Merlin grinned. “You want me to call down and let him know . . . ?”
“That’s not necessary.” He’d see her when he saw her. She was dying for a cup of coffee, but there wasn’t time. She’d have to sit through this meeting with Mitchell while her tongue felt like the Gobi Desert.
“Meeting room four,” Merlin called out after her as she left.
Like she needed reminding. Mitchell had made this appointment formally through her assistant yesterday, rather than calling her. The fact that he hadn’t just come sauntering in her office like he usually did didn’t surprise her. They’ve had almost no contact in the past two weeks. That he needed to see her at all, and had arranged a meeting by booking a room and sending in an official request, was peculiar.
What could he want, she asked herself as she trotted down one flight of stairs to the meeting room. Certainly, this had nothing to do with their personal dilemma. Mitchell wasn’t like that. If he’d wanted to debate the New Year’s fiasco, he’d have picked up the phone or turned up on her front step. So what was this about?
Mitchell was seated across from the door as she stepped in. His hands were folded on the tabletop and he was still, and unmoving, almost tranquil. She could barely stop her hand from shaking as she shut the door.
“Good morning.” His voice was even, neutral, polite. “Thanks for coming.”
“Sorry I’m late.” She crossed her arms against her chest, with a legal pad in one hand and a pencil and the other. By rights, the correct way to start a meeting was to shake hands, but if she held hers out, he’d know she was trembling.
He got up. “I requested coffee.” He went to a silver tray on the side table, turned over two cups and began pouring without asking. He put three lumps of sugar and a dollop of cream in hers. He remembered, she thought. He took his black.
“Thank you.”
He set the cups down, one next to his place and the other opposite his seat. “Aren’t you going to sit?”
She stood behind the chair he was holding out but still clutched the stationery items across her chest. He was so near she could see the curve of his throat and the bumps of his collarbones peeking out the top of his unbuttoned shirt. She was sure she smelled his scent, but that, she chalked up to her imagination.
So far, they’d managed to avoid each other; she’d spotted him only at a distance, disappearing from the corner of her eye whenever she turned her head, like an entity slipping from one dimension to the next. Standing this close to him made her ache. “Mitchell, I need to tell you . . .” she began, but couldn’t go on.
His eyes were a muddy brown, like the dead leaves in his wife’s collages. The lively, leaping green she’d last seen in them had been extinguished. She tried again. “I want you to know—”
He cut her off coolly. “This is a business meeting.” He gestured. “Please, sit.”
She sat, her urgent need to apologize for her behavior on New Year’s morning sticking in her throat like a bite of food that had gone down the wrong way. But if he could be all business, so could she. “Okay, you’ve got the floor.”
He sat, and folded his hands again, like a businessman bringing a proposal to the table he knew his opponent couldn’t turn down. “Things are getting ugly.” When she flinched, he explained with a cynical smile, “I mean at Bianchi’s.”
He could say that again. Not only were the employees slated for layoff at the end of January refusing to take their dismissal lying down, but many of the other staff were aligning themselves with their fallen comrades. In many areas of the company, especially at the plant, a slowdown was in effect. Production was at a crawl, and orders had already started backing up.
“Go on,” she said neutrally.
“They’ll get uglier—”
“You guys are going on strike?” she blurted.
“I’m not going on strike. I’m not part of any industrial action. As a senior supervisor, it’s against IR protocol. My staff, and a lot of other people besides, probably will, though.”
She wasn’t going to let him pretend to have clean hands. “You may not be part of the action, but you’re aiding and abetting. From what I hear, you’re running up and down the corridors, from office to office, making demands—”
“I’m not making demands. I’m coming up with suggestions as to how we can work this out so that people get to keep their jobs. My people.”
“What suggestions?” she challenged.
“That you guys hand back part of your bonuses, for starters.”
She was incredulous. “You’ve got to be—”
He waved it away impatiently. “Oh, I know that’s not going to happen. I’m merely trying to raise awareness. Bring a bit of perspective to the debate. People are facing foreclosure; their kids’ education is in jeopardy. And yet the higher-ups siphon off the cream—”
“I had nothing to do with that,” she said defensively.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s not about you.”
“Besides, I didn’t hear you say you’re handing yours back.”
His lips curved. “Don’t worry, I’m not having any crisis of conscience as to where my bonus went. But we’ll get to that. Know what else I think Bianchi’s could do to solve the problem?”
“Enlighten me.”
“This subsidiary they’re opening up in Japan . . . what do you think would happen if they put that on hold for nine months, maybe a year?”
She was aghast. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I don’t kid about people’s livelihoods.” He leaned forward. The muscles under his shirt bunched up like he was ready to spring onto the table. “What would happen,” he elucidated carefully, “is that Bianchi’s would free up enough funds to keep all staff on board until the economy takes a new direction. If Bianchi’s puts Japan on hold for just one year, sixty people could keep their jobs. The subsidiary would still open, and everyone would be happy.”
Jenessa sat back, hands wrapped around her coffee cup. She knew the liquid inside was still hot but her hands were cold. He spoke the truth. He wasn’t the only one; she’d heard the rumbling in the ranks that the Japan project had suddenly become unpopular. The media had gotten wind of it although there’d been no official release. Now Bianchi’s was being accused of not supporting the local workers while investing in the economy of another country.
If Bianchi’s put Japan on hold, there would be more than enough money to keep all staff on until things got better. It would also mean Sharona wasn’t going anywhere. The vice president position would remain filled. She winced.
“I know what that’d mean to you,” she heard him say. “Sharona would keep her post.”
Her brows shot up. “How could you possibly—?”
His smile was broader, and more cynical. “Never underestimate the power of the Bianchi’s grapevine. You could roll into Head Office with a new car on Monday morning and by lunchtime folks down at the plant will be asking for a spin around the block. Everyone knows there’re a couple of people vying for the position. And the money’s on you to win. I’m sorry.”
“What’re you sorry for?”
For the first time, she saw a glimmer of warmth in his eyes. “I know this must be hard for you. The undertaker’s dilemma, I guess: to have the potential to profit while others grieve. You’re not a cruel person. You don’t want to see anyone go home. But this move, the vice presidency, could change your life.”
She looked away, ashamed and embarrassed that he could assess her so acutely. After a few moments alone with her painful thoughts, she asked, “Mitchell, why’d you want to see me? Are you trying to win me over to your side?”
He shook his head. “For starters, I don’t believe there are ‘sides’; we all work for the same company. We should all have the same goals. But to answer your question, I asked you here to give you something.” He fingered the manila folder that he’d set down perfectly straight on the tabletop.
She stared at it as if expecting it to hop up à
la Disney musicals and begin singing and dancing over to her. “What?”
“I have a suggestion that could be win-win for both of us. You’d get an opportunity to portray Bianchi’s in a sympathetic light. Get some good press for a change, and prove to Sharona that you’re on top of it.”
“I am on top of it.”
He inclined his head in apology. “I know you are. I’ve been following your statements in the press, and I read the story about Bianchi’s setting up the homework centers for city kids to go to after school. And sponsoring the meal delivery service for the elderly. Positive ideas, both of them. The feedback’s been pretty good.”
“So, what do you want?”
“Money. Lots of it.”
Her jaw unhinged. “You want me to give you—”
He slapped the folder down in front of her. “Not yours. In spite of what you think of me, I’ve never stooped to asking a woman for money.”
She hurried to correct him. “Mitchell, I swear, I don’t think badly of—”
“What I want is money from Bianchi’s to set up a halfway house for female addicts in Catarina. Recovering addicts,” he corrected himself. “We’ve already got the building, and a few friends who work down at the rehab center and I are trying to set it to rights. But there’s a lot to be done. The whole building needs rewiring to get it up to code. There’s drywall that needs tearing down, lots of cleaning to do, and then when the structure’s completed, we’ll need furniture. Beds, chairs, tables, you name it.”
“And you want Bianchi’s to sponsor this?”
“If you back it, they will.”
“Our community development budget isn’t huge, you know,” she hedged.
“No, but it exists. And it serves a purpose: to help improve the communities we work in. And the lives of the people who buy our products.” He looked satisfied, confident of getting his way. “It’s not that much money, Jen; just one building. If you do this, we’d get the funding we need, Bianchi’s gets the kudos for being a good corporate citizen, and you get the recognition from the Board for making it all happen. And if that job comes up, that’s one more good reason to choose you over anyone else.”
“I thought you didn’t want that job to come up.”
“Correction: I don’t want the Japan project to go ahead right now. If it does, a lot of people are going to get hurt.” He gave her a long, sober look. “But I hardly think anyone at Bianchi’s is staying up nights agonizing over what I do or don’t want. . . . ”
She studied the tabletop intently.
He went on. “But if Japan goes on as planned—and it probably will—it could mean the world to you.”
“And you’d help me.”
“Of course.”
She didn’t know how she’d feel about the answer, but she asked anyway. “Why?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Because I care for you.”
Not trusting herself to speak, she opened the folder and flipped through it. There were letters, drawings, photographs of a neglected-looking three-story building on a narrow street. A carefully typed budget. A long-term project proposal. Mitchell was nothing if not thorough.
Business meeting or not, she had to get the heavy rock off her chest so she could breathe again. “Mitchell,” she whispered.
He didn’t respond.
“I’m sorry.”
Still, a silence.
“I know I hurt you. I know I embarrassed you. What I did was wrong . . . unforgivable. But I didn’t do it for the reasons you think.”
“What reasons were those?” He was a master of his emotions, because his intonation was flat and without inflection.
“I wasn’t ashamed to be seen with you.” Her eyes were on his, pleading. “I told you: I’m not a snob. I don’t for one second think you’re not good enough for me.”
He gave no indication that he believed her. “Why, then?”
“I’m not . . . I’m not comfortable with PDAs,” she offered lamely.
One brow arched in disbelief. “You are doing fine until the Goodmans came along. You’d made it halfway up Independence with thousands of people bearing witness to us walking hand-in-hand. How come you suddenly got shy when we came face-to-face with one man?”
“Tony Goodman’s my boss!”
“Mine too.”
“Exactly. We’re co-workers. It’s not the best career move to get caught canoodling—”
“We weren’t ‘canoodling’,” he reminded her. “And we didn’t get ‘caught’. Besides, there’s absolutely nothing in company policy against office relationships, provided we’re not in a position that allows us to collude or defraud.” For clarification, he added, “I don’t prepare checks; you don’t sign ‘em.”
“And you know this because . . . ?”
He shrugged. “I looked it up.”
She was incredulous. “You read through the company policy for—”
“In the interest of science.”
Trust the man to be so resourceful. She waded through the ensuing silence. “Mitchell?”
“Jen?”
“Forgive me. I hurt you, and I’m sorry. It was a shitty thing to do, and I apologize unreservedly.”
The smile he gave her had more warmth than she’d seen in him so far. “Okay.”
After another heaping dose of silence, she ventured, “Where does this leave us, then?”
He was sober again. “I don’t know.”
“Can’t we just—”
“Pick up where we left off? Not that easy. There’s more to this than just us. There’re outside forces . . .” He paused. “And internal forces, that might make this hard. . . . ”
She groaned deep inside. “I know, but if we could . . . set them aside long enough to see. . . . ”
“Where we can take this?”
“Yes.”
He frowned, thinking hard. “I’m not sure.”
Her heart crash-landed.
“But I’ll think on it. Try to examine how I feel.”
I know how I feel, she could have told him. I want to know you more. I want to find out if this is more than just physical.
“And once I do, you’ll be the first to know. Deal?”
She gave him a hopeful smile, knowing when Mitchell made a promise, he kept it. “Deal.”
To her shock, he leaned forward suddenly, and sealed the pact with a light kiss on the cheek, that was over before she could react. By the time he got to his feet, she was breathing fast.
“About this,” he pointed to the proposal she was squeezing the life out of in both hands. “You need to see the place.”
“Guess I do.”
“I can take you. Later. After work.”
The idea of seeing him again, twice in one day after two weeks of near-invisibility, made her swallow hard. “Sounds fine.”
“You can follow me in your car, if you like,” he suggested discerningly.
She knew what he was alluding to, and felt her neck get hot. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll ride with you, if you don’t mind.”
The look he gave her stripped away her layers. “I don’t mind,” he said. “I’ll meet you outside at five.”
She found enough backbone to hold his gaze steadily a she responded. “I’ll be there.”
13.
“Beautiful,” Mitchell breathed. He stared, hands on hips, glowing with appreciation.
Jenessa was skeptical. She tilted her head to better take in the building they were standing in front of. It was located in a quieter part of Catarina, far from most of the restaurants, bars and trendy boutiques, surrounded mainly by brownstones and duplexes. Unlike the apartment buildings flanking it, though, it had seen better days. If it had once been vibrant and filled with happy families, there was little evidence to support that. Windows were boarded up, the paint was so grungy she’d have to guess at what color it had originally been. ‘Beautiful’ wasn’t a word she’d use to describe it.
As they crossed the road and entered through t
he main doorway, she tried to put herself in Mitchell’s shoes, and understand what it was about this building, and this project, that made it so special. Here was a man who’d all but lost his sister to drugs, who’d seen his family torn apart, and his beloved niece neglected and abused by a mother who’d given in to a dark power stronger than herself. No wonder he felt so passionate.
They’d barely made it into the foyer when two young men came shuffling through the front door, lugging a long, heavy box between them. The box looked full of red and blue snakes. Jenessa and Mitchell leaped aside to save themselves from getting run over.
One young man, who sported an intricate design of swirls shaved into his short hair, puffed, “Prof, where you want us to put these cables?”
“Third floor.” He pointed to the staircase. “And while you’re at it, start sorting them out.”
“No problem.” The boys nodded, set the box down long enough to stretch their backs and redistribute its weight, hefted it up again and crab-walked toward the staircase.
Jenessa had to ask. “Prof?”
He shrugged. “They’re kidding. I’m not a professor.”
Talk about answering a question without saying anything! She probed. “What are you then?”
“I teach a diploma course in electronic engineering at Arlo Tech.”
She knew she was gaping, but couldn’t get her mouth closed. “You teach up at Tech?”
“Only part-time.” Then he added dryly, “You seem surprised.”
She tried to recover from her insulting double take. “I’m not. I mean . . . I didn’t know.”
“No reason you should.”
An older man the size of a Minotaur, wearing a leather apron and gloves like catcher’s mitts, interrupted to update Mitchell, giving Jenessa a toothy smile by way of apology. After a few minutes, they parted company, the man casually swinging a sledgehammer over his shoulder like it was a whiffle bat as he walked toward the back of the building.
The Irresistible Mr Cooper Page 12
