Bart buckled his seat belt, then draped his suit jacket over his lap. Reaching over, he placed his left hand over Faye’s clasped hands. “Is this your first copter ride?”
“Yes,” she said, not opening her eyes.
He squeezed her fisted hands. “The first time is a little scary, but you’ll get used to it.”
Faye opened her eyes. The gold orbs glistened from unshed moisture. “Do you always travel between the city and Southampton by helicopter?”
Bart smiled at Faye as if she were a small child. He’d found her mature beyond her years, her knowledge of different subjects astounding, yet she reacted to her first helicopter ride like a frightened child.
Leaning over, he pressed a kiss to her temple. “Yes.”
It was the last word they exchanged as the pilot started the engine and the aircraft rose off the ground, tilting slightly to the right until they were airborne.
Faye glanced at her watch at the same time the pilot put the copter down at the heliport on Thirty-fourth Street and the East River. It was exactly eight o’clock. A bright smile curved her mouth when she met Bart’s amused stare.
He winked at her. “You thought you were going to be late, didn’t you?”
A rush of heat burned her cheeks. “Yes, I did.”
He winked at her again. “You’re going to have to learn to trust me, Faye.”
She met his gray-eyed stare, recognizing determination and confidence in his stoic expression. He was right. She had to trust him if she hoped to make enough money for her brother’s appeal.
“I know.”
Their gazes held until the pilot opened the door and lowered the steps. Bart alighted, then turned and assisted Faye. He pushed his arms into his suit jacket and tucked the leather case under one arm. His free hand cradled the small of her back as he led her over to where a driver and car awaited their arrival.
The black-suited man opened the rear door. “Good morning, Mr. H.”
Bart inclined his head. “Good morning, Kevin.” Faye got into the town car and he moved in beside her. “Where do you want me to drop you?”
Faye gave him the address to the building housing the offices of Bentley, Pope and Oliviera, then settled back to enjoy the short ride uptown.
The chauffeur drove quickly, expertly, and ten minutes later maneuvered in front of the thirty-two-story office building on Third Avenue. Kevin came around to open the rear door. Bart alighted, then Faye.
Tilting her head and extending her hand, Faye gave Bart a warm smile. “Thank you for a wonderful weekend.”
He inclined his head and ignored her hand. Taking a step, he brushed a light kiss over her parted lips. “Thank you for being you,” he whispered near her ear.
He stepped back and watched as Faye made her way toward the entrance of the towering office building. He was still in the same spot after she’d disappeared from his line of vision. It was another full minute before he ducked his head and got back into the limo, the solid door closing behind him.
Reaching into his shirt pocket, he took out his half glasses, placed them on the bridge of his nose and opened the leather case to review the report that had been faxed to him earlier that morning.
All thoughts of Faye Ogden vanished as he slipped into the mind-set of CEO of the Dunn-Houghton Group.
CHAPTER 30
“I think it’s time BP&O use marketing tools designed to mainstream hip-hop.” A lifting of eyebrows, dropped jaws, and gasps followed Faye’s opening statement. “Hip-hop mogul Sean ‘P. Diddy’ Combs’s Sean John fashion label is touted as the urban Ralph Lauren, while brands like Rocawear, Phat Farm, FUBU, Ecko and Enyce urban apparel has steadily gobbled up the market share from the big three menswear brands of the 1990s—Polo Ralph Lauren, Tommy Hilfiger and Nautica. With sales of eight billion last year, urban apparel is considered the fastest-growing category in the 58-billion-dollar menswear industry. We—”
“What does this have to do with selling cars?” A senior executive responsible for the Maybach account interjected.
Faye narrowed her eyes. “If you don’t interrupt I’d tell you how it’s related to selling cars.” She’d already used up two of the fifteen minutes allotted her.
“Hip-hop has expanded beyond its young black and Latino audience to reach a broader demographic,” she continued smoothly. “In many ways the auto industry is just catching up with the rest of corporate America, because hip-hop brand endorsements date back to the early 1980s with running shoes and soft drinks. Now, here we are twenty years later still pondering if rap is a fad. We have to say no, it’s not a fad, because it’s the leader in terms of influencing today’s culture.
“No car has benefited more from hip-hop culture than the Escalade SUV. It may be partly because the Cadillac has long been a coveted brand among African-Americans. How many of you have seen MTV’s Pimp My Ride?” Surprisingly, half a dozen hands went up. Faye smiled. “The show’s host, Xzibit, has referred to the Cadillac as ‘the king of cars.’”
She placed a large photograph of a sleek black roadster on an easel. “The same can be said for Italy’s Andino. When first introduced in 1948 the response was lukewarm. However, sales have risen steadily over the past five decades. But now with a new design and a 469-horsepower supercharged V–8, the manufacturer can market it to a young and very hip consumer. The engine enables it to hit sixty miles per hour in less than five seconds, and a new six-speed automatic transmission lets the driver change gears manually with a tap of the gearshift lever. Another innovative feature is adaptive headlamps that pivot in conjunction with the car’s steering wheel to illuminate the road around curves.”
Faye took a breath. She could tell by the rapt expressions that she had everyone’s attention. “Chrysler got rapper 50 Cent to debut their 300 C in his rap video and sales exploded. I’m certain Andino can achieve similar success if they debut their LXR–V in a similar video.”
John Reynolds stopped scribbling notes on a legal pad. “Isn’t the one-hundred-thousand-dollar price tag a little steep for this gangsta-image generation?”
“Do you own a Rolls or Learjet, John?” Her words were layered with a sweetness that disguised her sarcasm.
“No. Why?”
“I can name several hip-hop artists and rappers who do.” She frowned slightly. “I will never stand before you and propose to market a product to a particular population who can’t afford to buy that product. And to answer your question, John—The price tag is not too steep for any African-American who wants to own an Andino LXR–V. Contrary to popular belief, we buy whatever we want and can afford.”
Faye sat down, chest heaving and runaway heartbeat pounding in her ears. BP&O had hired her because she had her finger on the pulse of the black consumer, yet something wouldn’t allow her boss to trust her completely. Had she not proven herself over the past five years?
She looked at John staring back at her, seeing something in his expression that hadn’t been there before. He was upset because she’d taken him to task in front of his superiors. Well, she never would’ve verbally spanked him if he hadn’t challenged her in an open meeting.
Her gaze shifted to the notes on the pad in front of her. When Bart Houghton had asked her what she wanted to do ten years from now she’d told him she wanted to run her own marketing firm. As soon as she finished her presentation, the one she’d wanted to use for her own company, she realized there was no way she would remain with BP&O for another ten years. Now she doubted whether she would stay beyond the end of the year.
Bart had asked her to work exclusively for him, and she said she would. Unknowingly, he had become her genie and fairy godfather, the one man who would grant most of her wishes.
She smiled at John Reynolds before her gaze shifted to Jessica Adelson. There was no doubt his niece had insisted she attend the presentation. Faye wanted to tell the attractive middle-aged advertising vice president that it always spelled disaster when a man permitted a woman to lead him around by the
head between his legs.
CHAPTER 31
Three hours later Faye’s mind was still a jumble of emotions ranging from anger and resentment, to disappointment, when John Reynolds knocked on the door to her office, walked in and closed the door. She’d worked closely enough with John to know that whenever he closed the door he didn’t want whatever he had to say to her to go beyond the boundary of their respective offices.
Slightly built and always impeccably dressed, the forty-nine-year-old senior vice president had recently celebrated his twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, married off his twin daughters and acquired a mistress. His expression was a mask of stone.
As John took the chair in front of her desk, Faye could see him struggling not to lose his temper. “You crossed the line, Faye.”
Her light gold eyebrows flickered. “You believe I crossed the line because I spoke the truth?”
“I’ll not tolerate your disrespect.”
Faye refused to back down. “You talk about disrespect when you were insulting and condescending when you referred to my people as gangsta.” She spat out the last word. “But I will give you credit for knowing the vernacular. In case you haven’t noticed, not all of us are thugs.”
His lips thinned into a hard line. “I didn’t mean to imply that, and you know it.”
“The campaign will work, John,” she said, her voice soft and purposefully seductive, “only because it’s been proven. Top General Motors executives heightened the Cadillac’s luxury truck’s hip-hop success when they produced five thousand units of the Cadillac Escalade ESV Platinum Edition, which boasts twenty-inch wheels and two flip-down DVD screens. GM has also raised its visibility at events that attract high-profile black celebrities. They’ve sponsored King of the Bling contests in which participants showcase their Escalades and Hummers. We could get Andino to do something similar with the LXR–V.”
John ran a hand over his thinning salt-and-pepper hair. “It sounds good, but we’ve decided to pass on your proposal, unless you have something else for us consider.”
Faye wanted to tell him about her backup plan, but his rejection to her first presentation made her decide to save the idea for her own company. She shot him a long, penetrating stare. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t have anything else.”
“If that’s the case, then I’m going to give the Andino account to Zack and Jessica. Perhaps together they can come up with something a little different.”
Faye froze. They were going to give her account to two clueless interns! “So, you’re not going to target the African-American consumer?” John nodded. She fixed her gaze on the door. “I guess I win some and lose some.”
“Don’t think of it as a loss. You’re very good at what you do.”
“Don’t try and placate me, John. I know what I can do. That’s why you hired me and that’s why you pay me the big bucks.”
He pushed to his feet, smiling. “I can’t argue with that.”
Faye sat in the same position long after John left her office and closed the door behind him. The minutes ticked off until the telephone rang. She glanced at the instrument. It was her private line.
The display showed a private number. Waiting for the third ring, she answered the call. “Ms. Ogden.”
“What’s up, girlfriend?”
Faye smiled for the first time in hours. She needed to get out of the office and talk to someone she could trust. “Are you free for lunch, Lana?”
“I can’t, Faye,” Alana moaned. “I’ve scheduled an interview for noon, and I still haven’t left my apartment. How does tomorrow look for you?”
“I’m free for the rest of the week.”
“Why don’t we go back to that tiny Italian restaurant that has that delicious lobster and mango salad and red pepper pâté?”
Faye penciled Alana’s name into her planner for the next day. “You’re on.”
“I called to find out how your weekend went.”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow, Lana.”
“Just tell me whether it was good or bad.”
“It was wonderful.”
“Dang, Faye. Now I can’t wait to hear the sordid details.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but there was nothing sordid about spending the weekend with you-know-who.”
“I still want you to tell me everything. I’ll meet you tomorrow at twelve-thirty.”
“I’ll see you there.”
“Love you, girlfriend.”
“Love you back,” Faye said with their usual parting greeting. She ended the call smiling, feeling better than she had since walking out of BP&O’s conference room. Alana could always lift her dark mood.
CHAPTER 32
“Good morning, Mr. H.”
Bart smiled at the man who’d opened the door to the four-story salmon-colored building on the tree-lined block, four blocks south of Forty-second Street between Madison and Lexington Avenues. A black granite plaque with gold letters identified the address housing the offices of the Dunn-Houghton Group.
“Good morning, Mr. Washington.” Thomas Washington was one of the four-member security staff that manned the building 24/7.
Six years before, DHG purchased all the properties along the north side of the street, renovated and refurbished the dozen brownstones and town houses, then sold all but one at prices yielding enormous profits. Bart had relocated DHG from a towering office building on East Fifty-second Street to the quiet, bucolic street in a neighborhood that was within walking distance of Madison Avenue’s upscale trendy boutiques.
Although DHG employed a chef for its staff of forty, there were times when the employees sought out the many ethnic restaurants in the Murray Hill and Kips Bay neighborhoods.
The town house office had become a source of pride for Bart; as a trained architect it’d been years since he’d designed a structure. Anyone viewing the building’s unadorned exterior would be hard pressed to imagine the Art Deco–inspired first floor with marble floors with an inlaid pattern and indoor garden–inspired atrium rising to the height of the building. There was no reception area because all visitors were announced by security and escorted to whomever they were scheduled to meet.
A formal dining room, industrial kitchen, health spa with sauna, swimming pool, handball and basketballs courts, and male and female locker rooms took up the entire first floor. Support-staff offices with a formal conference room occupied the second, senior staff and a smaller conference room the third and Bart’s office, private bathroom and a Japanese-theme garden solarium claimed the fourth.
He entered the elevator and inserted a key into the panel. Only he, his executive assistant and security had access to his private space. The doors opened and he stepped out to the carpeted area where Mrs. Urquhart guarded his office like a Secret Service agent assigned to the commander-in-chief.
“Good morning, boss.”
Bart glared at Geraldine Urquhart. At seventy-three, she was the oldest employee on the payroll, a necessary holdover from his deceased father-in-law’s tenure.
Grinning broadly, Geraldine waved a bejeweled hand. A longtime widow, she still wore her wedding ring. “I know. Don’t call you boss.”
Leaning over her desk, Bart gave her what he hoped was his most intimidating glare. “If you know, then why do you do it?”
She patted her short, shimmering-white coiffed hair. “Because I know you won’t fire me.”
Straightening, he shook his head. “One of these days I am going to fire you,” he promised.
She lifted her eyebrows. “No, you’re not, Bartholomew. Not when I’m the keeper of all your secrets.”
“Not all of them,” he whispered. “Please come in. I need you to make several calls for me.” Bart waited for her to pick up her steno pad and pencil, come around the desk and walk into his office, he following and closing the door.
Geraldine Urquhart was only partially right. She knew about the woman whom he’d paid for sexual favors since becoming a widower, but
nothing of his discreet assignations with Enid’s social companions.
Bart waited for Geraldine to sit on a contemporary oyster-white upholstered club chair in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, he sitting in a Louis Quinze–style armchair; he placed the portfolio on a low mahogany table that held a telephone and bonsai plant.
“I want you to call Madame Fontaine and set up an account for Ms. Faye Ogden. Let Madame know that Ms. Ogden’s gratuity is to be waived.” He hesitated as Mrs. Urquhart wrote down his dictation in shorthand symbols only she could transcribe.
“I also want you to call Felicia and tell her that I’ll see her Friday at six.”
Geraldine’s cornflower-blue gaze narrowed. “Is there anything else, Bartholomew?”
“Call Mr. Matamora’s secretary at the Japanese consulate and confirm my attendance at his dinner party tonight. Whomever you speak to, please stress to them that I’m allergic to raw fish. And call the florist and have them deliver flowers to the Matamoras’ Fifth Avenue residence at least an hour before my arrival.”
“Why kind of flowers?”
“I prefer orchids.”
“What if they don’t have orchids in stock?”
“My second choice is lilies.”
“What color?”
“White. If they don’t have any white, then pale pink.”
“Do you want to give me a third choice?”
Bart massaged his forehead with his fingertips. “Why are you giving me a hard time this morning?”
“In case you’ve forgotten, the last time I ordered flowers and they were the wrong color you raised your voice to me. I worked with Edmund Dunn for fifty years, and he never once raised his voice to me.”
Slowly lowering his hand, Bart stared at the elderly woman whom he felt was the glue that held the company together. Edmund Dunn had hired her fresh out of secretarial school, and in the ensuing forty years Geraldine quickly became his eyes, ears and confidante; and she’d become Bart’s confidante following Edmund’s unexpected death from a massive coronary three years ago.
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