Authors: Erica Spindler
After ten days Brandon still wasn't sure what to do. For his own peace of mind he knew he had to try to make amends for his father's actions. He stared out his office window and frowned down at Canal Street. He would tell Veronique the whole story and offer her a substantial sum of money for the wrong that had been done to her father. It wouldn't undo the action, but perhaps it would equalize it a little bit. At least he would be able to sleep.
Brandon regretfully turned away from the window. He'd had difficulty concentrating since the Sovereigns' Ball; it seemed all he'd done was stare out the window and think about his father and Veronique and a thirty-year-old drama. He sat down behind his desk and pulled out the Dallas file. The preliminary marketing report was in, and the research was favorable. By all indications a Rhodes in Dallas...
How would Veronique react to his offer? He rubbed his throbbing temples. He could more imagine her making a public stink, going to the papers and filing suit than keeping quiet. He may be furious and disillusioned over his father's deceit, but he didn't want his father's memory or the Rhodes name destroyed by a scandal.
Brandon's expression softened. He liked Veronique. She made him laugh and forget responsibility. She was warm and unpredictable and giving. But a colorful past and a nose for fun weren't qualities one looked for in a business partner. Nor did they instill confidence in him that she would react logically to his offer or make a businesslike decision.
Brandon gave up the pretense of working and closed the Dallas file. Leaning back in his chair, his thoughts returned to Veronique. Today she was presenting her proposal for the display department; she would arrive any minute. He'd only seen her once in the last ten days, at a department heads' meeting. She'd been wearing pencil-leg jeans, checkboard Vans, a clingy white tee and a straw cowboy hat. When she'd looked up at him and smiled, he'd wanted her so badly he hurt.
Brandon shook his head. This fascination with Veronique was crazy. He knew it was linked to his father's death and his own grief and that it no doubt had to do with his need for a change of pace and his boredom. But rationalization didn't lessen the ache of wanting or expel her from his mind.
Maggie buzzed him; the Miami store manager was on line one.
What now?
He picked up the phone and greeted the man, all the time wondering if Veronique had thought of him at all in the last ten days.
* * *
Veronique peeked at the nameplate on the receptionist's desk. "Hi, Maggie. I have an eleven-thirty appointment with Mr. Rhodes."
The receptionist looked at her over the top of her glasses; Veronique smiled and the woman's expression warmed. "He's on the phone right now. Take a seat, and I'll tell him you're here as soon as he's off."
"Thanks." Veronique sank onto the small, striped sofa and crossed her legs. After a moment, she realized she was clutching her proposal and set it carefully on the coffee table. She would never admit this to anyone, but she was nervous. She, the daredevil and gambler, was anxious about showing Brandon a bunch of numbers on a page. Her palms were even sweating. It was silly.
It didn't feel silly, though, and she looked down at the envelope and resisted the urge to pick it up and go over the material one last time. This was her chance to really put her mark on the store. Her chance to make something that was a reflection of herself, something that would last.
Veronique sighed and recrossed her legs. If she were being honest, she would admit that she was on edge about seeing Brandon again. She couldn't forget their last encounter, had replayed every word, had examined every response. And she wasn't a woman who analyzed. The blasted man had bested her! He'd made her feel submissive and yielding and totally, achingly alive.
She glanced down at her hands. He hadn't called. She'd expected him to, and he hadn't. She'd done nothing over the last ten days but think of him, and he hadn't even bothered to call. She was annoyed—with him and herself.
Maggie stood. "Mr. Rhodes will see you now."
Veronique smoothed her short, denim skirt, then picked up her proposal and followed. The woman opened the door to Brandon's office and stepped aside so Veronique could pass. Brandon was sitting behind his desk; he stood and held out his hand when she entered. She wished the sun wasn't behind him so she could read his expression.
"Veronique. How are you?" His gaze raced over her with a greediness that shocked him.
She lightly clasped his hand; her pulse fluttered in response. She silently swore. She was getting tired of feeling like a teenager who'd just discovered hormones. "Fine. And you?"
"Just fine."
"Survived your hangover?" Veronique could have bitten her tongue when she saw his smile. He was no doubt remembering their last encounter.
Brandon's lips tilted as a picture of Veronique wearing nothing but a towel shot into his head. He'd been a fool to walk out of that bathroom. "I had a few bad hours, but, yes, I survived."
They stood there, hands clasped and eyes locked, for long moments. Veronique was the first to break eye contact. She cleared her throat. "Well..."
Brandon looked down at their joined hands. How long had they been standing there? He was behaving like a lovesick schoolboy, and it wasn't a role he particularly liked. He dropped her hand. "Shall we begin?" he asked, his voice cool and businesslike. He motioned her to take the seat opposite his, then sat down. "So, what do you have for me?"
Veronique inhaled deeply to clear her head, then began. "This proposal represents what I feel are the optimum changes for the display department. My suggestions can be modified up or down. Rather than explaining it to you in detail, I'll let you see for yourself." She handed him the proposal, then held her breath as he opened it and began reading.
Modify up? Brandon wondered in shock as he skimmed over the figures. He didn't think this proposal could be made any more elaborate or expensive than what she'd already outlined. His eyebrows rose in surprise, then lowered ominously. My God, what would she do if she
did
own half the store and could make these kinds of decisions herself?
Brandon's gaze lifted from the page in front of him to meet hers. "This is ridiculous—twenty thousand dollars for one mannequin?"
Ridiculous? Veronique's spine stiffened. She should have expected that type of response from him. He was a stuffy, uptight businessman with no creative vision. "It's the latest technology," she explained, her tone controlled. "It has sensors that detects when people are near and turns toward them and poses. The intelligent design—"
"A robot?" Brandon's tone was incredulous. "You want to buy a robot?"
"Actually, I'd like to buy several, but thought we could try one first. Ours would be the first in New Orleans. Think of the sensation it would cause in the front window."
"I can't get past the sensation it would cause down in accounting." He shook his head. "Veronique, two neon fixtures at five thousand each?"
"For juniors and young men's," she said evenly. "An upbeat look is essential in those two departments."
"Fourteen new mannequins? Architectural columns and facades?" She was the most unbusinesslike woman he'd ever met. This made as much sense as hiring criminals to man the cash registers. "Faux boulders? Fabrics? Mylar? This is way too costly. It adds up to—"
"One hundred and ten thousand dollars." Talk about robots. The man was a close-minded, corporate automaton. She wanted to slap him. Veronique clasped her hands in her lap and warned herself to keep cool. "But that figure represents the cost of buying all those items outright. There's always the—"
"You can rehire two of your artists," Brandon interrupted, closing the proposal. "Order four new—unautomated—mannequins."
"That's it?" Veronique asked aghast. She hadn't been there ten minutes, and he was already rejecting her ideas.
"I'm sorry, Veronique, but—"
She stood and faced him angrily. "You never had any intention of considering my ideas. Did you just want to see me jump through hoops?"
"That's as much nonsense as this proposal. You may be the artist, but I'm the businessman. And I'm telling you this makes no financial sense."
Idealistic artist, logical businessman. The blood rushed to her cheeks. "If you'd bothered to hear me out, you'd see that purchasing the items I listed was only one of our options. There's a business called The Display Warehouse in L.A. They specialize in new upbeat props and fixtures. Everything I named in the proposal is available from them by the month. And they're quite reasonable. For example, the automated mannequin would cost us two thousand a month. We could rent it for peak shopping times like Christmas and back-to-school."
"I'm sorry, Veronique."
"This would make perfect sense if you'd consider the long-term increase in..." She paused when she saw his face. His expression was as closed as his tone had been. He was dismissing her. Veronique placed her palms on the desk and leaned across it. "You're as arrogant and opinionated as your father was."
A muscle jumped in his jaw. "And your head is in the clouds." They glared at each other across the desk. Her cheeks were wild with color, her eyes narrowed with determination. Brandon's eyes unwittingly lowered to her mouth. Good God, he realized in shock, he wanted to kiss her. Even now, frustrated at her unrealistic ideas and furious over the comment about his father, he wanted to taste that lovely, angry mouth. Instead, he yanked his gaze away. "Why aren't I surprised at your totally unrealistic view of this situation?"
With a loud huff, Veronique straightened. She couldn't believe she'd ever been attracted to him. "There's no talking to you. Your closed mind is made up." She stuffed her proposal back into the envelope and headed toward the door.
Brandon came around the desk after her. Grabbing her elbow, he swung her back around. "I could fire you."
She lifted her chin defiantly as the blood pounded in her head. "Go ahead."
"Don't tempt me." That was the problem. His lips curved despite his anger. Everything about her tempted him. He was better off letting her walk out the door; she wasn't for him. "Leave the proposal, Veronique. I'll give it another look."
"Another look or real consideration?" She saw the answer in his eyes and tucked the envelope more firmly under her arm. "Don't bother."
She stepped through the door, then snapped it shut behind her. The reception area was empty; Maggie must have gone to lunch. Veronique wrinkled her nose and glanced down at the desk. There was a still-smoldering cigar butt in the ashtray. Nasty things, Veronique thought. There was no accounting for some people's taste. Tilting her chin, she strode from the room.
Three days later Veronique was still seething over Brandon's rejection of her proposal. She hadn't seen him, but he'd been on her mind a lot. She'd been considering various forms of petty and childish revenge, and at the moment Chinese water torture seemed like a rather nice choice.
She grinned as she pushed open the glass door to Jack's Eatery, a greasy spoon located in the heart of the central business district. Of course, she hadn't totally eliminated the rack or thumbscrews. She was a woman who liked to keep her options open.
The bell above the door jingled as she stepped into the empty restaurant. Sunday morning in the CBD was not a peak dining hour for Jack's. Poor Jack, Veronique thought, the only business he did on weekends were regulars like herself and the occasional businessman who had to catch up on work and got hungry. But she suspected Jack didn't mind too much; he only opened because he had nothing else to do.
"Hey, Jack," Veronique called out, "you've got a customer." She settled onto one of the stools at the counter and looked around. She loved this place. It was vintage fifties, complete with a black-and-white tile floor, individual juke boxes at each booth, shiny chrome and pink vinyl. A big, burly man in his mid-fifties came out of the kitchen. His smile was as broad as his waistline. "Hey there, little gal. I wondered if you'd be in this morning."
"Jack," Veronique's tone teasingly reproached, "would I miss a Sunday?"
"Oh, I don't know—" he swiped at an imaginary water mark on the counter, then looked back up at her, his blue eyes alight with humor "—I keep thinking one of these days you'll find a fella who has his own ideas about Sunday mornings."
Veronique feigned horror. "No way, Jack. This is a tradition, a way of life, a ritual. No one will ever come between me and Sunday mornings with you." Her smile widened. "Got any blueberry waffles back there?"
Jack laughed and shook his head, then poured her a cup of coffee. "One of these days, little gal. One of these days..."
Veronique smiled to herself as she added cream and sugar to her coffee. Maybe Myra Elson from upstairs would be interested in meeting Jack. With his penchant for coddling and hers for independence, they would be an interesting couple. Tucking the idea away for future consideration, she pulled her newspaper from her knapsack.
She hadn't been teasing about Sunday mornings at Jack's being a ritual. She always came in between nine and ten, always ordered waffles, bacon and a half a grapefruit and always sat at the counter and read the paper. Even the way she read the paper was a tradition. First the society gossip column, then the comics, then the sports section. After that it was up for grabs. She grinned as she added yet another packet of sugar to her coffee. The gossip column was her favorite. It was like a soap opera in print, and she loved tuning in to see who was doing what to whom.