The Paris Affair (Affairs of the Heart #1)

by Kristi Lea

  His lips quirked into a smirk. “Helmut’s not hurt. Not yet, anyway. But after those news reports hit yesterday about your affair, I though you should know...”

  Claire exhaled. Helmut was not hurt. Wait, what did he mean by “not yet”?

  “I didn’t think it was my place to intrude, you know. Helmut’s always been my buddy. But he’s really gone off the deep end this time,” Ben rambled.

  “Get to the point, Lackey,” Claire demanded.

  He glanced over her shoulder at Frank, who was watching the entire exchange with great interest.

  Claire frowned at the two men. “Frank, do you mind?”

  “No, not at all. I’m quite enjoying the show. Do go on, Ben.”

  Ben shrugged his shoulders and gave Claire a sly grin. “Well, like I said, Helmut’s always been a friend of mine. I know he was upset about not getting the CEO appointment. And then losing his job... I think the guy is out for revenge against you Claire. He even bet me a thousand bucks he could get you into bed. I tried to talk him out of it...”

  Claire felt the air rush out of her lungs. Revenge. A thousand bucks.

  Lackey was still talking, but she quit hearing his words. They stopped making any sense. The photos.

  Helmut had screwed her over. Professionally. Personally. And she had practically begged him to do it.

  She had to get out of here. Now.

  She ignored Frank’s voice calling her from the exam room as she left. She walked past the nurses' station without saying a word and headed straight for the exit without looking back.

  ***

  Helmut paced his hotel room for the hundredth time. Claire hadn’t been at the police station, and after he’d been released, it had taken half a dozen phone calls before someone told him where she was. The hospital. Holy shit, if she was hurt... He couldn’t even finish the thought. He had no idea what he would do.

  He headed out of his hotel room and into the elevator. He should be able to catch a cab to the hospital from the lobby. Whether he could talk any of the staff to letting him see her, he didn’t care.

  The elevator doors opened into the marble and gilt lobby, and Helmut found himself facing Claire’s shell-shocked expression.

  He drank in the sight of her. Her suit jacket was off, and her hair looked wild. Another woman might look like a victim, but Claire carried off the tousled look like a woman who’d just rolled from his bed.

  She recovered first. “Not now, Helmut.” Her voice was ice, and she glanced over her shoulder as if expecting an ambush.

  He grabbed her by the hand, pulled her back into the elevator, and punched the button for their floor. She struggled lightly against his hand, but he held firm until the shiny gold doors closed on them.

  “Let go of me.”

  Helmut released her hand and she fled to the opposite corner.

  “Claire, they told me you were at the hospital. How are you? I’ve been worried shitless all afternoon.”

  Her eyes widened and she stared at him, mouth agape. “I sincerely doubt that.”

  He took a step closer, trying to bridge the gap. His arms itched to hold her and soothe away the fear and chaos of the afternoon.

  The elevator stopped on a lower floor and the doors whooshed open. Claire practically jumped out.

  Helmut followed, nearly running over a bellhop with a huge round tray laden with empty plates. “Sorry,” he said as he helped the young man catch his careening tray. “Claire, wait.”

  He glanced down the empty hall and saw the door to the stairwell just clicking closed. He ran after her.

  Hurried small footsteps echoed from above him. Helmut leaned gently over the rail and looked up. “Claire, can we talk for a moment.”

  “No. We can’t.” The footsteps sped up.

  Helmut followed, taking the steps two at a time. She was fast, but he had longer legs, and he started gaining right away.

  “I’m as pissed by the photos as you are. This isn’t exactly going to help my job hunt, you know.” He knew he’d passed two floors already, and was beginning to breathe heavily.

  “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

  Helmut swore to himself. He thought he would have gained ground, but she was still a full story above him.

  “This will blow over, Claire. I’m not an employee anymore. No one will even remember it by next week.”

  Her footsteps stopped. Thankfully. Helmut slowed his pace, still taking the steps two at a time, but no longer sprinting them. “Man you’re in good shape,” he said with a grin.

  He climbed another story to where he’d last heard her voice, but she wasn’t there. Helmut stopped and rested his palms on his knees, breathing deeply. “Where’d you go, Claire?”

  He listened and heard nothing. Wait, not nothing. A soft slapping sound. Damnit, she’d taken off her shoes and continued upwards. Helmut glanced at the door behind him. Eighth floor. Their rooms were on the fourteenth.

  He began sprinting in earnest, but he was too late. Just as he passed door number twelve, he heard her leave the stairwell.

  A minute later, he pounded on the door to her suite. “I’m not leaving until you answer, Claire.”

  Silence.

  “If I keep yelling like this, someone will call security. Wouldn’t you rather avoid another scene?”

  Bingo. That got a reaction. Her door cracked, and he went to push it open, but she’d left it chained from the inside.

  “Just go away, Helmut. You’ve done enough.” Her voice sounded muffled.

  Helmut scanned the inside of the room, but she stood behind the door out of his view. He leaned against the wall. “What, exactly have I done that you didn’t ask me to? I didn’t give the reporters those photos, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Ben told me.”

  Helmut’s heart froze in his chest. “Told you what?”

  “About the bet,” she continued, her voice growing quieter but firmer. “About how you were being groomed for CEO. You couldn’t be the boss, so you screwed the boss instead.”

  “It wasn’t like that—” Helmut hesitated. Wasn’t it just like that? He’d pursued her in Chicago, and followed her to Paris. He’d drunk a toast to her seduction with Ben after he’d been fired.

  “I hope you enjoyed your revenge. Now just go. Neither I, nor Sheffield & Fox, are your concern any longer.”

  ***

  Claire sat back against the cold metal door of the hotel room door, clasping knees to her chest as hot tears ran down her face.

  Where did she get such wonderful taste in men? Claire swiped her cheeks with the sleeve of her designer jacket, not caring about the peach and black smears of makeup that trailed across the costly fabric.

  ***

  He knew just when she checked out of the hotel. He heard the bellhop pushing a luggage cart down the hall, and caught a glimpse of bare calf as she stepped into the elevator. He had paced his room so long last night there was probably a groove in the carpet between the phone and the door.

  He hoped she would call. Or knock. Or he should call. Or knock. Or call the concierge and have a dozen red roses delivered. Maybe a thousand roses. Did she even like roses?

  Finally, sometime after three in the morning, he sat in an armchair and fell asleep. It was the sound of Cathedral bells from some nearby church that had awakened him. That, and the bustle of elevator buttons and shuffling feet in the hall as the other guests prepared to leave for the morning. Or to leave for good.

  As the bellhop disappeared into the elevator behind Claire, Helmut closed his hotel room door softly.

  What the hell did he do now? He had no job, had just insulted the daughter of the one man who’d offered business connections, and he had an expensive and empty suite in a posh Paris hotel for two more nights. Nights he had hoped to spend with Claire.

  The growling of his stomach answered his dilemma for the short term. He quickly showered off the grime and sweat from yesterday’s exertions and changed into a pair
of jeans. He didn’t bother to shave, but just grabbed his wallet and room key and made for the café across the street.

  It was empty. Too early for tourists and too close to church time for the locals, he supposed. Helmut claimed a small table inside, away from the angry glare of the sun, ordered an espresso, and opened a two-day old Wall Street Journal he’d brought from the hotel. He flipped the pages absently, not paying much attention to the waiters bustling back and forth across the small room.

  One stopped in front of his table. “Au lait, si vous plais,” Helmut said, hoping that his high-school French was adequate for ordering cream.

  “Sorry, fresh out,” drawled the reply.

  Helmut lowered the paper and looked up to find Ben looming over his table, not a waiter. Without asking, Ben pulled out a chair and sat down.

  “You look like shit,” Helmut said.

  Ben had looked a bit messy on Friday, but today he looked like he’d been hit by a bus. One full of alcohol and wearing cherry-red lipstick.

  “Same to you,” said Ben, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a roll of bills and tossed them on the table in front of Helmut. “There you are, all square.”

  Helmut shoved the money away. “Keep it.”

  Ben sneered. “Now don’t get all high and mighty on me. I don’t need a pair of wet panties to believe that you screwed Claire Sheffield. That little show you put on for the cameras was good enough for me.”

  “No thanks. Besides, you might want to watch your spending for a while,” Helmut said evenly. “Until you get back on your feet.”

  The sneer turned into a grimace. “Don’t fucking start with all your financial advice. I have a plan. I’ve been in talks for weeks with Arachnava. They don’t give a rat’s ass about the toy airplane problem.”

  Helmut set down his paper and frowned. “Arachnava? You’re going to work for Frank Burwell?”

  Ben grinned and picked up a sugar shaker. “You’re looking at the new Chief Operating Officer, starting Wednesday. At about twice your, ahem, previous salary.”

  Helmut looked. And he saw his old friend, unshaven, unwashed, hair a mess and smelling like a cheap hooker. He shook his head sadly. “Do you have that in writing, Ben?”

  “Can’t you just be happy for me for once? Holy shit, what would it take for you to say ‘Congratulations?’ Or are you jealous of me this time?” Ben slammed the sugar dish down so hard the table rattled. Helmut cringed as the few other diners all stared their way.

  “Ben, do you think Frank might have had ulterior motives in recruiting you?”

  Ben shoved his chair back and stood up. He steadied himself briefly with one hand before glaring murderously down at Helmut. “Like trying to screw your girlfriend? What’s the woman got in her pants anyway? A hoo-ha made of diamonds? Shit, I’m so wasted. See you around, loser.”

  Ben staggered out of the café, nearly tripping over a chair on the way. Helmut almost went after him. But in his present mood, there was nothing Helmut could say that wouldn’t get flung back in his face. And he’d had more than enough of flying shit lately. Let Ben pick up the pieces of his own mistakes for once.

  He contemplated the stack of bills. Even if he needed the money, he wouldn’t keep it.

  He heard church bells ringing as he drained the last few sips of harsh dense coffee from his cup. A thousand bucks was a hell of a lot more than twenty pieces of silver, but he knew where it might go to good use. And he left a generous tip behind him.

  Chapter 19

  Claire hesitated outside the door to her father’s high-rise condo, fist raised at the knocker. Silly to hesitate, since the building doorman had to buzz her up.

  She knocked. Firmly. And gulped. This would be one of the hardest conversations of her life, and she was not looking forward to it.

  “CJ, come in,” Father said with a smile as he swept the door open.

  Claire set her purse down on the hall table and walked straight down the hall toward the living room. A wall of enormous windows gave a sweeping view of the Chicago skyline. Her father had selected this side of the building instead of a lake view on purpose. He always preferred the hustle of commerce to the serenity of the water.

  “Can I get you a drink? A Tom Collins, or one of those fancy martinis that Diana’s always drinking?” He walked over to the built-in mini bar and withdrew two glasses.

  Father was dressed as casually as the man ever did, in creased khakis and a golf shirt. His salt and pepper hair was groomed, and a pair of supple suede moccasins served as his slippers. Claire resisted the urge to smooth her own skirt, no doubt wrinkled from the cab ride over.

  “No, Father, thank you. This is actually a business call.”

  “Business always goes better with a drink.” He poured an amber liquid into a matching pair of cut-crystal double old-fashioned glasses and handed one to Claire.

  She could smell the alcohol. Probably one of the whiskeys he preferred. She set it down carefully on the table.

  “Father. James. I’m not here as your daughter. I’m here as the CEO of Sheffield & Fox.”

  He took a small sip of his own drink and raised one black eyebrow at her. “One and the same, my dear.”

  “No, they’re not. And that’s exactly the problem.”

  Her father sat down his own cup and motioned her toward the dove gray sofa. She sat, grateful that her knees wouldn’t be able to knock. Unlike her nerves.

  Her father sat opposite her and reclined back, hooking one ankle over the opposite knee. “I hope you’re not still fretting over that mess in Paris last week. The press will die down soon enough. Now that the Air Force has declared the explosion an accident instead of terrorism, we can get back to solving the problems with the structure.”

  “Well, actually...”

  “If you want my advice,” her father continued. “Sack anyone still left from Lackey’s team who knew about it. That engineer, Harriet, seems to have a level head on her shoulders. She could probably take over in the interim, if you pair her with a decent face-man.”

  Claire shook her head. “This isn’t about Shadow Fly, Father. I signed Lackey’s termination papers before I left Paris on Sunday. Along with one of his team leads. And the woman in accounting who signed a big check to one of the metal suppliers—without approval. I have an independent auditor already checking the rest of the books of the project. I have a feeling we’ll be letting go of a few more people before we’re through. But, it’s covered.”

  James nodded his approval. “Good, good. Just what I would have done. Finally you’re beginning to live up to your reputation.”

  Claire started. “My reputation?”

  He smiled and swirled the amber liquid in his glass before taking another taste. “Did you know that I wasn’t the one who threw your name into the ring for CEO? I wouldn’t have even thought of it, if it weren’t for a conversation I had with Chris Smythe—you know him, the director who flies in from Omaha for all our meetings.”

  Claire’s mind was whirling. Her father hadn’t handpicked her for the job? She didn’t know whether to be relieved or ashamed.

  “He apparently made a small fortune buying Arachnava stock at your IPO several years back, and holding it. Told me that every time he felt like selling, you’d change the company direction just slightly, and send the stock soaring again. He finally sold out after you resigned, and even with the drop in value right after you left, he set both daughters up with trust funds.”

  She shook her head in amazement. “I had no idea. He never said a word.”

  “No. Well. There are several of us who did pretty well during your run. And we all hoped you could breathe a little life into S&F, too. I thought I was making some headway with Shadow Fly, but my heart’s just not in the business like it used to be. I used to lead the winds of change, not get blown around by them.”

  Claire bit her lower lip. “About Shadow Fly.”

  James drained the last of his cup. “If you need a few names for someone to
help out Harriet, let me know.”

  “No, I don’t think I will,” Claire said softly.

  “Hmm. Great. Who’s the lucky guy? Or gal?”

  Claire took a steadying breath. Here goes. “I canceled the project.”

  “You what?” James leapt to his feet.

  “It is outside our realm of expertise. We had already sunk too many resources, and there was no possible way to expect that we’d make money off it. Ever. I think we need to refocus—”

  “Of course we sank resources into the project. Do you know what it took to re-tool the site in St. Joseph? That was refocusing our business, expanding our markets.” His face was turning a violent shade of red.

  Claire stood up and laid a hand on her father’s arm. “Please, calm down for a minute.”

  “Why hasn’t the board heard of this?” he sputtered.

  “I’m the CEO. I don’t need board approval to curtail a program.”

  James stared at Claire, and she stared back, blue eyes to blue eyes. Finally he sat back down again. “You’re right. But I still think you should have told me.”

  “I am telling you. And that’s another thing I need to talk to you about.”

  He raised one eyebrow at her. Claire took her time, smoothing her skirts and arranging herself on the couch before meeting that challenge.

  “If I weren’t your daughter, would you think that I should be discussing the everyday operations of my company with you?”

  “My company.”

  “No, the stockholders’ company. And I know you’re a majority shareholder. But my responsibility is to all the stockholders, not just the one I’m related to by blood.”

  James picked up his glass and stared at it, perhaps hoping it would yield more alcohol. He set it back down.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to work this closely. As long as you sit on the board of directors, you will want a say in how the company is run.”

  “Naturally.”

  “And I won’t be treated like a puppet. I am tired of the whispers and the snickers. In order to do my job, the employees have to feel that I can handle the responsibility to make the company work. Without asking my father for permission.”