darkly blue eyes. I had a feeling that, if he wanted to, he could plumb the depths of my soul.

  “Do you see yourself working there in ten years?”

  Okay. I didn‘t know what his game was, but I‘d had enough. He was so sure of himself and his ability to pry into my life. Did he expect me to sit here and expose my psyche to him while he stayed safe behind that expressionless mask of his? I stood up, which brought me eye to eye with him. “Mr. Cameron. I’m the kind of woman who doesn’t answer surveys, either on the telephone or in the store. I don’t enter contests because they ask too many questions. I keep my private life private. I’m not even on Facebook.” I had a reason for that which I wasn’t going to share with him. “My goals in life shouldn’t be any concern of yours. Now if you‘ll excuse me…”

  “Sit down, Susan.” His tone was calm, but I resented it just the same. Then he said, “Please.” When I eased back into the chair, he said, “I thought you understood that this is my attempt at an informal interview for a job as my assistant. What is that old saying? If you don’t know what I’m doing, I must not be doing it right.” His lips lifted in that half smile I was now beginning to know quite well.

  His attempt at appeasing me with that lame, old-fashioned humor almost made me feel sorry for him. “Shouldn’t you be giving me an application form to fill out?”

  “I should,” he said. “But I’m not. What did you do before you got scooped up in Bob Bleeker’s net?”

  I thought that was an odd way to put it. But now we were in dangerous territory. My heart sank. “I worked as an assistant-accountant.”

  “Why did you quit your job?”

  I wanted to say I was downsized, or I didn’t like the work, or I had a sick mother. But something about the way he looked at me made me feel he already knew the reason I had parted company with Kensington and Son, Inc. This wasn’t a random spur of the moment interview. This was too carefully planned. He’d done his homework. Too bad he hadn’t given me a chance to do mine.

  I straightened in my chair a little. It was always hard to bring out the memory. “My married boss wanted me to…to have sex with him.” I hated saying those words. Even though it really wasn‘t my fault, I felt like victims always do, that I was somehow to blame that Myer Kensington had chosen me to be his next sexual conquest. “He threatened to fire me if I didn’t comply.”

  “Why didn’t you bring a sexual harassment suit against him?”

  “Another woman had already brought a suit against him and lost. I thought it was easier just to quit. But I didn’t realize how vindictive he could be. He contacted several other firms where I might have found employment and told them I drank and used drugs.”

  “In other words, he was a total ass. You must have been furious with him.

  Unwillingly, I remembered those first days after I had walked away from Kensington‘s. I‘d felt utterly lost. I’d always seen myself as a working woman. I‘d never envisioned myself as a wife with children all around. I‘d always wanted a career. Now my career was gone.

  “I was at first. But then I decided to leave him to the universe. And in the end, the universe took my revenge for me. His wife finally decided she’d had enough. She left him and took her money with her. The last I knew his accountant firm was floundering. I thought I’d work for Bob at the coffee shop gig for a while and sort of…heal before I tried to jump back into the corporate world.”

  “And have you?” He raised one eyebrow.

  “Have I what? Jumped?” His terse questions were starting to annoy me.

  “Healed.”

  “I think so. It’s all due to you, you know.”

  “Me?” For the first time, he looked slightly disconcerted. Good.

  “You were the first customer I called by your coffee name. From there it escalated.”

  “Bob told me his business has tripled.”

  “We have been kept pretty busy but I doubt if it‘s because of me. It’s November and the iced tea people are switching to hot coffee.”

  He gave me that half smile in appreciation for my attempt at modesty. “If Bob’s business has picked up, it’s entirely due to you…and your phenomenal memory.”

  “I’m not sure that’s true, but if he wants to give me credit for a business surge, I’ll take it.”

  “If you don’t see yourself being a bright spot in Bob’s Coffee Shop for the next several years, I wonder if you’d like to work for me.”

  I‘d already decided I didn‘t want to be stuck in a cubicle doing grunt work. I probably wasn‘t in a position to be picky, but I had the right to at least find out what kind of job he had in mind for me. “Doing what?”

  “Pretty much the same thing you did at Kensington’s. You’ll be my personal assistant, which will involve learning more about our property business. Since I am responsible for monies incoming and outgoing for our company, your accountant background will be very useful.”

  Still I hesitated. You know that old saying, if you think it’s too good to be true, it usually is.

  He went around to the back of his desk chair and pushed it in so he could stand behind it. Backlit as he was by the window, it was more difficult to see the
expression on his face. Did he do that on purpose? Oh, yeah, I think so. His voice was smooth and calm and still had that you‘d-better-listen-to-what-I-have-to-say tone. “Before you make a decision, I have to tell you that you’ll be working ten hour days and sometimes longer. Your social life will be severely curtailed. Because I may need you beyond normal working hours and on an occasional weekend, your starting salary will be eighty thousand dollars.”

  I nearly choked. I stared at his shadowed outline thinking I must have heard incorrectly. I wanted desperately to get up out of my chair and move where I could see his face. “That’s a great deal of money.”

  “You’ll be earning it.”

  My bank account had taken a real hit since I’d left Kensington’s. Right now, I was blowing through my savings. The money I made at the coffee shop, ninety dollars a week, didn’t cover the rent I paid for my rickety apartment. I still thought there was some catch, there had to be. “I’ll have to give Bob two weeks’ notice.”

  “I’ve arranged everything with him. You’re to start tomorrow.”

  “You don’t waste any time, do you?”

  “I deal in acquisition of property. If you see something you want, you have to act quickly.”

  I didn’t particularly like being compared to a piece of property. But I suppose that was what I was to him, another cog in the machine of Cameron, Inc.

  He said, “Do you have any questions for me?”

  “Could you tell me exactly what my duties would be?”

  “Your duties will be varied. You’ll read contracts, check estimates on contractor work, research local properties at the courthouse, out of town properties on the internet. I may ask you to go and record deeds. At other times I’ll need you to look at properties, give me your opinion on them.”

  “I don’t know anything about buying property.”

  He gave me the look then, as if I were an obstinate child who was being unreasonable. “It isn’t rocket science, Miss Zalinsky. It’s more a matter of common sense. I’m sure you’ll be up to speed in no time.”