by Kimber Chin
"That they were the best value,” Nancy said in way of an explanation. “How was I to know Lamont would play hardball?"
"He doesn't play anything but.” Focus on the issues. It didn't matter how they got into this predicament, only that they got back out again.
Anne glared at the nearby office tower blocking her morning sun as she rolled the options over in her mind. Only two presented themselves. Stubbornly hold out, harming the business in the process, or swallow her pride and meet with him. Swallow her pride? Cave in? Not if it was up to her.
But it wasn't up to her. They were a team, she and Nancy. And Nancy had her own issues. “What are we going to do? We can't have that many down days, it'll drain our cash flow and I really, really, really need this month's distributions, Annie.” The desperate plea took the decision out of Anne's hands.
"There isn't much else to do.” Anne would do what was best for the business and what was best for her friend. “I'll go see Lamont."
"Are you sure?” was Nancy's attempt to sound sympathetic. Anne heard only relief in her voice.
Was she sure? The only sure thing was that she was walking into a trap. “Might as well hear what the man has to say. He won't let up ‘til I do."
"What do you think he wants?” Her friend came to stand supportively beside her.
"He said three months of my time."
"Doing what?"
Anne shrugged, not willing to waste energy assigning words to her worry.
Nance had the energy. “Three months is a long time, Annie. A lot could happen."
Yep, a lot could happen and none of it good. What had Lamont said? He had been hunting her. That was it. The goal of hunting was to kill.
Anne's bleak outlook must have reflected in her face. “It'll be okay,” Nancy soothed, hugging Anne's shoulder. “You know Lamont. If anyone can get out of this unscathed, it would be you. You know how to sell to him."
Nancy was right. It was selling, like pitching a business plan, a task she did every day. But with Philippe Lamont, could Anne keep herself emotionally detached? Somehow the man got to her.
"And treat it like selling.” Nancy read her thoughts. “Business, nothing else. You can do that, can't you Annie?
Your feelings for Lamont won't get in the way?"
Anne's head shot up. “What feelings?” What was Nance talking about now?
"You know.” Her partner couldn't hold her level-eyed gaze. Head down, she fiddled with the papers on Anne's tidy desk. “That you have a bit of a crush on the man."
"Crush?” Anne snorted. “I don't think so. This is business Nance. Sure I might admire him..."
The redhead gave her an arched eyebrow look.
"But that's all,” Anne insisted, her gut telling her that wasn't exactly true. It should be true, if she was thinking straight, it would be true, but it wasn't quite. Did she let just any power monger grab her ass at a party? Well, no...?
"If you say so.” Nancy didn't believe her either.
"I say so,” Anne said firmly, as if saying so made it true.
"Good. Then we'll have no issues, Annie. You'll talk us out of this mess and it'll be back to business as usual.” Nancy made it sound so easy.
Easy, it wouldn't be, but nothing Anne couldn't handle. She straightened, rolling her rounded shoulders back. “That's the plan."
* * * *
Less than three hours later, Anne was seated in Lamont Ventures’ luxurious reception area, cooling her favorite navy blue heels on the dark hardwood floor. He was purposely making her wait, showing her he was the boss. Bloody control freak.
It didn't matter. Anne was prepared. Seated in the black leather chair, she glanced through the colorful papers in her lap. This was the baby business plan for a hip, new club, belonging to Rochelle, one of her Young C.E.O.s students. She scanned it with the critical eye of experience. Where was the college radio marketing? Yes, the Internet stuff was good, but club kids also listened to music, their own music. Anne jotted these thoughts into the margins.
That wasn't her sole diversion. Her eyes and ears were open, mentally recording names funneling through the switchboard, watching guests flow in and out of the active office. Anything she might be able to use in the future, Anne made a note of. There wasn't much. One strange instance when she was on the receiving end of a nasty glare. A tall and distinguished silver haired management type blew through the lobby. His face dark with fury, he shot Anne a hate filled glower.
Why? She didn't know him. So who was he? Could be no one, could be one of the new executives she hadn't yet met. Careful about who faced the public, Philippe kept his untried henchmen under tight wraps.
The man's identity was still in the top of her mind when the solid mahogany door swung open, revealing an older lady, only a few inches taller than Anne. “Miss James, I'm Missus Depeche, Mister Lamont's executive assistant.” One soft lined hand grasped hers as Anne rose. “He will see you now,” her pleasant voice matching her smile, “if you'll follow me."
He will see me now. Well, jolly good for him. I am not ready to see him. Anne took her time, lining the papers up carefully before putting them back in her briefcase, working in deliberate slow mo. Lamont could dang well wait.
Finally, fresh out of ideas to stretch the turnaround time, she straightened. Was that a glimmer of amusement in Mrs. Depeche's eyes? That is, before her face smoothed serenely into business. Anne thought so. The lady was on the ball, didn't miss a thing; probably knew everything about everyone that shared the same air as her boss. That meant...
"Missus Depeche, I saw a man while I was waiting. He looked familiar and I'm certain that we've met before but try as I might, I can't place him."
The older woman eyed Anne suspiciously. Seconds stretched before the woman finally broke down. “Maybe I can help. What did he look like?"
"Tall, gray hair, trim, dark suit..."
"Green tie?” Mrs. Depeche relaxed a bit.
Anne nodded.
"Must be Kevin Maple, our vice-president of new business development,” Lamont's executive assistant explained. “He joined us last week but some of your clients have been working with him closely."
"Oh, yes, that's it.” Anne was now certain she hadn't met him before. Maybe his dirty look hadn't been directed at her but at the world in general.
"Have you been working with M'sieur Lamont long, Missus Depeche?” Anne switched gears, making small talk as they clipped along the hallway.
"Since the L-W-H days.” The woman smiled. That was Lamont's start up, Lamont, Westfield and Hartford, or “Lamont's Working Hell” as it was nicknamed due to the grueling hours worked. The hard work had paid off. Lamont and team took the company public, giving him his venture-capital seed money, Lamont eventually selling LWH completely. “But then you knew that, didn't you, Miss James?"
Anne did. The story was that fiercely loyal, Mrs. Depeche had stuck with Lamont through the lean times, times with no reliable salary. In return, he trusted her completely. “You know why I'm here?"
"Of course. I'm his executive assistant, dear."
Anne knew how that went. Mrs. Depeche was the gatekeeper. She saw and heard all flowing through his office. Including any plans for revenge. What dreadful task does Lamont have lined up for me, she wondered. Had to be especially horrid, for him to blackmail her.
Anne took a ragged breath and crinkled eyes darted to her face in sympathy. “Don't fret too much, Miss James. From what I understand, you'll manage,” the older woman assured her as she opened the corner office door.
"Merci, Sylvie. Close the door when you leave, s'il vous plait.” Philippe sat behind a large wooden desk, flipping through a file. He didn't glance up as Anne entered but she couldn't ignore him as easily. Blast it, the man is striking to look at. He oozes power, strength, control. A loud click signaled her escape route blocked off. Complete control.
"Sit.” He gestured to the chair in front of him, frowning at a paper in his hand.
Sit. One word. Sit. Like I'm a dog
, a stray dog, full of fleas, about to be put out of my misery.
"I'd rather stand. I doubt that this will take long."
"It will.” He flicked cold brown eyes over her serviceable navy blue suit. It fit her like a glove, the pencil line skirt ending just below the knee. “Sit."
She didn't. Even if she had to stand for hours, she wouldn't sit.
Philippe took out an eight by ten white square, holding it up as if to compare against her face. “I prefer you with your hair down.” His lips twisted disapprovingly at the tight chignon she was sporting. He tossed the glossy piece of paper, print side up, across the desk.
Before her brain told her hands to resist, Anne clasped the photo. Mistake. That was exactly what he wanted. Why would he want that? To shock me. It was a shot of her face, her hair tumbling down all around, the fitted tee shirt, she recognized as the one she wore on Saturday, grocery shopping. Shock me? Consider it mission accomplished. Anne sat down with a thump.
"Why do you have a photo of me?” she asked, her voice not betraying any of her wonderment. Later, she would be proud of how calm she sounded.
"Not a photo, photos.” Philippe dropped a couple more in front of her. “I like this one.” It was of her laughing, out walking her elderly neighbor's energetic Jack Russell terrier, the lease tangled around her legs.
"But this.” He tilted the photo up so she couldn't peak. “This one is my favorite.” He looked at her, thoroughly entertained, the devil dancing in his eyes.
Yep, entertained. The man was having fun at her expense. Playing another game, trying to throw her cool demeanor off. It wouldn't work. She wouldn't let him see her squirm. Anne waited patiently, her hands folded ladylike on her lap. Breathing in. Breathing out.
Philippe paused. Should he wait? Make her beg to see it? Non, chilly Mademoiselle James wouldn't beg, she wouldn't even ask, and hesitating would only punish him, not her. He'd bet his last billion this would get the reaction he wanted. Philippe slid the photo across the table, watching her closely. Although she didn't make a sound, a vivid red crept up that long neck and flushed her cheeks. Success. Finally, a human response.
He knew exactly what she was looking at. According to the investigator, Anne had been grabbing a newspaper from the box outside her condo building as she did every morning. She was a creature of habit, this Anne, and just when she bent over, a lucky gust of wind lifted her knee length black pleated skirt.
Ahhhh ... and what it exposed, neither man would have guessed. Not in a thousand years. The prim and proper, oh so serious, Anne was wearing silk stockings and a garter belt. Who wore garter belts nowadays? Especially as everyday wear? Most especially since as far as he and the investigator knew, she had no current amours?
Only the woman before him would. And those legs, merde, those legs, she really was hiding something wonderful. He could feel his body responding, hardening, and shifted in his chair, uncomfortable, grateful for the concealing desk. A delicious dessert in lackluster packaging, this Anne was. Philippe liked that.
Back in France, when he was a child, his mama would, on special occasions, bring home pastries from the corner bakery. The box would be plain, brown cardboard tied with string but inside, well, inside was a treat for the eyes and for the mouth. That was Anne, a treat for the eyes and likely for the mouth too. As long as one looked past the wrapping.
She didn't wish for that to happen. Mademoiselle James, as his fanciful thoughts swirled, had slipped the photo into the side of her briefcase and refolded her hands calmly.
Damn, she is a cold one. Any other woman would have been hopping mad.
"Oui, you take that one, mon Cherie,” he purred, the challenge to crack her professional demeanor too tempting to resist. “I have copies. In fact, I'm thinking of loading it as a screensaver."
"You, M'sieur Lamont, are a bastard,” her gentle tone took the edge off her harsh words.
"You keep calling me that, Cherie.” Philippe smiled condescendingly at her. “I'm not one, you know. My parents were well married, had two daughters, by the time their only son came along."
He watched as her eyes closed, dark lashes fanned against pale cheeks. It looked like she was counting. Calming herself back down, no doubt. He was impressed with her control.
Steady brown eyes opened, holding his. “You wished to discuss something, M'sieur Lamont?"
Ah, business, he supposed they should complete that. What was the phrase? Business before pleasure.
"I'll need you for three months maximum.” She crossed her legs and Philippe could hear the whisper of silk on silk. Merde, I need her here and now. How had that happened? How had such a quiet brown sparrow managed to stir his desire so?
"So you've said. Three months of my time in exchange for your silence.” Anne summed up the deal in one sentence. “Why me?"
Was that slight eyebrow twitch curiosity? Philippe thought so. Anne had a good poker face, oui, but there were subtle clues that he was starting to pick up on. “You know me, Cherie, you know what I like, you know what I look for in a company."
"That irritates you,” she read him as he was reading her. He had to work on his own tells.
Et oui, it irritated the hell out of him, he preferred his thoughts to remain shielded, a mystery. And it wasn't just that she knew his thoughts, she knew his next moves, his intentions.
"It is ... unnerving, that you are a woman too and know that I think.” Philippe shrugged. He couldn't understand it, usually women and men were so different, the Venus and Mars thing.
"Let's forget for a moment that I'm a woman,” Anne suggested.
Come again? The image of shapely legs wrapped in black flimsy fabric filled his mind.
"Impossible,” was his only comment.
"It isn't relevant to the discussion.” She stacked the photos into one neat pile. “So I know you. Why's that important?"
"I need someone who knows me to evaluate some companies I'm considering."
"Why can't you do that yourself? Why do you need me?"
"I am not, how can I say it ... impartial.” Philippe watched fascinated as a faint trace of expressions swept across her face, starting with disbelief and ending with understanding. Zut, she holds her emotions close. If he hadn't been paying attention, they would have been missed.
"You slept with them,” was her blunt conclusion.
The woman didn't mince words. And the fact that she saw him as some sex-obsessed Romeo didn't please him. He was more discriminating than that. Philippe wanted to say no, he had slept with none. However, that was not possible. Mademoiselle James was the type to dig, dig into an investigation, and Denise, to add fuel to the fire, was not shy about their former relationship.
"Only one,” he was forced to admit, “the others are family. None I can look at without emotion."
"So you wish me, a complete outsider, to evaluate them? Why not one of your staffers?"
"An outsider is ideal and I wish for you to both evaluate and pass judgment."
"You mean turn them down,” she guessed. “You think their proposals are weak and want me to do your dirty work."
She was a smart one, this Anne. “I don't know that. They could be brilliant."
The sparrow tilted her head in clear question.
"D'accord, d'accord, you're correct. They are most likely sub-par. You and I know how hard it is to find a gem."
"I do. So I'm to turn them down. You couldn't ask your team because you're too professional to place any of them in that position.” Her brain was ticking along, putting all her concerns to rest. She liked everything nice and tidy. “Whereas, I'm disposable."
"It shouldn't be that difficult for you. You turn down clients also,” Philippe pointed out.
She did, she did indeed. Anne had to, to ensure that she represented only quality offers. She didn't like it though, and she had a feeling that turning down companies for life-extending financing would be much more difficult.
Is that his plan? Anne studied Philippe. To emphasi
ze that his job is more difficult than I imagined? Plausible, but she didn't think it enough. He had some larger goal to justify her involvement in his business. Anne wouldn't feel comfortable until she figured out what it was.
She left her seat and strode around the office, slowing only at the window, giving the executive toy telescope positioned there a quick peek into. He had a nice view of the city; better real estate than her little office but it didn't tell her much about the man. No, where she stopped was at a framed photo hanging on the dark walls. It was a group shot, faded, the fashions from over a decade back. Anne searched the photo for a familiar face. Yes, there he was, much younger, innocent almost, his arms around a gorgeous, generously endowed blonde, many inches taller than himself.
What to do with this man? Three months of working with Lamont and he promised to keep her anonymity intact. Anne didn't fool herself that it would go back to status quo afterwards but perhaps the hands-on learning she gained would offset any fallout. It was manageable, running her business and assisting Lamont. She could meet with her own clients outside of the nine-to-five. Entrepreneurs tended to work all hours and the ones she worked with were especially motivated. It would mean long days and a pull back in some revenue, Nance wouldn't make her numbers, unless, hmmm, that was a thought.
"It was taken less than a week before we went public.” She looked up to find Philippe standing beside her. He was taller than her, most people, male or female were, but his height differential wasn't that significant. Looking into his eyes didn't cause a severe crick in her neck.
"I like your hair” was all she said.
"Mais oui.” Philippe chuckled, running a hand over his close cropped curls. “It was much longer then and less gray."
"A long time ago."
"It was. But not so long that I've forgotten how nervous I was. So many of my employees were counting on the I-P-O to pay their bills. Not much room for failure. I couldn't sleep the entire week."
Nervous? Lamont? That must have been a long time ago. Anne couldn't picture him less than one hundred percent confident. Not now, not ever.
They stood in silence, both peering at the photo, lost in their thoughts.