The Boss Man's Fortune (Dynasties: The Danforths Book 5)

by Kathryn Jensen

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” he muttered.

  “It’s not a little thing!” she insisted, getting more worked up by the moment.

  But she was also aware of how close they were standing. And his fingers had somehow gotten wrapped around her arm when he tried to stop her from leaving the room. She tried to put his proximity out of mind. That only made her more aware of the size and heat of his body.

  “Personal choices should be honored by other people,” she stated.

  “And the way you drink your coffee is one of these choices?”

  “Yes.” She gave him her best imitation of her grandmother, facing down one of her sons when she thought he’d stepped out of line.

  Ian sighed and let his hand drop away from her. “Fair enough. But will you do me a favor?”

  “What’s that?” she asked, feeling a trifle meeker now that he had acquiesced to her point.

  “If you’re going to mess with D&D’s coffee, at least do it with quality ingredients. Then tell me what you think of it.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him, but it seemed a compromise she could live with. “All right.” Still, she shuddered to think what real sugar and cream would do to her figure if she got in the habit of using them all the time. “Just this once.”

  “Agreed.”

  She turned to retrieve her cup, but he beat her to it.

  “Let me fix it for you. Then you can tell me how it compares with your usual cup of morning mud.”

  Arrogant, she thought. The man should have been born a couple centuries earlier…with a scepter in his hand. It was a wonder the woman she replaced had waited for a family emergency to jump ship.

  Katie followed Ian back to the outer office. He took a small carton of cream from the minifridge beneath the coffeemaker, poured a dollop of rich, thick stuff into her cup, then added a single spoonful of sugar and stirred before topping off the cup with coffee.

  “I take at least three sugars in coffee that strong,” she said.

  “You won’t need them. This coffee is an espresso blend, from a naturally sweet bean. You kill the flavor by adding too much sugar.”

  The man was persistent, she’d say that much for him. But she would give him only her honest opinion, not empty praise just to satisfy his ego.

  “Taste it as you would a good wine,” he advised.

  She took a sip and let the comfortably warm liquid settle over and around her tongue before it slipped down her throat. There was a silkiness to the coffee, a hint of spice and earth. A mist of aromatic steam rose to her face on the second sip, delighting her nostrils with a whiff of rain-forest nuttiness.

  “Oh my,” she whispered after swallowing again.

  “What do you think now?” He waited, watching her expression intently. Her opinion, it seemed, mattered a great deal to him.

  “It’s…why, it’s wonderful. I’ve never had better.” Although he couldn’t possibly know it, her parents kept only the very finest foods and beverages in their home—much of it imported. Not until entering college had she been exposed to grocery-store coffee. In all ways, she’d truly been sheltered. “This is the product you sell in D&D’s coffee shops?”

  “One of the blends, yes. It’s my personal favorite.”

  “I can see why.” She drank heartily from her mug, holding it with both hands, never lowering it more than a few inches from her face to better breathe in the luscious aroma. “May I have another cup?” she asked as she swallowed the last of it.

  He looked pleased at her approval. “Certainly.”

  “It’s all right. I’ll fix it this time.” She tossed him a grin. “Don’t worry. I won’t kill it.”

  He watched as she carefully followed his lead for the amount of cream then added half the sugar he had. “Now,” he said when she’d taken her first sip of the fresh cupful, “I think we can get to work. That is, if you’re willing to stay and slave under the whip of a dictator.”

  She felt herself blush at how close he’d come to the image she’d had in mind. “I didn’t call you that.”

  “No, you implied it. I’ll try not to brandish my cat-o’-nine-tails if you attempt not to overreact to an occasional request.”

  “Fair enough,” she said, swallowing another steamy mouthful.

  Delicious. She wondered how many cups per day would constitute an overdose.

  Three

  The moment Ian walked into the First City Club, he felt the knot at the back of his neck loosen. He hadn’t realized how stressful the morning had been, breaking in his temp. Katie had a way of draining a man.

  But it was hard to complain. She listened attentively, politely to every word he said but didn’t miss a beat before correcting him if he slipped: asking for the wrong file, giving her a list of tasks when she felt his priorities should be different. Both her mind and body seemed to run on high-octane. Introducing her to good coffee, he suspected, had only aggravated the situation.

  The woman was positively exhausting.

  But now he was ensconced in one of his favorite places in the world. At the discreet Savannah members-only club, he was immediately recognized and greeted by the maître d’, “Good day, Mr. Danforth.” With crisp efficiency, Paul escorted him to his father’s table, situated in a prime location at the window most distant from the kitchen.

  Abraham Danforth and Nicola Granville, his campaign manager, were already seated, their heads lowered in conversation. Nicola tossed back her head and laughed, and Ian imagined the two of them sharing a joke at the expense of his father’s opponent for the Senate, John van Gelder.

  Then it came, the familiar sensation, like a belt cinching up around his chest. The painful sense of disappointment that he had so rarely succeeded in pleasing his own father, the man who had been absent throughout much of Ian’s childhood. The man Ian respected and loved but who had always remained distant, if not cold.

  Abraham had given his children so much in the way of material life, but so little love. As a man himself now, Ian understood how serving in the military on remote assignments and, later, losing a wife could harden a man. But the resentment he’d felt as a boy toward his father, for the precious little time they’d spent together, never really left.

  It was his Uncle Harold and Aunt Miranda who had taken in Ian and his siblings during holidays away from boarding schools, who had given them all a sense of family and home. He looked at Abraham now, the veteran warrior. The tough gray-haired, steely-eyed entrepreneur, now engaged in another kind of battle.

  Ian had no trouble envisioning his father, standing to speak before a joint session of Congress or sitting down to a cup of coffee with the president. The man was a born leader and would work hard to represent his beloved State of Georgia. So, despite the awkwardness that had always existed between them, Ian would support his father’s bid for the Senate without reservation.

  Nicola saw him coming first and smiled up at him as he took a seat across from them. “Great to see you again, Ian.” She held out her hand across the pristine white linen, then tapped a polished nail on the menu. “I see Chef is serving your favorite—seared tuna.”

  The brief list of selections changed daily. And when reservations were made at the exclusive club by a member with particular tastes, Chef often added a dish or two to the day’s selections.

  “Great,” Ian said as their waiter appeared to smoothly place Ian’s napkin over his lap. “No need to even look at the menu.”

  Abraham greeted his son with a curt nod and his customary half smile. The man could be charming when he wanted to be, Ian had often noticed, but he wasted little warmth on family members. “Glad you could join us, Ian. We’ll order then get down to business.”

  “Of course.” Ian hid the hurt by turning toward the woman at his father’s side. “Nicola, how’s the campaign doing?”

  “We’ve kicked into high gear, with aggressive advertising plans including television spots.” Her eyes gleamed with excitement.

  “Already? Isn’t it
a little early?”

  She shook her head. “We have to jump right in, put a positive spin on your father’s campaign. Too much recent press has been negative.” She leaned across the table and continued with urgency. Her red hair, more orange than Katie’s, seemed to flame up all the more brilliantly with her words. “Since we’re billing him as Honest Abe II, the man to be trusted, we can’t afford any more questionable press.”

  “But nothing that’s happened has been Dad’s fault,” Ian objected.

  Abraham looked suddenly impatient. “No one at this table is debating that, Ian. Let’s just have a look at the corporate figures you brought and see if there’s anything we can do with those.”

  Ian felt as if someone had pulled the chair out from under him. He pressed his eyes closed for a second. “Damn. I can’t believe I left the office without them.”

  The office.

  The words conjured an image of Katie bouncing from her desk to the file cabinets to the coffee station for a refill. He shook off the instant sensation of warmth. “Sorry. I know you wanted to review those stats over lunch. I was thinking about other things. You see, I’ve got this temporary EA, and she’s—”

  “Good,” Abraham snapped. “Give her a call. Tell her to bring the file down here right away. It’ll take her ten minutes, tops.”

  “But I—” Ian didn’t dare picture Katie in a place like this—a bastion of Savannah sophistication. This site of high-stakes corporate and political wheeling and dealing was no place for a nymph in department-store polyester.

  “Is there a problem?” Abraham demanded.

  “No, sir,” Ian admitted reluctantly.

  “Excellent. Give her a call.”

  With a sense of impending doom, Ian lifted his cell phone from its holster at his hip and punched the memory code for his office.

  Nine minutes after she’d received Ian’s call, Katie stepped out of a cab onto the busy Savannah street and glanced up at the impressive buildings around her. She’d been in Meccas of power similar to the First City Club. Feeding troughs for the elite, she thought of them.

  This one, admittedly, seemed very appealing. The decor was sedate, tasteful, calming, she noticed as she whisked past a startled maître d’. He streaked after her, across the dining room.

  “May we help you, miss?” Not a fraction of a smile for her in her plain black working-girl’s skirt and white cotton blouse. His attitude stated that, clearly, she had entered the wrong door.

  But Katie had dealt with all levels of snobbishness, had even dished out her own, she was embarrassed to admit, so she knew how to deal with it now.

  Ratcheting her shoulders back and elevating her chin, she met his gaze with steel. “Mr. Danforth has requested I deliver this file to him.”

  The man reached for the leather folio into which she’d placed the file for protection. She hugged it to her chest. “Personally.” She gave him an apologetic smile. “It’s confidential.”

  The implication was subtle but nonetheless effective. She didn’t expect he’d tamper with the file. But trust having been placed in her put her a step above him. It was just enough leverage to force the man to regard her as a professional and offer a show of respect.

  “Certainly, miss. I will take you to the Danforth table at once.”

  He led the way through a room not unlike another she recalled in Tucson. She’d been there for a family meeting at which she’d been given very little say. The men in the family had done most of the talking. All the more reason for her to leave Arizona and seek her freedom elsewhere.

  At the far end of the room, she could see Ian at a table with two other people. One of them, she assumed, was Ian’s father. He sat straight backed, a harsh expression on his face. The lines of his jaw and squared-off shape of his shoulders resembled his son’s. The woman seated to his left was considerably younger than the senior Danforth, very sharp in her business attire, and definitely attractive.

  “Thank you, Miss O’Brien.” Ian reached for the file even before she’d made it to the table.

  She was aware of the maître d’ shadowing her, as if to make sure she left the room without lingering. She ignored the man. The salads had been served and looked delicious. Her stomach grumbled.

  “Do you need me for anything else while I’m here?” Katie asked. She felt Abraham studying her, glancing at Ian then back to her.

  Ian quickly shook his head.

  “I wonder if it might not be a good idea for Miss O’Brien to stay,” suggested the older man. “It would be helpful to have notes on our meeting.”

  Ian looked worried. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

  “I would appreciate it,” Abraham said. He stood at the table, which meant Ian also had to stand or seem ungracious. “I’m Abraham Danforth, Ian’s father, in case you hadn’t guessed. And this is Nicola Granville, my campaign manager.”

  “Very pleased to meet you, sir,” Katie said with a genuine smile. “And you also, Ms. Granville. I’d be pleased to stay if I can be of any help.” She tossed Ian a triumphant smirk, which he alone caught. She sat in the empty chair.

  A waiter immediately shook out a napkin and draped it across her lap.

  “Oh, I’m not eating,” she objected, looking up at the man, who seemed confused.

  “But you must,” Nicola insisted, shifting her gaze to Abraham for confirmation. “Well, the poor girl is missing her lunch break for us, now isn’t she?”

  “Certainly,” Abraham said, his smile unexpectedly disarming. The true politician, she thought. “I assume my son does allow you time to eat a meal now and then, Miss O’Brien?”

  “Well, I’ve only been working for him since this morning, so I don’t know—”

  “Dad, let her order then we can start reviewing the file while we wait for our entrées.”

  “Do you have something to write on?” Nicola asked helpfully.

  “I didn’t expect to have to take notes, just deliver the file,” Katie admitted. “But I’m sure that kind maître d’ could supply writing materials.”

  “Never mind,” Nicola said. She reached into her briefcase on the floor. “I’ve an extra pad, and pens galore. Will this do?” The slim, black pen had been printed in gold lettering with Abraham’s campaign slogan: Honest Abe II for Senator!

  “Perfect.” Katie smiled at her.

  Ian watched as Katie nibbled at a crusty roll and took notes. They covered not only the stats in the file but recent events that had wreaked havoc with the campaign and had impacted the entire family. Soon Katie was so engrossed in the details of their discussion she stopped eating as well as writing.

  Ian had a very bad feeling about this. In the few hours he’d known Katie he’d learned one thing about her: the woman was hell on wheels when she started thinking.

  “Did you get that last bit?” he asked, knowing she hadn’t.

  “Sorry.” Katie picked up her forgotten pen, glanced at Abraham then back to Ian. “I find all of this just so amazing. Imagine discovering that poor woman’s body in your attic! And a bomb going off in the very building where I’m working.” She shook her head and tsked over the news. “And you really believe someone is stalking you, Senator?”

  No one else objected to the premature title, so Ian let it go.

  “We haven’t exactly enjoyed a flawless beginning to the campaign,” Nicola stated with a grim smile.

  “I should say not,” Katie agreed.

  Ian tried to signal her to shut up before it was too late. She was walking on dangerous ground where his father was concerned. As genial as he’d been since Katie joined them, Abraham didn’t take kindly to strangers interfering in the family’s affairs.

  But Katie barreled on, despite a subtle kick to her shin beneath the table. “The press must be having a field day with all of this.”

  Ian held his breath, expecting the worst. His father’s temper was legend.

  Abraham solemnly studied Katie for a long moment, then chuckled and shook his head
. “You’ve hit that nail on the head, my dear. Unless we find a way to use these issues to our advantage, the press may well drive my campaign into the ground.”

  Katie sipped wine Abraham had ordered for the table. “Maybe it’s already too late for that,” she remarked thoughtfully. “Perhaps more drastic measures should be taken.”

  Ian moved her wineglass out of her reach. “Katie, you don’t understand the complexity of—”

  “No, let her explain herself,” Abraham said, laying a hand on his son’s arm. “Go ahead, my dear.”

  “Well, it seems to me that it’s hard for people to take death lightly, unless there’s an interesting ghost story behind it.”

  “Savannah has plenty of those,” Nicola said.

  “We even have a specter lurking around Crofthaven,” Abraham remarked, referring to the family mansion.

  “But not connected to the housekeeper’s daughter,” Ian pointed out.

  “A tragedy,” Nicola put in, “but not the murder the press initially assumed.”

  Katie nodded. “That’s awful. But it still leaves you with a problem. If you can’t make something go away or change it from bad news to good, then all you can do is distract people.”

  Abraham frowned. “Distract them? As in sleight of hand?”

  Katie grinned and reached across the table in front of Ian to reclaim her wineglass. “Sort of.”

  Ian lost his appetite. Here goes, he thought.

  “I mean,” Katie continued, “give the press a better story to run with.”

  “She’s right!” Nicola slapped the tabletop. “If a reporter stumbles onto something juicier, something that holds his attention long enough, he’ll forget about old news and move on.”

  Abraham observed Katie through narrowed eyes. “Any specific ideas, young lady?”

  Katie looked flustered for the first time since she’d entered the dining room. “I’d have to think about it. After all, I’m just here to take notes. Right?”

  Good grief! Ian thought. One minute she was advisor to the family patriarch, the next she was the humble secretary. Did the woman have a split personality?