Ballet Shoes and Engine Grease

by Tatiana March

  Just be yourself.

  “I guess you are all wondering what I’m doing here?” She paused to let the words sink in. “Well, you’re not alone. I’m puzzled by it too. And so will be every business journalist, every supplier, every potential customer who hears that Constantine Motors is now run by a twenty-six year old ballet dancer with no business experience.”

  As she calmed down, she started to focus on individual faces. Some scowled. Some looked startled. A few smiles were beginning to appear. She concentrated on those. “I have no idea why Stephan Constantine chose me for this position. But I think I can contribute to the running of the business. Look around you. Look at those cars. What do you see?”

  People craned their necks to study the vehicles. Some made comments to each other. A few shouted out suggestions. She listened. Memorized. Waited for silence. “Right,” she said. “Class. Tradition. Technology. Quality. Achievement. Engineering. Design.”

  She spread her hands in a gesture that encompassed their surroundings. “Dreams. That is what I see. Something to appeal, not just to your brain that computes facts and figures, or to your eye that sees the quality and beauty of the product, but something to appeal to your heart. Something that meets the craving to own something special, something that sets you apart, something that satisfies the dreams you’ve had ever since you opened your first birthday present, ever since you picked up your first toy. I believe that we are selling, not just cars, but the fulfillment of dreams. And ballet is all about dreams. That is why I believe I have something to contribute.”

  Her hands were shaking, and blood pounded in her ears, but she was breathing freely, air flowing into her lungs. “To help me with those other things—engineering and design and facts and figures, I have a team of great managers, and behind the scenes, Nick Constantine has agreed to help me. He’ll have no paid position with the company. He’ll work under me as an unpaid consultant.”

  She turned to him. “Nick, would you like to say a few words?”

  “Sure.” He stepped forward, flashed a smile at the crowd, and spoke in a loud voice that carried without the help of a microphone. “You heard it. I’ll be working under Miss Mills.” He winked at her. “I’ve always liked a woman on top.” He turned back to the audience. “Since I don’t have a formal position, you’ll not be able to deal directly with me. You can take your problems to Crimson, and I’ll help her find a solution. And while I’m involved with her, my main concern will be to keep her satisfied.”

  By now, titters were breaking out in the crowd. Crimson gritted her teeth. Was he paying her back? Humiliating her in public? Damn him. Damn everything about Nick Constantine. To function normally around him, she needed to wipe those few hectic minutes in the boardroom out of her mind, expunge them from her brain, pretend they never happened. But of course, that would be impossible.

  Nick glanced back toward her. He was smiling, a small, placating smile that told her bear with me, I’ll explain later. She surveyed the audience. Most faces had broken into friendly grins. People were at ease, the tension less palpable. Something bubbled up inside her, a lightness of having come through the first ordeal in her new position, and despite her suspicion over his motives, she found herself returning Nick’s smile.

  ****

  Nick lounged in one of the four padded chairs at the small conference table in the CEO’s office, munching on a chicken sandwich. Crimson sat behind the pale wood desk, picking at a salad. After the staff meeting had ended, and they’d retreated into her office, she had contrived to keep a distance between them, like two elements that repelled each other.

  Guilt knotted up inside him over how he had blackmailed her into having sex with him. It complicated an already difficult situation. No doubt, she hated him for the humiliation he’d put her through. He, on the other hand, found it hard to look at her without memories of their fierce coupling crashing over him.

  The distraction was the last thing he needed. In the eight years since Marcela broke off their engagement, he’d avoided emotional tangles, instead preferring casual affairs with women who wanted nothing more than a respectable escort in public and a few nights of shared pleasure. He couldn’t undo his lapse of judgment with Crimson, but he would do his best to limit the damage that his actions had caused.

  He cut the strained silence. “Thanks for taking my innuendo in your stride.”

  She halted, a forkful of salad poised in the air. “I assumed there was a purpose.”

  “There was.” He took another bite of the chicken sandwich, chewed and swallowed. “Raymond told me the place is crawling with rumors about our encounter in the boardroom yesterday afternoon. It will take the edge off the speculation if people think we’re a couple. I wanted to send that message.”

  “Even if it’s not true.”

  “Even if it’s not true,” he conceded. “It will be harder for people to trust you, if they think we’re enemies. A romantic involvement between us explains a lot. Why I’m hanging around, to start with. Perhaps even why my father left the business to you.”

  Crimson stirred her salad, eyes downcast. “Should I tell people what will happen if we fail to meet the profit target? Or is it better for them not to know?”

  Nick considered the question. “You might want to tell them, but let them get to know you first.” He wiped his greasy fingers on a paper napkin and tidied away the sandwich wrapper. “Before we start the meetings with the directors…” He propped one elbow on the table and rested his chin on his palm, his free hand toying with the empty coffee cup. “About yesterday afternoon…I guess I should apologize, and if there are…repercussions…I want you to know that I’ll support you through whatever you decide to do.”

  She glanced up. A fiery blush flared up on her face. She had a charming way of blushing, deep and hot, the color rising like a tidal way over her delicate skin.

  “It’s okay,” she informed him. Her voice was low, her posture stiff. “I stopped at the drugstore on the way home and got an emergency contraceptive.” She met his gaze, then quickly glanced down at the pens and pads neatly arranged over the desktop. “I never intended to keep you in suspense, the way I threatened. It was anger talking. I hope you understand that.”

  He gave her a casual nod. “Thanks for letting me know. And on the health front,” he added quietly, “you can trust me, there’s nothing you need to worry about.”

  Another terse silence enveloped the room. It seemed to Nick that something more ought to be said, so agreement reached to push them from the awkward no man’s land into a clearly defined territory of enemies or friends. As he let his gaze slide over her bent head and slender shoulders, his body taunted him by tightening.

  Friends or enemies, his mind whispered. Or lovers?

  ****

  Crimson stared at the charts and graphs that littered the conference table. Peter Tomlinson, sitting beside her, had tugged his tie loose and rolled up his shirtsleeves. Full of restless energy, he fidgeted in the seat, his gangly limbs making jerky motions as he talked. “As you can see, in the last quarter the revenue is down seven percent and the costs are up…”

  Crimson flung another helpless glance at Nick, who sat hunched behind the pale wood desk, engrossed in setting up her new laptop and connecting it to the corporate network. Why was he not listening? She had expected him to guide her through the information people were throwing at her.

  A sense of defeat gripped her as it dawned on her that he might have no genuine interest in helping her. He might simply want a ringside seat for witnessing her failure.

  “Nick, could you come over and look at these figures?” she called out.

  “That’s your job.” He got up and walked out of the room. On the doorstep, he turned around. “Peter, instead of focusing on the accounts, why don’t you talk Crimson through your team? Her first job should be to get to know the employees.”

  “Of course.” Eager to please, brimming with sincerity, the finance director pulled out an organi
zation chart. “I have four staff in finance, two in IT, and one in HR…”

  Crimson exhaled a sigh of relief as her eyes fell on the sheet of paper filled with rows of small photographs. People. Something real. Tangible, familiar. She concentrated on memorizing their names and faces, and each person’s role in the company.

  By the time Nick returned, Peter’s hour was up. Jorge Fernandez, the marketing director, came in next. Surprisingly young, in his late twenties, he was dressed in immaculate black slacks and a pale gray silk shirt. Glossy dark hair and smooth olive skin completed the image of a glamorous, fashion conscious male.

  He dumped a stack of files on the table. “I need an urgent decision on funding for an advertising campaign. With the recession, we’ve lost business to more affordable alternatives. With the price tag of a quarter of a million, the Constantine Panther is twice or three times more expensive than some of our competition. We no longer have a waiting list.”

  “Did we have one before?” Crimson asked.

  “It peaked at six years in the nineties.” Jorge shuffled the brochures of long-nosed cars on the table. “To drum up new orders, I want to take the Constantine Spur to a motor industry fair in Detroit, and I need your approval.”

  “Constantine Spur?” she echoed.

  “The car that hangs on the glass platform in the showroom,” he explained. “It was the first Constantine model ever produced. In 1923, it participated in the first Le Mans 24 hour race ever held. The Constantine Panther replaced the design in 1956, when Constantine Racing ceased to operate. The Panther is the car sold to the public. We no longer produce race cars.”

  Crimson studied Nick from the corner of her eye. His posture had stiffened at the mention of the Spur. She was pretty sure that he would refuse to offer an opinion, but the stubborn, combative streak inside her wanted his lack of cooperation forced out into the open.

  “What do you think, Nick?” she asked.

  He gave her a blank look. “It’s your decision.”

  She bit her lip, stopping the angry retort from bursting out. “Then, perhaps, if you have no other contribution to make, you might like to get me a fresh cup of coffee.” Crimson held up the mug that Anna, her assistant, had given her as a welcome present—white bone china, with “BOSS” spelled in red letters on the side.

  “Sure.” Nick unfolded his athletic body from behind the desk and ambled over to collect her empty mug. “Anything for you, Jorge?” he asked with a casual friendliness that served to emphasize her bristling anger.

  The handsome young man smiled. “I’m good.” He twisted around in the seat to face Nick. “My guys are itching to meet you. Ian Simmons knew you at General Motors. He coordinates trade fairs. Katsuro Yamada is responsible for export sales. He remembers you from the two seasons you did in the Japanese Formula 3000. Patrick Letterman, my third staff member, takes care of domestic marketing.” Jorge directed his attention back to Crimson. “Patrick is developing the advertising campaign that needs your approval.”

  “I’ll need more details,” Crimson said stiffly.

  It was becoming clearer by the minute how out of place she was. How ignorant, how lacking in skills and experience. Even the small talk went over her head.

  Things turned out no better with Hank Rasmussen, who was in charge of design and production. A big, burly man in his late forties, he was unapologetically masculine, with steel-blue eyes and graying fair hair in a crew cut. He seemed ill at ease with her. Crimson couldn’t tell if he resented her more for being female, or for being ill-qualified for the job.

  He added to her information overload with technical drawings for an improved fuel injection system. By now, fatigue and tension vibrated through Crimson, making her feel out of control. When dancing, a similar state at the end of a practice session had been a clear warning sign to stop before she collapsed, and she took it to mean the same now.

  She stood, offered her hand to Hank. “Thank you.”

  Hank lumbered to his feet. “There’s one more thing, Miss Mills. The order book. If we don’t get more firm orders by the end of the month, I’ll have to put the factory on a four day week.” He glanced at Nick who was typing away on the computer behind the desk. “Or, we could build cars into inventory, hoping to sell them later. I know it’s not something…” He paused, then burst out, “Oh, heck. Nick will explain to you what it means.”

  With that, he snatched up his blueprints and stormed out of the office.

  Crimson remained standing. Her eyes blurred with impotent tears. Her brain buzzed, as if a machine about to explode. She turned to Nick. “I thought the idea was for you to help me.” Her voice came out strained as she stared at him sitting unperturbed behind the desk. “Why are you here?” she demanded to know. “Just for the morbid fascination of watching me come apart under pressure?”

  Slowly, deliberately, Nick closed the lid on the computer, got to his feet and walked over to her. He laid his hands on her shoulders. She could feel his heat, his strength through the fabric of her pink jacket and white silk blouse, and desperately wanted to lean into it. To beg him to take over, to make the nightmare go away. She tilted her face up toward him and watched him through a haze of tears.

  “I can’t do this without your help,” she told him.

  “And I’ll help you.” His dark eyes locked with hers, making her heart jolt. “But you have to give the impression that you’re in charge. I was listening. When I was typing on the computer, I wasn’t surfing websites. I was making notes. Listing ideas, suggestions. I will help.” His fingers tightened over her shoulders, steadying her. “Crimson, you’re close to collapse. Are you fit to drive home?”

  She almost lost it then. One more shortcoming to shock them all with, that she didn’t know the gas pedal from the brake, the indicator from the wiper switch. Hysterical laughter gathered in her belly, bubbled there for a moment, then mercifully died without bursting free.

  “The limo driver is picking me up,” she told him.

  “You have a limo on call? The business can’t afford it.”

  “Your mother hired a driver to bring us up from New York, and when she decided to stay a few days with me and my mother at Longwood Hall, she arranged to keep the limo on. The driver is staying in the staff wing.”

  “I see.” Nick withdrew his hands from her shoulders. Irritation flickered across his handsome features. “Do me a favor, will you, and send the driver away after he drops you off this evening. I’ll call my mother and tell her that she can take the train back to New York. She doesn’t seem to understand that with my father dead her alimony is finished.”

  “Fine.” Crimson exhaled a sigh. “What should I do with all this?” She waved a hand at the reports, plans and proposals waiting for her attention.

  “Nothing, for now,” Nick said firmly.

  Her brows edged up. “Nothing?”

  “Go home. Rest over the weekend. I’ll come back on Wednesday.”

  “Wednesday?” A sense of abandonment soared inside her. Stupid, stupid, stupid, she told herself. He is not going to be here full time. And yet, in her mind she’d seen them working together, side by side—like a pas-de-deux, him lifting her, providing the strength and support she needed. She gave him a tired glance. “What will I do on Monday and Tuesday when people hassle me for answers?”

  “Tell them to wait. You’re the boss.” Nick leaned over the table and extracted three organization charts from the scattered papers. “On Monday and Tuesday, you’ll walk around the offices and get to know everyone. Ask them to describe their jobs. Be friendly. Put on a pair of overalls and tour the factory. Smile. Tell them something about you as a person. Be human. Approachable. There’s nothing more demoralizing for the employees than an invisible leader. Your first job is to get to know them and let them get to know you.”

  He held the organization charts out to her, then flicked his wrist to check his slim gold watch. “I’ve got to go. I have an appointment tonight. With heavy traffic, it can take
up to three hours to get to Manhattan.” He moved away from her and picked up the leather briefcase he’d deposited on the floor by the desk.

  “I’m not the enemy,” he told her, not looking at her as he snapped the case open and tossed his notepad inside. “I have much to gain from helping you. Keeping my mother off my back, acquiring forty percent of the business, ensuring the continuity of the Constantine name in motor industry. I’ll help you, but you’ll have to be the figurehead of the company. Strong and poised, able to deal with pressure.” He closed the briefcase and raised his gaze to her. “Are you up to it? Because if you are not, you’re wasting my time, and yours.”

  You bet I am, Crimson wanted to tell him, but her mouth refused to form the words. In silence, she watched as Nick stood quietly by the desk, waiting for a reply. When she didn’t speak, he shrugged his shoulders and walked away without saying anything more, not even goodbye.

  “You bet I am,” she muttered after him, but she truly didn’t know. She had the determination but she lacked the skills. Would one be enough without the other?

  Back to Contents

  Chapter Five

  Nick waved a greeting to Anna who was talking on the telephone as he strolled past her workstation toward Crimson’s office at half past eleven on Wednesday morning. The door was open. Good. She was making herself accessible. Approachable. On Monday and Tuesday, he’d resisted the temptation to drive out but keeping away hadn’t stopped him from thinking about Crimson, wondering how she was getting on.

  The sight of her small frame swamped behind the huge desk and the stacks of paperwork that cluttered the top hit him in the chest. She looked a wreck. Pale as a ghost, with dark shadows under her eyes. If he hadn’t thought it impossible for anyone to drop half a stone in four days, that’s how much weight he would have guessed she’d lost—or was it just that the neat beige suit was too big for her?