by Gina LaManna
“I just adore shopping for a nice young lady. You can wear anything, dear, with your figure.” She poured coffee for my boss, and then made her way around the table. As she filled my cup, she leaned over and whispered, “What do you think about the shoes?”
I gushed my amazement over them in quiet whispers. I might have proposed to her, or to the shoes—I lost track in between thanking her a hundred different times.
“It’s nothing,” she said, straightening. “It’s more selfish on my end. I love to shop, but I have no use for the clothes. Aren’t the clothes darling on her, Mr. Clark?”
He hadn’t broken his staring contest with my face. “Darling,” he murmured. “Yes.”
After a minute of Mrs. Dulcet staring between the two of us, she waved a hand. “I’ll be right out with the main course.”
“Why did you cry?”
His question caught me off guard. “What? I didn’t cry.”
“Your breathing increased, as did your pulse, back in the bedroom.”
“Maybe I was hungry.”
“Did I say something wrong?”
“No, it wasn’t you. I promise.”
“Because I’d appreciate it if you told me.” He paused and took a sip of coffee. The look on his face was like a puppy dog who’d lost his favorite toy. A little sad, a little confused, a little hopeful. “I don’t pretend to understand women. If I’ve said something to hurt you, I need to know because, well, I don’t like to see you cry, and I don’t want to say it again.”
I couldn’t believe it. My eyes welled up. Again. It was the lack of sleep. My eyes were so tired that they were dry enough to spontaneously burst into tears. “You didn’t say anything, I promise.”
“It’s happening again!” He stood up. “What did I do?”
“I’m not crying!”
“Lola—”
“I promise. It’s nothing you did.”
It was a lie, but one I needed to tell. Because there was no way I could describe to Dane the way he’d made me feel. Confused, sure, but something else. It’d been so long since a man in any way, shape, or form had cared about my emotions. The simple fact that he didn’t want to see me sad meant more than he could’ve known.
Mr. Clark came around the table and rested a hand on my shoulder. “What can I do to help?”
“I’m really okay.” I rested my hand over his and squeezed. That familiar zing of excitement that came only when Dane Clark made contact, sending tremors down my spine. “Thank you.”
He returned to his seat, and we each sipped our coffee in silence.
“Mrs. Dulcet,” he said, “You can bring breakfast now and stop hiding in the hallway.”
Mrs. Dulcet moved into the room, set breakfast on the table, and asked the napkins if they needed anything else. We both shook our heads no. She left the room, still without making eye contact, only to return for a third time a few seconds later. “Mr. Clark, there’s someone here to see you.”
“Send him in.”
“Mr. Clark,” she said carefully. “I believe this is someone who you should meet at the door. Your guest told the guards this was important.”
I wanted to ask who was at the door.
As it turned out, however, I didn’t need to do any such thing.
While Mr. Clark left to greet the surprise guest, I took full advantage of his absence and stocked up on sweets. Halfway through my second biscotti, the voices arrived down the hall.
The two male speakers fell silent, however, and instead footsteps took their places. Eventually, the footsteps stopped, too, just outside of the dining area. Even if I wanted to leave, I couldn’t. I sat there, perfectly still, and pretended not to eavesdrop.
“I told you, Gary, I’m not interested.” Mr. Clark’s voice was passive, neutral, with an undertone of finality. “I am not going to change my mind, no matter how many times you invite yourself into my home.”
“I’m urging you to reconsider.”
“I’ve considered plenty. For the third time, no. I will not sell to you personally, or to your company, so I advise you to stop wasting your time, and mine. Please pass on my regards to your colleagues.”
“But Mr. Clark!” This Gary fellow sure was persistent. “We’ve doubled the previous offer. It’d be ridiculous not to consider it.”
“Then consider me ridiculous.”
I hid a laugh, ducking my head and covering my mouth with a napkin. He was the least ridiculous person I knew. Smart, logical, peculiar, maybe, but not ridiculous.
The following silence had me worried that they’d heard me, until Gary spoke again. “What would be enough?”
“No offer will be enough. Ever.”
“The business landscape is changing fast.” Gary’s words turned clipped, no longer with a hint of playfulness in them. “This is the most money you’ll ever be offered for your company, and if you turn me down, you’ll spend the rest of your life regretting it.”
“So be it.”
“Mr.—”
Dane appeared in the doorway, which surprised the heck out of me. I straightened in my chair and watched out of the corner of my eye as he adjusted his suit, which was already perfectly in place.
Without a word, he returned to his place at the table. Footsteps followed then, as Gary strode into the room, his face creased with anger, frustration in his eyes. He stopped abruptly when his eyes landed on mine.
“Oh, my.” Gary looked over me, processing for a long second. “Apologies, Dane. I didn’t realize you had company. We can continue our discussion on these matters at a later time if that would be more convenient to you.”
I waited for Dane to respond, but he’d become engrossed with cutting a piece of toast in half.
“I’m Lola,” I said, sticking a hand out. “No need to stop discussing on my account, I’m not company. I work here.”
“What do you think, Lola?” Dane looked up at me. “Should I sell my company to Gary?”
I cleared my throat. “Well, uh, it sounds like you don’t want to.”
“I don’t.”
“Then I wouldn’t sell,” I said, glancing between the two men, pretending I fit into this discussion when I most certainly did not. “Not that I’m an expert.”
“You heard Lola.” Dane took a bite of his toast. “She’s advised me not to sell. So, we don’t need to have any more meetings.”
I smiled into my coffee, though I couldn’t meet Gary’s eyes.
“Good day, Gary,” Dane said. “Mrs. Dulcet, please call Semi to show our guest out.”
“Who is Semi?” I asked.
A man appeared in the doorway. He was so tall I could hardly see his face, and so wide that he blocked most of the door. Gary’s face drained of color.
“I’ll be going now,” Gary said.
“Good,” Mr. Clark said.
Mrs. Dulcet stepped in, offering a terse smile to Gary. “Semi will show you out, sir.”
With a man called Semi in the doorway, and three others staring him down, Gary had no choice but to leave. Before he exited the room, however, he stole one last glance over his shoulder—first at me, then Dane, as if the sight was something exotic, something one may find at the zoo.
I gave him a finger wave. “Bye, Gary.”
Once we heard the front door close, breakfast continued as if there had never been any interruption. I gave Dane time to explain, and I even shot him a few pointed looks hoping he’d catch my inquiring stares. He didn’t.
Finally, I set my fork down, clanking it against my plate. “So, Mr. Clark. What was that all about?”
“I thought you’d heard. Gary was attempting to buy my company.”
“Don’t you think you should’ve mentioned that sometime since I’d arrived?” I shook my head. “I’m investigating a serious theft, and someone keeps hounding you to buy your company. That’s important.”
In the ensuing silence, I found my eyes drawn to the pan of piping hot cinnamon rolls Mrs. Dulcet had delivered to the ta
ble after seeing Gary out.
Mr. Clark’s gaze flicked toward the roll. “You want it, don’t you?”
“What? No,” I lied. “Focus on Gary.”
“Gary has been trying to buy my company for years. He works for Graham Industries, a software company. I turn him down every time.”
“Is it a good offer?”
“It doesn’t matter; I’m not selling. The Clark Company never sells. After all, it wouldn’t very well be the Clark Company if the Clark family gave it up now, would it?”
“Regardless, it could tie into the investigation,” I said. “As for my second question—who’s your friend?”
“Semi.”
“Well, I gathered that much. I was hoping for more of an explanation.”
“He’s called Semi, and he works for me. On the security team.”
“Is that his real name?”
“No, a nickname, I believe. Semi’s brother works for me as an engineer in Warehouse 5, and he got us started calling him that. Don’t ask me why, I don’t understand the point of nicknames. My name is Dane, so I expect people to call me Dane.”
“Yes, Mr. Clark,” I quipped, unable to help myself. “Tell me more about Gary’s offer.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m not accepting it.” Dane sat back in his seat, surveying me from across the long, adorned table. “I enjoy working. I enjoy my company. And if I sold it, the company would fall apart. It’s not a magic bullet that makes this company run, it’s hard work and—”
“Lots of capital,” I muttered.
“Excuse me?”
“Well, you have lots of money, and that helps,” I said, thinking of Shades of Pink, and all the huge plans I had for its growth. Unfortunately, it was hard to grow a business without a bank account balance, which was how I’d ended up here in the first place. “It’s harder to run a company when one has no money with which to run said company.”
“Yes, true,” he hesitated. “Regardless, I prefer to work. Not to sit, useless, on some board of directors. I suppose that’s why Nick didn’t bring this up to you,” Dane said. “He must have figured it was irrelevant.”
“What if it’s not?” I leaned over the table. “What if Graham Industries had a hand in the theft? Maybe they’re trying to scare you into selling.”
“But I’m not scared.”
“If you lose this entire project, it’ll be a big blow to the business,” I said. “Take a breath and consider everything. Gary’s pressuring you now? This week? You’re in the middle of a crisis and probably more unstable than usual.”
“I pride myself on my emotional, physical, and logical stability.”
“Then use your stabilized thinking to consider it,” I said. “Please.”
He had a response ready; I could see it on his lips. But he hesitated, sat back in his chair, and considered it. “I suppose,” he said. “It’s a bit of a stretch, but I can’t say it’s impossible.”
“Why is it so much of a stretch?”
Dane leaned forward. “Because it’s Graham Industries to whom I’m selling this chip in the first place. If I don’t deliver the chip, they can’t use it for their project.”
I fell into stunned silence.
“It’s confidential, of course, so don’t share this information.”
Once I regained my thought process, I shook my head. “If anything, that gives Graham Industries a stronger reason to steal your blueprints.”
“How do you figure?”
“Imagine a scenario where they stole the blueprint from you. Three things would happen. One,” I said, ticking off my fingers. “They wouldn’t have to pay the millions, or billions they owe you. Two, they startle the Clark Company into thinking you have lost a huge sum of money. Third, well . . . I know there’s more, but I’m still waiting for it to hit me.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll never sell.”
“Even if the sale of this chip falls through?”
“Not then, not ever. If Mrs. Dulcet didn’t ask me to decline Gary’s offers politely, I wouldn’t entertain them at all.”
“Does Mrs. Dulcet want you to sell?” I asked, still wondering about the chilly void between Nick and Mrs. Dulcet, wondering if this is what had caused the root of their issues. If Mrs. Dulcet wanted Dane to sell, but Nick had opposing opinions, that could put them on opposite sides of the playing field.
Maybe I’d been looking at it all wrong, and their distaste for one another had nothing to do with Nick’s family history, and everything to do with the company’s future.
“No, I don’t believe so.” Mr. Clark paused. “At least, she’s never said as much. I don’t really know. Mrs. Dulcet?”
The butler appeared in the doorway a second later. “Yes, sir?”
“Do you want me to sell my company to Gary?”
Mrs. Dulcet stalled, the look of surprise fleeting. “It’s your company, sir, and you know best. I’m just here to help.”
Mr. Clark sat back and glanced across the table. “Does that answer your questions?”
Mrs. Dulcet’s gaze also swiveled toward me. “Do you have any other questions, Miss Pink?”
“No, I just wondering about Gary. Who he is and why he keeps coming back if Mr. Clark has told him no on so many occasions.”
“He’s persistent, I’ll give him that.” She folded her hands in front of her body. “I always encourage Mr. Clark to listen to all business proposals because I think that’s a wise move. He can always say no.”
“Of course.”
“May I bring you a cinnamon roll?” she asked, her voice falsetto. “I have some files for you that Nick sent over. Maybe you’d like to review them over dessert?”
I eyed the cinnamon rolls and found myself nodding. Dane probably looked appalled, but I didn’t have the guts to check. Then he made a noise in his throat, and I looked up.
“Do you know how much butter is in that recipe?” he asked. “It will clog your arteries by the time you’re forty.”
“But they’re delicious.”
“Dane, a moment?” Mrs. Dulcet said firmly, nodding toward the kitchen. “I’d like a word in private.”
I watched as Dane left the table, following his butler into the kitchen. Low murmurings met my ears, and then a second later, he reappeared in the doorway holding a plate with a piping hot cinnamon roll on it.
“Enjoy,” he said, sounding a bit choked as he forced the words out. He set the fresh roll on the table before me. “I’m sorry I commented on your eating habits. You look beautiful and I have no place to tell you what to eat or not to eat, even if I’ve studied the body and nutrition extensively.”
“Did Mrs. Dulcet tell you to say that?”
“Yes.”
“Except for the nutrition part. You tacked that on yourself, didn’t you, Dane?”
Mr. Clark turned abruptly and left the room. Over his shoulder, he murmured something on repeat that sounded like, “Nothing nice to say, don’t say anything at all.”
Mrs. Dulcet bustled into the room, whistling.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said. “My feelings weren’t hurt.”
“I know,” she said, pouring me a fresh cup of coffee. She dropped the files in front of me. “Let me know if I can help with anything else.”
“Thank you.”
I had just turned to the documents when Mrs. Dulcet stopped in the doorway, turning halfway around, her hands filled with trays and cups and silverware. “Lola…”
I looked up. “Yes?”
“There’s one more thing.” She leaned a shoulder against the wall. “I encouraged Mr. Clark to apologize for giving you advice on what to eat,” she said, a small smile lighting her lips. “But I never told him to say you were beautiful.”
She left, and the sounds of dishes being washed clattered from the kitchen. A ray of happiness warmed me, and suddenly, the cinnamon roll wasn’t the best part of my morning. As I started to review the files, I couldn’t quite wipe the smile from my face.
<
br /> I waited at the platform for Joseph Anderlin, lead designer for the Warehouse 7 project, to collect me. I couldn’t go to him since he’d been moved to the project in Warehouse 10, and my keycard didn’t allow me access to the building.
“Would you like to talk here?” Joseph asked, foregoing all greetings as he climbed off the train onto the platform at the castle. “Or we can go to the Eagle Office in Warehouse 10. Your choice.”
“Somewhere more private, please.”
He nodded and stepped right back onto the train. “Come on, then.”
I hopped into the car behind him. “Thanks for taking the time to meet. Did Mr. Clark give you some idea what it was about?”
Joseph raised an eyebrow. “I thought you wanted to wait until we were somewhere more private.”
I nodded and, for the rest of the train ride, we rode in silence. I split my time staring out the window and trying to be subtle in assessing Joseph Anderlin from his reflection in the window.
He was tall and broad shouldered, intimidating in his stature. Thick gray hair stood up on his head like a well-cut lawn. Someone had trimmed it with military precision. The style both aged him and made him look dignified; he could be anywhere in age from the mid-thirties to the late-fifties.
“We’re here,” he said. “Follow closely.”
I did as he said, watching as we went through the familiar security procedures to enter a warehouse and proceed to an Eagle Office.
It wasn’t until he was seated in the large chair behind the mahogany desk that he folded his hands. “What can I do for you?”
“This looks very similar to Warehouse 7,” I said, scanning the workroom from our vantage point above it all. “Are all the warehouses like this?”
“I can’t comment on that.”
Clearly, he wasn’t up for small talk. “I assume you know I’m Mr. Clark’s personal assistant.”
“You’re looking into the theft in Warehouse 7.”
“What?”
“Don’t play games with me.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “Mr. Clark might call you his personal assistant, but he can’t believe that I’d fall for it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about—”
