And he wanted this little workaholic. Why, she was half a dyke! Mary-Beth glared at Rose.
She wondered if there was any way to get back at her …
*
Rose worked tirelessly. She sat in White’s office, as usual, taking notes, but excused herself every chance she got. She’d been assigned a little cubicle in front of Mary-Beth’s desk, and she sat in there shoveling photocopied documents into the briefcase she’d brought with her.
There were coffee breaks, a lunch hour.… She snuck off down the hall to the filing room whenever she could. Rose cursed herself for being lazy. She should have done this copying before now, but she hadn’t wanted to attract attention, and she’d thought she’d have much longer at Rothstein. Supervising the Rego Park deal was not something she’d be able to do after hours …
“Excuse me.”
Rose spun around, flushed with guilt. Shit. She’d been working too feverishly, had gotten careless about checking to see that the coast was clear.
Mary-Beth stood there, her arms folded across her chest, one sky-high heel tapping away furiously.
“I’m just wondering what y’all are doing in here.”
Rose froze for just a second.
“I’m getting some stuff for Jacob Rothstein,” she said.
Mary-Beth sniffed. She didn’t believe her for a second, but what could she say? Just in case it was true.
“I’m going to have to report this to Mr. White,” she said, and pirouetted away.
Shit. Shit. Rose had over thirty confidential leasing agreements in her briefcase, including names and addresses of some of Rothstein’s biggest customers. Hurriedly she snatched up her latest batch of papers and stuffed them into the briefcase.
Then she stood and thought.
Come on, Rose. Come up with something. Fast.
She raced back to her cubicle. White’s door was open; she could see Mary-Beth in there, gesticulating wildly to her boss. White was looking angry, standing up …
Rose went over to Mary-Beth’s desk and flipped through the company directory. Rothstein, Rothstein … here he was …
She punched in his direct number and crossed her fingers.
Please be there. Please be there …
“Jacob Rothstein.”
Rose breathed out. “Jacob, I need your help … it’s Richard White … can you get him off my back?”
“What?”
“I can’t explain right now, but I will in a second.”
“Rose, I don’t interfere in employee things,” Jake said flatly.
“Jacob…”
White was at the door now. He was frowning thunderously at her. “What the goddamn hell are you doing on the company phone, missy?”
“I’m just talking with Jacob,” Rose said sweetly, covering the receiver with one hand.
“With Jacob Rothstein?”
She saw White hesitate.
“Hand me the phone,” he snapped.
“Mr. White wants to speak to you, Mr. Rothstein,” Rose said demurely.
“Rose…” Jake sighed. “Put him on. You’d better have a real good explanation for this.”
Rose handed White the phone, and stepped back.
“She was sneaking about in the file room,” White almost bellowed. “My girl caught her…”
Rose flushed a rich, hot red. Her fingers clamped around her briefcase. The executive fell silent.
“She was? Oh, she was.” He glanced murderously at Rose. “If you say so, Jacob. Sure, I’ll send her right up.”
White hung the phone up.
“He wants to see you. And in future, if you need to do something for Mr. Rothstein, clear it with me first. We have a chain of command in these offices, Rose. Don’t think you can make an end-run around me.”
“Yes, sir,” said Rose meekly. “Sorry, sir.”
She grabbed her case, and ran to the elevators. So much for seeing out the week; she wouldn’t be coming back here.
One down, one to go.
The lift was mercifully empty. As soon as the doors hissed shut, Rose dropped the case, stepped out of her shoes, and ripped off her hose and panties as fast as she could. Fumbling, she stuffed the hose into a pocket of her knee-length, bias-cut skirt, and then dropped the snatch of caramel-colored lace into the top of her briefcase.
She had just managed to get it closed when the doors hissed open and she almost jumped out of her skin.
Jacob was standing there. And he looked furiously angry.
“Come here.”
Rothstein grabbed her by the arm. His grip was strong, almost painful. He hustled her into his office, past a gloating Ella, and slammed the door.
“I can’t have this, Rose. I don’t run my office that way. Favoritism.” He passed a hand through his hair, his eyes glinting with fury. “I don’t want people pulling out their influence with me, bullying my employees, especially a senior vice-president. You may not like him, but he’s been here years and he—”
“Jake. I couldn’t let him see what I was putting in the briefcase.”
“You shouldn’t be putting anything in a briefcase. Why do you even need a briefcase for the notes you take…?”
Rose snapped open the brass locks and flashed him a look of the tiny scrap of lace.
Rothstein blinked.
“I was changing in there…”
He grinned and looked at her. “Mmm.” Then he reached into the briefcase and dangled the panties between his thumb and forefinger.
“Jake!” Rose hissed. His office had glass walls. “Cut that out.”
“You were planning something?”
He pulled her closer to him and ran a hand up her skirt, caressing the bare flesh.
Rose felt his touch as though it were white-hot. She stiffened and pushed him away.
“Not here, OK? I was just going to…”
She couldn’t think what she had just been going to do. She hadn’t expected him to touch her. Now she felt vulnerable and exposed before him. Demeaned. She wanted to run.
“To do what? Flash me?”
“Yes.” Flash him, right. “I wanted to warm you up for Friday night.”
Jake chuckled. “You thought that was necessary?”
Rose dug him in the ribs and pointed to Ella, who was sitting at her desk outside Jake’s office, staring at them jealously.
“You’re making such a big deal, you’re kind of causing a scene. I better go back to work. See you on Friday night.”
“Yes, you will,” he said.
She pirouetted on her heel to leave and Jake slapped her lightly, possessively, on the butt.
Rose fled.
As soon as she got into the lift, she punched the button for the next floor down. Rothstein was laid out on one plan; the women’s bathrooms—small, cramped affairs—were always in the same place on every floor, in the corridors that stretched to the left of the elevator bank. Terrified that she would trip or catch a gust of wind or something, Rose bolted out of the lift and raced for them.
A secretary saw her and started to shout. “Hey! What are you doing here?”
Rose knew she looked guilty, and that she wasn’t acting like an employee. But that was too bad. She had to pull her panties on. She bolted into the bathrooms and raced into a stall, locking it quickly.
Frantically, she flicked open the briefcase and retrieved her underwear, pulling it on. She wasn’t going to bother with the hose. She snapped the case shut, concealing the precious data, and let herself out, walking out into the corridor to find the secretary, a petite redhead with a blouse open one button too low, just reaching it.
“I don’t know you. Who are you? Shall I call security?”
“I’m Rose Fiorello, I work in Dick White’s office,” Rose said calmly. “I got off on the wrong floor.”
“Richard White,” the girl said, shocked.
“I think of him as Dick,” Rose replied, enjoying herself. “I was just seeing Jake Rothstein upstairs, I got off on the wrong floo
r.”
The girl scowled. Rose saw she had correctly assumed that the gossip bush telegraph had informed everybody about her putative romance with the boss.
“Then why were you running like that?” she demanded.
Rose put her fingertips to her forehead and made a face. “Sudden wave of nausea. I think it might be morning sickness. See ya.”
She retreated to the elevators and hit the button for the lobby. That would give them something to talk about.
She did like leaving on a high note!
*
Her pulse didn’t properly slow until she got home. Rose took the papers out of her briefcase and locked them in her safe. Then she went out to the liquor store along the street and bought herself a bottle of chilled vintage champagne; Veuve Grand Cru. She popped the cork and poured a flute of the icy-cold wine, taking a big gulp, letting the alcohol calm her and the bubbles fizz on her tongue.
Well. This was it.
Rose drained the first glass, then set it down and dialed Rothstein Realty.
“I want to talk to Joan in Human Resources.”
“This is Joan,” came the response after a second. Rose pictured the mousy girl sitting at her desk. This conversation would have to be handled subtly; she wanted to still the alarm bells for as long as possible.
“Joan, this is Rose Fiorello, the intern in Richard White’s office?”
“Yes?” came the unenthusiastic reply.
“Joan”—Rose pretended a sob had caught in her throat—“I’m afraid I’m going to have to resign as an intern. The pressure’s too much—I just don’t understand a lot of what’s going on and I don’t think I’m cut out for real estate.”
“Uh-huh. Thought you might.” There was undeniable relish in the other woman’s voice. “I did tell you that this is hard for women, you know.” A note of reproach crept in. “There were a lot of guys who applied for that intern spot who didn’t get it … it’ll be too late to start anyone new on the program now.”
“I know. I feel really awful,” Rose whimpered.
Yeah. How terrible that another spoiled frat-house king wasn’t gonna get his shot at Rothstein Realty, to learn greed and sexism from the masters. She was all cut up about that.
“You’ll need to send in your pass.”
“I’ll drop it in the mail today,” Rose whispered contritely. “Thank you for being so understanding.”
“Yes. Well.” The young woman sniffed. “You should have tried Human Resources or PR, Rose. Those are more up your alley. Leasing is very business-oriented.”
“I’ll remember that next time,” Rose said solemnly.
She hung up and poured herself another glass of champagne. So what if it was only eleven and she hadn’t drunk in years? This was a celebration …
She took a bath, got changed into something warm and comfortable, and drank half the champagne before getting totally bored.
Face it. She just wasn’t cut out to be a lady of leisure.
*
Rose drove out to Queens and parked opposite the hotel.
Mmm. The potential. Great access to Manhattan, to Long Island City … Rose drew the complex in her mind. Definitely gates; a high, thick wire fence with a guardhouse. That would be much cheaper than wrought iron or brick. She would have to be careful not to over-improve, to keep her costs at a minimum.
The secret to being a wealthy seller was to give buyers what they wanted, and nothing more.
Here, that was going to be a matter of large, cheap apartments with fresh paint and linoleum, security outside, and maybe some new kitchen appliances. Every condo comes with a microwave, Rose thought, and brand-new ovens and freezers. She could get a great discount deal, and it would pay for itself many times over. There would be a luxurious-looking lobby—she’d keep those brass railings—and there were so many apartments that maintenance charges to pay for a doorman and security guard would be minimal.
Then she was going to sell them at fifteen percent below market value. And just hope it worked.
Otherwise, she’d be in the hole to Salerni for millions. And the Mob weren’t known as the most patient bankers.
Rose shivered, and it wasn’t from the cold. She had an urge to start right away. She stepped out of her car and walked into the hotel.
Time warp. It was exactly like the last time she’d been in here, months ago. There was the same air of furtive shabbiness that came with being a pay-by-the-hour joint for hookers and drug dealers and people who couldn’t afford anything better. And there was the same gum-cracking receptionist, on the day shifts, no doubt, sitting behind the desk.
Rose dug deep and retrieved the information.
“Hello, Tracy,” she said.
Tracy looked up blankly. Rose could see the little hamster-wheels going around in her mind.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said.
“Don’t you think you should say ‘Good morning’?” Rose asked. “‘Good morning, ma’am’ would be even better.”
Tracy scowled. “You’re just here to make trouble again. I’m gonna have you banned. Jason!” She yelled for the security guard.
“I don’t think so. I own the place.”
The girl laughed out loud. “Yeah, OK. Vincent Salerni owns it. You don’t look nuttin’ like him.”
“He sold it to me,” Rose said, coolly.
“Sure,” Tracy said, but she sounded a bit nervous.
Rose tapped the phone in front of her. “Give him a call, he’ll tell you. Do you want the number?”
The girl paled. “No. No, ma’am. Wh-what can I get for you?”
Rose grinned.
“A set of skeleton keys,” she said.
Thirty-Six
Jacob Rothstein smiled to himself as he dialed Mary-Beth’s extension.
“Mr. White’s office.”
“Mary-Beth.” Rothstein’s voice was low, caressing. It was that way with almost all women; he did it automatically. “This is Jacob.”
“Oh, Mr. Rothstein. Yes, sir?”
“Put Rose on, would you?”
“Rose Fiorello?” The breathy, little-girl voice gave way to a snap of triumph. “Why, sir, I do declare you’re behind the times; didn’t you know she left?”
“Already? It’s only ten A.M.”
“No, sir. She left. She resigned yesterday.”
“What for?”
“I really don’t know, sir. But I can help you with anything you need,” Mary-Beth added hopefully.
“That’s OK,” Jacob said.
He hung up and thought for a few moments.
*
Friday night was unseasonably mild; muggy and wet, with none of the crisp iciness Rose was used to. She selected her outfit with care. Something sexy, but not too sexy. This date was going to have to be very carefully played.
She’d let him touch her.
It had been necessary. Rose told herself that. But now what? Now what?
She was nervous.
Rose hadn’t thought of men. She’d been way too busy. The fury that had driven her had been all-consuming. At Columbia, she had barely noticed any of the boys that swarmed around the lecture halls leering and whistling.
Except Jacob.
She’d noticed him.
She liked to tell herself it was because he was a Rothstein. Her enemy. The gatekeeper. But she knew that wasn’t true. She never had dreams about his uncle William, even though her hatred of that man still burned. I’m Italian, she thought. I can keep a vendetta in my heart for a generation, waiting until I can strike. And it probably would take a lot less time than that.
Jake disturbed her in other ways. Of course, there were those looks. Obvious good looks, she thought disdainfully. The square jaw, the muscles, the dark eyes and hair, the thick black lashes. But that was only the wrapping. A man could have all that, and still be effeminate.
Not Rothstein.
Rose was too smart to dismiss it as the money, True, Jake threw it around. Diamonds for his girlfriends, a
Ferrari, the whole bit. Money might give you some confidence, she supposed. But Jake’s came from two sources. His womanizing and his intelligence.
She was forced to admit that retro and sexist as it might be, she found both attributes attractive.
Rothstein had a mind like a scalpel; cutting and precise. Unlike others she’d met, he didn’t cower when faced with her own. He competed with her. He might, he might … the thought burned her, but there it was all the same … he might actually be brighter than she was. But Rose had a different edge. She was driven in ways he could not imagine. Brains or no brains, she was going to crush him.
And then there was the womanizing.
Rose had not been immune to his reputation. All the girls talked about him. Hushed tones, fanning themselves. And the way he looked her over, as though he were peeling the clothes right off her back. He had confidence, arrogance, and power, and he took none of her shit, and he was a full-on dominant male and he wasn’t even ashamed of it.
God help her, she found that amazingly attractive.
His kiss had made her weak at the knees.
Remember who he is, Rose told herself as she pulled on her dress of pale-green silk, modestly long but clinging in all the right places. Remember the family he comes from.
Rothstein. Rothstein. Rothstein.
*
Jacob had set up his place well. He’d called the caterers; almost a thousand dollars for dinner, but it was money well spent. A magnum of Cristal was chilling in the Tiffany silver ice-bucket by the mahogany table in his dining room; he had dimmed the chandelier and placed candles around the room, lighting up the oil portraits of other people’s ancestors his father had bought for him. The pre-war arched windows looked down Fifth toward St. Patrick’s, with Manhattan glittering in the dark, the neon lights matching the sparkle of the service at his table; champagne flutes in Waterford crystal, napkins of crisp Irish linen, napkin rings and cutlery of silver, and bone-china plates. He had thought about sushi, but that was too risky. Instead, there was a heaped pot of beluga caviar with blinis and chopped egg and delicate bone spoons by Rose’s place. That was to be followed by roast pheasant with chestnut sauce and an individual poached pear with ginger ice-cream. Silver bowls crammed with very short-stemmed yellow roses were dotted around the table next to his antique candelabras, and they were matched by vases of roses everywhere, the freshest blooms in a pastel medley of pale pink, white, yellow, blue, and even green; the apartment smelled like a summer meadow in the depths of winter.
Devil You Know Page 28