Ulterior Motives

by Laura Leone

  Perhaps if he’d been more alert, he would have made the connection sooner. He had known that the director of the Babel Language Center was negotiating with Keene International, and he had assumed she would be at their reception. But from the instant he’d noticed those big gray eyes staring at him with open interest, he’d been so taken by her that some of his brain cells had stopped working. Besides, what little he knew of the director of the Babel Language Center made him expect a brisk and aggressive businesswoman, which certainly didn’t fit Shelley’s easy warmth and humor.

  He smiled ruefully. The only thing about Shelley that fit in with his previous image of her were her simple, plain, even austere clothes. He supposed she dressed that way to make men keep their minds on business. It hadn’t done any good in his case. He could picture her in velvet, in silk, in lace, in nothing at all... He’d buy her something beautiful, something to go with her eyes, when he got to know her better.

  If he got to know her better.

  The memory of her kiss, the sweetness of her mouth, the feel of her full breasts pressing against his chest stirred inside him. He thought she was like a sexual fantasy—but with many other wonderful qualities that exceeded mere sex appeal.

  It was no wonder that so many businesses had contracted Shelley’s services since her arrival in Cincinnati. She was lovely and intelligent, but even more than that, one immediately sensed her innate honesty and fairness. She would be a pleasure to do business with, someone you could trust. Her warmth and friendliness would reach out to clients, making them feel good about themselves and their potential for adjusting to a new culture and a new language. Shelley could make people feel that she understood what they, their family, or their company needed from her school.

  Ross’ work had taught him how difficult it was to find good language school directors. He wondered where she had come from and what she had done before Babel.

  “Ross, you seem lost in thought, mon ami,” said Charles, sticking his head inside Ross’ cramped office.

  Ross smiled faintly. Charles had obviously found out about his background. Born to an American father and a French mother, he was bilingual. Ever since his arrival two days earlier, Charles had been peppering his speech with French phrases pulled straight out of an Agatha Christie novel. It was an affectation Ross had encountered many times before. In this case he wasn’t quite sure whether Charles was exhibiting awkward goodwill or a worn-out sense of humor... or was simply being a pompous idiot.

  “Have a seat, Charles,” Ross invited. As Charles slid into a chair, Ross wondered whether the middle-aged man had any facial expression other than the cool half smile he had been wearing since Ross’ arrival.

  “Finding everything you need?” Charles asked.

  “Yes. You’ve been very helpful,” Ross replied, trying to detect some trace of animosity in Charles’s expression. Since Ross’ very presence at the school implied ineffectual management, and since his job might include firing Charles, he was prepared for resentment, even anger. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time, he thought wearily. Charles, however, during Ross’ first two days at the school, had been courteous and cooperative, if understandably nervous. Ross had to appreciate the man’s attitude.

  “I’m afraid the books are in a terrible mess,” said Charles. “We’ve had such an unexpectedly high turnover of staff here. I’m so bad at bookkeeping that I don’t even go near them myself. I can understand why the head office would object to that, of course. Perhaps I’ll have to learn something about accounting after all. I’m afraid I’m just not a financially oriented man.”

  Ross intended to begin questioning Charles about some of the inconsistencies in the accounts, so he was rather surprised to hear himself say, “Tell me what you can about Michelle Baird.”

  “Michelle Baird?” Charles repeated with no change of expression.

  “And the Babel Language Center,” Ross added, feeling slightly ridiculous. He knew damn well that it wasn’t professional interest that had prompted his request. On the other hand, Shelley was not only the first thing on his mind at the moment, but she was also his chief competitor in this city, and Charles had known her professionally for over a year.

  “She calls me Chuck,” Charles said with the first flash of irritation Ross had seen in him.

  Ross suppressed a smile. “What else?”

  “What else does she call me?”

  “What else do you know about her?” Ross clarified.

  “She’s single, twenty-eight years old, studied languages and linguistics at college, worked as a tour guide in Europe for several years after college and took a minor job with the Babel Center in Chicago when she came back to the US. Considering her lack of experience or qualifications, I don’t know how she got promoted to her current position. Of course, she’s a very ambitious young woman, and she’s rather pretty, too. Presumably she found a way to attract the attention of the man who was her immediate superior in Chicago...” Charles trailed off, letting the innuendo dangle between them.

  Ross found the insinuation offensive when applied to the woman with whom he had hoped to spend the weekend. He reminded himself that this was a business discussion and considered the implications from that angle. Objectively he knew it was possible, but he was still skeptical; it would be foolish to put Babel’s entire Cincinnati operation in the hands of a woman in payment for her sexual favors. On the other hand, men were foolish over women with amazing regularity—particularly a woman as alluring as Shelley. Any sensible man who knew her intimately would no doubt soon realize that it wouldn’t be a mistake to put her in charge of a language school...

  Not liking the direction his thoughts were taking, Ross approached the question from another angle. “If she’s so unqualified and inexperienced, how do you account for her impressive success during her first year in this city?”

  “How would you define success?” Charles asked with a touch of condescension.

  “I define success as having virtually monopolized all new business within the past year, not to mention having drawn away some of our old clients,” Ross said.

  “Well, if that’s your only criterion for success—”

  “Is there another one?”

  “Bien sûr,” said Charles. Ross tried not to wince. “Surely professional integrity should be taken into consideration.”

  “Oh?”

  “Miss Baird, as I have said, is a very attractive and ambitious young woman...”

  Ross spoiled Charles’s dramatic pause. “Go on.” He heard the harshness in his tone and reminded himself to be objective.

  “I wouldn’t want to be accused of spreading rumors, Ross,” said Charles hesitantly.

  “Nothing you say will go beyond these walls,” Ross assured him. Confidentiality had always been part of his job, whether dealing with fact or fancy.

  “Very well, then...”

  Chapter Three

  Relaxing that weekend would obviously be impossible, even impractical. All Shelley could do was sit around and wonder what Ross was doing—and whether or not it was too late to change her mind about spending the weekend with him.

  So she threw herself into a frenzy of activity, cleaning the whole apartment, scrubbing down the kitchen, even braving the inside of her refrigerator, washing the car, running her errands, doing her laundry, writing to friends abroad, and finally refinishing an old chair she’d acquired from her mother’s basement on her last visit to Chicago.

  By Monday morning she was exhausted enough to need another weekend to recuperate, but she still hadn’t succeeded in banishing Ross Tanner from her thoughts.

  She arrived at the office early Monday morning to organize the previous week’s figures before the business day began. From nine o’clock onward, though, she was so busy that she finally asked Francesca to fax the figures to Jerome in Chicago and to have him fax her any information obtained on Ross Tanner. She wouldn’t have time to study it until the evening.

  Early in the morning,
students and teachers started arriving at the Babel Language Center. Shelley greeted everyone by name as they passed by her office or bumped into her near the coffeepot. She kept close track of her clients’ progress. Although policy recommended that she make regular appointments with them, most clients got along well with Shelley and stopped by her office frequently for informal chats.

  She liked to maintain close contact with Babel’s staff of part-time teachers, too. Nearly everyone sat down with Shelley once a week or so to say hello and exchange news.

  Pablo Gutierrez, a medical student from Venezuela, came into her office in a panic, explaining in frantic Spanish that he was having trouble with the immigration authorities even though his visa was valid. Shelley’s own Spanish was rusty, since it was her fourth language—after English, French, and Italian—so she finally had to stop Pablo and insist he explain the situation in English.

  She spent the next half hour on the telephone with various local government officials and agreed to write letters on Pablo’s behalf to the necessary authorities. It took nearly another half hour to assure Pablo that everything would be all right and that there was no need for panic.

  After that, Mr. Powell entered her office. He was displeased with his progress in Greek and wanted to try another language.

  “But, Mr. Powell,” Shelley reminded him gently, “this will be the fourth language you’ve tried since your first visit here only five months ago.”

  “Don’t misunderstand me, Shelley,” Mr. Powell said. “I am in no way complaining about the teachers or the Babel teaching method. I just don’t seem to have a knack for Greek.”

  “Well, you felt that way about Spanish and French, as well. I don’t think the problem is an inherent inability to learn any of these languages.”

  “Then why haven’t I made any progress? I still have trouble saying the simplest little thing,” he said in frustration.

  “Speaking another language is like playing a musical instrument,” Shelley said patiently. “There isn’t a theory you can look at and immediately put into use. I speak from experience when I say that in order to speak a language comfortably, you have to practice it for a long time, just as you would practice the piano for a long time before you would expect to play a Chopin nocturne without stopping every three measures.”

  “But I practice at home every night!”

  “Mr. Powell, how long did it take you to learn to speak English?”

  “I... well...”

  “I would estimate that you were at least four or five years old before you became able to communicate on a sophisticated level with almost anyone. Although you’re older and wiser now, you’re less flexible than you were then, and you’re attempting to learn a new language under artificial circumstances. You really need to give it at least a year before you start expecting to communicate without strain. Time and practice, Mr. Powell,” Shelley concluded with an encouraging smile.

  Mr. Powell mulled this over for a moment before his face broke into a wide grin. “In that case, Shelley, I’d like to go back to the French, which is what I came here to learn in the first place. It just sounds a lot prettier to me than this Greek stuff. No offense intended to the Greeks.”

  “And this time you’ll stick with it?”

  “Yes, this time I’ll stick with it. I think,” he added.

  “All right. You tell Francesca when you want to have your lessons this week, and we’ll call you later today after we’ve booked a teacher.”

  “Thank you, Shelley.”

  After his departure, Shelley recalled with amusement that he conducted decision-making seminars for top-level businessmen all over the Midwest.

  “Shelley,” Francesca said, sticking her head into Shelley’s. “Washington is on the line.”

  “Washington?”

  “Coordinator of interpreters.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “Vuoi un po’ di caffè?” Francesca asked.

  “Yes, coffee would be wonderful, thank you, Francesca.” She picked up the phone. “Hello?”

  “Shelley, it’s about that job for the courts next week. Have you found an interpreter yet for the witness?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “No?” the woman said accusingly. “Why not, may I ask?”

  “I’m in Cincinnati, remember?” Shelley said patiently. “Where do you expect me to find a native speaker of Pashto who speaks English fluently enough to give simultaneous translations in legal proceedings, and who happens to be a US citizen, too? You don’t just find hordes of people from Afghanistan standing around in Fountain Square waving their citizenship papers in your face.”

  “Well, have you made any effort at all?”

  “Of course, I’ve made an effort. I’m still making an effort,” Shelley said, beginning to dislike the new coordinator. It was evidently a nerve-racking job, since no one had lasted in it more than six months.

  “May I inquire what effort?”

  “I’ve contacted the Islamic Association of Cincinnati, the foreign students’ organization of every college in southern Ohio, Traveler’s Aid, Immigration, and some ethnic restaurants. Since I only received your message Friday afternoon, I think it’s fair to say I gave it considerable attention before the weekend began,” Shelley replied, her patience becoming a little forced.

  “If you fail to find someone, you could jeopardize a very important contract, my dear,” the woman warned.

  Shelley winced at the word “fail” and scowled at the words “my dear.”

  “If there is an American Pashto speaker in all of Cincinnati, I will find him and, if necessary, I will personally drag him kicking and screaming to the law courts. Satisfied?” she said with barely concealed annoyance.

  “Just find one. I’ll phone again tomorrow,” the woman said, and hung up.

  The phone rang again almost immediately. Shelley regarded it with loathing.

  “Shelley,” Francesca said as she carried a cup of coffee in, “some of that information from Jerome in Chicago is coming through now on the telefax machine.”

  “All right.”

  “Aren’t you going to answer the phone?”

  “Let Wayne get it,” she said.

  “Wayne is on the line to New York.”

  “Well, then you get it.”

  “I am making more coffee.”

  Shelley sighed and picked up the phone. “Babel Language Center. Can I help you?”

  “Shelley, this is Mike Paige over at Keene International.”

  “Hello, Mike. How are you?” Shelley took a deep breath and crossed her fingers. He was the man she’d been negotiating with for Keene’s sizable contract.

  “Shelley, you may have heard that there’s a new man over at the Elite Language Center, a guy named Ross Tanner. Well, he came in and spoke with my superior this morning, who was very impressed with him. So it looks like we may be farther from a decision than I thought.”

  “I see,” Shelley said. Ross certainly worked fast, didn’t he? She was disturbed but maintained a calm tone. “Does your boss still want me to meet with him tomorrow?”

  “Oh, yes, certainly...”

  “But?” Shelley asked, sensing the man was debating a whether or not to tell her something else.

  “But he wants me to meet with Tanner tomorrow to see what I think of the man’s proposal.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m telling you this because I like you, Shelley. I was hoping we’d go with your school. Maybe we still will.”

  “I intend to do my best to see that you do,” Shelley said evenly. “Thanks for calling, Mike.”

  “Shelley,” Francesca called just as she was putting down the receiver. “Can you come out here please?”

  Shelley went into the hallway, where a delivery man was piling up a dozen or more large boxes.

  “What’s going on here?” Shelley asked.

  “Rush delivery, ma’am. Got the order Friday.”

  “Delivery of what?”

&nbs
p; Francesca examined the packing lists. “Mandarin grammar books.”

  “All of them?”

  “I think so, Shelley.”

  “What’s going on here?” said Wayne, coming out into the hallway.

  “Who ordered this?” Shelley asked.

  “School number 112, ma’am. It says so right there on the receipt,” the deliveryman said.

  “School number 112?” Wayne repeated. “That’s in—”

  “Los Angeles,” Shelley finished. “There’s been a mistake. We’re school number 121.”

  “No mistake, ma’am. Your address is listed right here.”

  Shelley looked at his list. It was their address, all right.

  “Someone in distribution has really messed up. Francesca, get on the phone to LA. Tell them we’ve got their books.” She noticed the deliveryman starting to leave. “Wait, where are you going?”

  “Got other deliveries to make, ma’am.”

  “Can you take these books with you? They’re not ours.”

  “What should I do with them?”

  Wayne’s eyes met Shelley’s. “I wouldn’t touch that line with a ten-foot pole, if I were you.”

  Shelley noticed that Wayne was holding a thick sheaf of papers. “Is that the information Jerome sent from Chicago?”

  “Yes. You’d better have a look at this when you get a chance.” He handed the stack of papers to her. “Jerome says we definitely have a problem on our hands. Tanner looks like a clever bastard.”

  Shelley held the papers as if they might burn her fingers. “All right, as soon as I get a chance.”

  “Excuse me, ma’am, but just where do you expect me to put these books?” asked the deliveryman.

  “Maybe you could take them back to your loading dock. Just get them out of my hallway. They’re blocking the way and are probably causing a fire hazard.” Shelley frowned as she took a cursory glance through the accumulated information about Ross’ career.

  “I have other deliveries to make, ma’am, I can’t—”

  The front door opened again. Shelley glanced up, hoping it wouldn’t be a new client walking in to find chaos reigning at her language center. She, Wayne, Francesca, and the deliveryman bickering over a dozen boxes of Mandarin grammar books wouldn’t present a picture of keen professionalism.