Play Dirty

by Sandra Brown

  Out of the frying pan. Laura took a deep breath, knowing this was an acid test and hoping she didn’t blow it. “While we’ve been grounded, we’ve lost a lot of flight attendants. Some have gone to other airlines. Others have left the industry altogether. Now I’m faced with hiring replacements. I can’t entice the best applicants if I can’t offer them starting salaries and benefits equal to those offered by our competitors. I’d like to offer them better, but I’d settle for equal. Second, the uniforms are ugly and drab.”

  “I thought attendants paid for their own uniforms.”

  “They do,” Laura said. “But there’s no budget for a new design. Which brings me to another point.”

  “The ‘look of the airline’?” All heads turned toward the head of the table. Foster tapped the top file folder on the stack. “To quote from your latest memo, Ms. Taylor. Will you please elaborate?”

  Things were moving along too quickly. She hadn’t counted on being elevated to an executive this suddenly. Nor had she planned on being placed immediately in the hot seat. But she had been dwelling on this topic for weeks. In her idle time, she had thought long about what she would do if she were running the show. Now the new owner of the airline had invited her to elaborate on the bullet points of her many memos. She was ready.

  “Days ago, Hazel, Ms. Cooper, gave me a copy of the proposed budget so I could familiarize myself with it in advance of this meeting. You’re spending a lot of money to make drastic changes in the infrastructure and in total reorganization of the airline’s operation,” she said, addressing Foster directly. “You’re making it brand spanking new. But you’ve stopped short at conveying its newness to consumers.”

  “Changing the color of the flight attendant uniforms is easy,” someone remarked. “Ticket and gate agents, too.”

  Laura acknowledged the comment with a nod. “Their appearance is important because they deal one-on-one with our customers. So the impression they make is vital. But we’re aiming for an about-face in public opinion of SunSouth Airlines. With that as our goal, I don’t think changing the color of the uniforms is sufficient.” Her gaze moved around the table, ending on Foster. “But as the most recently appointed department director, I don’t want to overstep my bounds.”

  “No, please,” he said, indicating she should continue.

  Holding his gaze, she said, “When we relaunch SunSouth, if we look the same, consumers will figure we are the same.”

  Another of the directors said, “It’s been suggested that we change the name of the airline.”

  “That suggestion was voted down by the new board of directors,” someone else contributed.

  Laura said, “I agree we should keep our name. It’s a good name. An excellent name.”

  “But?” Foster said.

  “But it suggests light. Sunny days. Bright skies and open landscapes. Our planes are the color of storm clouds, and so are the uniforms.” She paused, knowing the proposal she was about to make was destined to raise a chorus of protests. “Even if it means making cuts in other areas, including the flight attendant program, I propose we budget to retain a first-rate design company to revamp the entire look of the airline.”

  “Hear, hear!” This from the well-liked head of advertising and marketing, a genial young man named Joe McDonald. He always wore an outlandish bow tie and suspenders. Everyone at SunSouth knew him because he made it a point to know everyone. He was an equal-opportunity teaser, from executives to the janitors who came in after hours to clean the offices. “Thank you, Laura, for putting your butt on the line, thereby saving me from having to place mine there.”

  Everyone laughed. The discussion continued but in a more lighthearted mode.

  Laura’s proposal, seconded by Joe McDonald, was ultimately acted upon, although not without many lengthy meetings and hours of debate. Cost was the major factor. Designers of the caliber she proposed didn’t come cheap. Then, revamping a fleet of airplanes inside and out was exorbitantly expensive. Every coat of paint on an airplane added weight, which required an increase in the fuel needed to fly the aircraft, and therefore an increase in operational costs that was passed on to passengers in the form of ticket prices, which Foster Speakman had gone on record saying were going to be the lowest in the industry.

  With that in mind, the design company suggested stripping the planes of paint and applying the newly designed logo to the silver metal. Eventually the shade of red used in the logo became the signature color of the new flight attendant uniforms. They were tailored and professional looking but conveyed a vivacity and friendliness that the media picked up on and extolled. The pilots’ uniforms went from navy blue to khaki with red neckties.

  The first flight of the renovated airline departed at six twenty-five the morning of March tenth—its scheduled relaunch date. That evening, Foster Speakman and his wife, Elaine, hosted a lavish party in their home. Everyone who was anyone in Dallas had been extended an invitation to the black-tie event.

  Laura’s escort for the evening was a friend with whom she played mixed-partners tennis. Their friendship was uncomplicated and unromantic. He was divorced, owned his own accounting firm, was at ease with strangers and consequently someone she didn’t have to cater to, worry about, or look after.

  Indeed, shortly after they arrived at the mansion he excused himself to go look at the billiard room. Once featured in an issue of Architectural Digest, it was reputed to be a guys’ fantasy room. “Take your time,” she told him. “I’ll be busy mingling.”

  Mrs. Speakman, Elaine, was a gorgeous woman, impeccably turned out in an understated designer gown and breathtaking jewelry. But hers was a frail beauty, fragile, like that of a character F. Scott Fitzgerald might have conjured. Like her husband, she was blond and blue eyed, but hers was a watercolor version. Standing arm in arm with him, she paled in comparison, literally.

  “It’s so nice to finally meet you,” she said to Laura warmly when Foster introduced them. “I serve on the board of SunSouth—one of the few to survive the shake-up when the new owner assumed control.” She gave her husband a nudge in the ribs.

  Leaning in, Foster lowered his voice to a whisper. “I understand he can be a real bastard.”

  “Don’t believe it,” Elaine said to Laura.

  “I don’t. My experience has been that he’s tough and knows what he wants, but he’s a pleasure to work with.”

  “And a sweetheart at home,” his wife said. The two smiled at each other, then Elaine turned back to Laura. “We on the board have heard about your excellent ideas and innovations. On behalf of the board members, the investors, and myself, thank you for your valuable contributions.”

  “Thank you, but you give me far too much credit, Mrs. Speakman.”

  “Elaine.”

  Laura acknowledged that with a slight nod. “Foster has made it known that the new SunSouth is a team effort. Every employee has a voice in the company.”

  “But some voices offer substantially more than others,” Elaine said, smiling.

  “Thank you again. However, I still maintain that our success will be attributed to your husband’s motivational and management skills.”

  “Am I blushing?” he asked.

  Elaine regarded him adoringly, then to Laura she said, “The gentleman I saw you arrive with, is that your—”

  “Good friend,” Laura said, cutting her off and hoping to avoid having to explain her single status. Although thousands of women in their thirties remained unmarried, it seemed an explanation was still required.

  The truth of it was that no one, not even the occasional lover—and there hadn’t been many—had been as important to Laura as the pursuit of her career. But somehow that simple explanation fell short of satisfying people’s curiosity. “He’s dazzled by your billiard room. I may have to drag him out.”

  They chitchatted for a while longer, but Laura was aware of others who wanted time with the couple. She shook hands with both and moved away.

  Later, as they we
re leaving, she let her friend deal with the parking valet while she looked for an opportunity to thank her hosts. She spotted them across the room, their heads together, talking privately. Foster leaned down and said something that caused Elaine to laugh. He pressed a kiss on her smooth temple. Laura was struck again by what an attractive and obviously enamored couple they were.

  “He’s devoted to her.”

  Laura turned to find a co-worker standing beside her. She, too, had been observing the Speakmans.

  “And she to him,” Laura said.

  “She’s lovely.”

  “Inside as well as out. A real lady.”

  “Yes,” the woman sighed. “That’s what makes it so tragic.”

  Laura turned toward her. “Tragic?”

  The co-worker, realizing her mistake, touched Laura’s arm. “I’m sorry. I thought you knew. Elaine Speakman is ill. In fact, she’s dying.”

  The sudden laughter coming from downstairs was muted by distance but loud enough to rouse Laura from her reverie. She didn’t recognize it as Foster’s familiar laugh, so it had to have come from Griff Burkett. What could Foster possibly have said to bring on a laugh?

  A few moments later, the telephone on her desk rang. Finally, she thought. She picked up the phone before the second ring. “Foster?”

  “Can you join us, darling?”

  Her heart bumped. His summons meant that, at least so far, it was a go. “I’ll be right down.”

  CHAPTER

  4

  WHILE WAITING ON SPEAKMAN’S WIFE TO JOIN THEM, GRIFF had been studying the globe. Suspended within a polished brass stand, it was as large as a beach ball and made of semiprecious gems. It was quite a trinket. He speculated you could buy a damn good car for what it cost.

  Funny how having money, or not, changed your perspective. Recalling the rarely used, superfluous items in his Toy Box, he couldn’t think too badly of Speakman for having a fancy globe he could well afford.

  Griff turned toward the library doors when he heard them open. He expected to get his first look at Mrs. Speakman, but instead the stolid Manuelo came in.

  He went straight to Speakman and extended a small silver tray. On it were a prescription bottle of tablets and a glass of water. Speakman took a pill, washing it down with three sips of water. They had a brief conversation in Spanish, then Speakman said to Griff, “While Manuelo is here, can he get you anything?”

  Griff shook his head.

  Speakman looked up at the Central American and dismissed him with a soft “Nada más. Gracias.”

  Manuelo and Mrs. Speakman met in the open doorway. He stepped aside so she could come into the room, then he left, pulling the double doors closed behind him. But Griff was no longer interested in Manuelo. He was focused on Mrs. Speakman. Laura, her name was.

  She didn’t give off crazy vibes. In fact, she seemed perfectly composed and in control of her faculties. She didn’t look toward Griff, although he created a sizable silhouette even in a large room like this one. Instead, she crossed to where her husband sat in his wheelchair. She placed her hand on his shoulder, leaned down, and kissed his cheek.

  When they pulled apart, Speakman said, “Laura, this is Griff Burkett.”

  Since she had ignored him up till now, he was surprised when she walked toward him, right hand extended. “Mr. Burkett. How do you do?” He met her halfway, and they shook hands. Like her husband’s, her handshake was dry and firm. A businesswoman’s handshake.

  Griff limited his greeting to a simple “Hi.”

  She dropped his hand but maintained eye contact. “Thank you for coming. Didn’t you get released just this morning?”

  “We’ve been over that,” Speakman said, humor in his voice.

  “Oh, sorry. I would ask you about the long drive, but I rather imagine that topic has been exhausted, too.”

  “It has,” Griff said.

  “Small talk sounds even smaller in this particular situation, doesn’t it?”

  He wasn’t going to touch that with a ten-foot pole.

  She said, “I’m sure you were offered something to drink.”

  “I was. I’m fine.”

  “If you change your mind, let me know.”

  They might have been missing critical marbles, but their manners remained intact.

  “Please sit down, Mr. Burkett.” She took the chair nearest her husband’s wheelchair.

  Griff hadn’t had time to speculate on what Foster Speakman’s missus would be like, but if he had to define his initial reaction, it would be surprise. There was nothing in her handshake or straightforward gaze that could be interpreted as nervous, flirtatious, or coy. Nor did she seem embarrassed by the topic they now had in common. He could have been there to talk about cleaning their carpets.

  She didn’t act submissive or browbeaten, either, like this was something her husband had cooked up for his own gratification and she had agreed to go along with it under duress.

  Hell, he didn’t know what he had expected, but whatever it was, Laura Speakman wasn’t it.

  She was wearing a pair of black slacks and a white shirt, sleeveless, with pleats—he thought that was what they were called—stitched in rows down the front. Like a tuxedo shirt. Low-heeled black shoes. A serviceable wristwatch, a plain wedding band. Some of the players on the football team had worn diamonds in their ears much bigger and flashier than the ones in hers.

  Her hair was dark and cut short. Sort of…swirly. He figured it would curl if it were worn longer. She was on the tallish side of average, slender, and, judging by her bare biceps, fit. Tennis maybe. A couple of times a week, she probably did yoga or Pilates, one of those women’s workouts for toning and flexibility.

  He tried to keep from staring, tried to avoid looking at the features of her face too closely, although his overall impression was that if he had spotted her in a crowd, he probably would have done a double take. She wasn’t a babe, not like the kind of silicone-fortified Dallas dolly who used to hang out in the nightclubs frequented by him and his teammates, single or not. But Laura Speakman wasn’t homely. Not by any stretch.

  And another thing, she looked healthy enough to have a baby. Young enough, too, if she didn’t waste time. Mid-thirties, maybe. Around his age.

  He felt awkward, standing there in the center of the room, the two of them looking at him as though waiting for him to entertain them.

  “Mr. Burkett? Griff?” Speakman nodded toward the chair facing them.

  He’d told himself that the first chance he got, he was going to say “Thanks, but no thanks” and bolt. But he felt compelled to stay. Hell if he knew why.

  Well, there was the six hundred grand. The figure had a nice ring to it that was pretty damn compelling.

  He walked over to the chair and sat down. Looking directly at Laura Speakman, he said, “Your husband told me you’re all for this. Is that true?”

  “Yes.”

  No hesitation. Not even a blink. “Okay. But, excuse me for saying, it’s…”

  “Unorthodox?”

  “I was going to say it’s freaking nuts. A guy asking another guy, paying another guy, to sleep with his wife.”

  “Not sleep with, Mr. Burkett. Not in the context that implies. Impregnate. As for the freakiness of it, it’s not unprecedented. In fact, it’s scriptural. Genesis. Remember?”

  In the household where Griff had grown up, there’d been no Bible. When he went to school and learned the Pledge of Allegiance, he was shocked to hear that it had the cussword God in it. He soon realized that God wasn’t always used in combination with damn.

  In any case, it came as shocking news to him that anything like this was in the Bible.

  “We want a baby very badly, Mr. Burkett,” she said.

  “There are other ways to get pregnant.”

  “There are, yes. Our reasons for doing it this way are personal and shouldn’t concern you.”

  “They do.”

  “They shouldn’t,” she repeated.

 
“We, uh, do our thing, I go home and sleep with a clear conscience. Is that it?”

  “That’s what it amounts to, yes.”

  He looked at her, wondering how she could speak so calmly about the two of them getting it on, when her husband was sitting right there holding her hand. Griff looked from her to Speakman, and the man seemed to read his mind.

  “Before you joined us, Laura, Griff suggested that…well, that I would be observing the two of you while you perform.”

  She’d been looking at her husband as he explained. Several seconds passed before she turned her gaze back to Griff, and he took exception to her affronted frown. “Hey, don’t look at me like I’m the pervert here.”

  “You think this is perverted?”

  “What do you call it?”

  “Would you think it was perverted if we were asking you to donate a kidney? Or give blood?”

  He laughed. “There’s a big difference. To donate a kidney you don’t have to…touch,” he said, quickly substituting the word he’d been about to say. “You never even have to meet.”

  “Unfortunately, the reproductive physiology is such that touching is necessary.”

  The hell it was. He didn’t have to plant the seed personally to yield the crop. But he’d already argued that point with her husband. Speakman was determined for her to conceive naturally. She didn’t seem to have an ethical or moral problem with it, so why was he making an issue of it? Mentally shrugging, he reached a decision: They wanted him to fuck her, he could fuck her. It wasn’t like she had three eyes or something.

  He addressed Speakman. “A handshake and I get a hundred grand?”

  Speakman rolled his chair over to a desk and opened the lap drawer. He took a manila envelope from it, and when he came back and extended it, Griff was reminded of having to accept a cash loan from his lawyer like a kid getting an allowance. The sooner he was no longer obligated to anyone, the better.

  He took the envelope.

  Speakman said, “Inside is a key to a safe-deposit box and a signature card. You sign it. I’ll see that the card gets returned to the bank tomorrow, where it will remain on file. While I’m there, I’ll deposit your cash in the box. You can pick it up, um, say anytime after two o’clock tomorrow afternoon. Laura and I have a meeting in the morning with representatives of the flight attendants’ union to discuss their new contract.”