Breach of Trust

by Kimber Chin

  Why would the invincible Philippe Lamont share what could be seen by many as weakness? It wasn't a random confession. It had a purpose. What that was, Anne didn't know.

  She did know that his every word, his every action was a part of a bigger strategy. That's the type of game he played, tight. Could she match him? Could she go head-to-head with Lamont on his own turf, and win? Then again, did she have much of a choice? She doubted that. Even if she said no, Lamont would have alternative plans for her. His first offer was usually his best.

  "It'll cut into business. To offset, I'll require compensation."

  "One hundred grand for the three months,” he offered, and her eyes darted up to meet his. That was exactly the figure she had been thinking of.

  "One twenty-five,” she countered, regardless.

  "One hundred, and that's final,” Philippe repeated, “I'm not haggling with you, Cherie."

  "If, and that's a big if, we're to work together, I'd prefer Anne.” She wanted to be taken seriously in his organization, by him, by his staff. The endearments had to stop.

  "I'll call you Anne,” he agreed, “in public.” Since she wasn't about to entertain him privately, that would suffice. “I've delayed the entrepreneurs long enough. I'd rather not waste more of their time. Start date tomorrow?"

  Too soon. She had to wrap her head around the situation. “I need at least the rest of the week to rearrange my schedule."

  "I thought it was clear.” Confirmation that he was the person messing with it.

  "Yeah, that was convenient.” Anne didn't bother to say more. “I still need the time. I'll start Monday and work nine to five, no overtime. Take it or leave it."

  "Take it or leave it? You forget, Cherie,” Philippe stepped closer. “that I hold all the cards."

  "And you forget,” she didn't back down, “that holding all the cards leaves me with nothing, nothing to play with, nothing to even bluff with. To win, I'll be forced to cheat."

  "You can't touch me.” Philippe stroked under her raised chin, causing shivers on her skin.

  "No one is untouchable, M'sieur Lamont.” Anne resisted the urge to move away. “Even you. Mess with me or my reputation and I'll take you out."

  "Is that a threat, Mademoiselle James?” His voice was deathly quiet, matching her own.

  "That's a guarantee."

  They stood chest to chest, neither relenting. Then a wicked grin spread across Philippe's handsome face and he started to chuckle. Anne almost returned the smile, catching herself in time.

  "We are too stubborn, you and I,” Philippe admitted, “Can we declare this match a draw, Cherie?” He held out his hand in a gesture of peace.

  She hesitated only a second before slipping her hand in his. Instead of grasping and releasing, he held on, his hands warm, firm.

  "You understand that I'll have to sue our friend Bruce.” Anne felt obliged to be open. Much as she regretted filing the lawsuit, she was forced to, to set an example for others. To do anything but would be a sign of weakness, and weakness killed companies.

  "I expect no less. Gregory is already preparing the defense.” Philippe nodded, his fingertips caressing her wrist. “It won't affect our relationship."

  "Our working relationship,” she clarified.

  "Oui, that too.” His eyes twinkled and she decided to take his words as a jest. Lamont flirted with every woman, young or old, attractive or plain. It wouldn't progress further.

  But when he looked down at her, and his eyes glowed with that amber undertone, remembering that was difficult. Her breath caught as he brought her close, his arms slipped around her and his hands drifted down past her waist to her buttocks.

  "Philippe,” she squeaked out a protest, trying to twist away. He held her securely, his lack of height not translating to lack of strength.

  "Anne, I'm disappointed,” he murmured, “no stockings today?"

  Blasted man, he was feeling for a garter belt. There wasn't any. Of course she was wearing stockings, she hated tights with a passion, but today, hold-ups. The stockings didn't require any assistance and provided a smoother line under her slim skirt.

  He was watching her, reading her, and the gold in those brown eyes burned brighter. “Interesting, mon Cherie. I see I must look into this more closely.” His hand passed over her rear again, squeezing softly.

  It wasn't a good situation. Sure, her traitorous body was having a field day but indulging her baser needs would put her at a further disadvantage. She couldn't allow that. No, Anne had to resist, but prudently. She knew Lamont. If she simply pulled away, Philippe would pursue her. He was a hunter to his soul.

  So Anne tried another tactic. She leaned towards the heat, letting her body go limber, her eyelids lower, resting her hands on his shoulders. It drew an immediate response, his grip loosened while his body hardened. She could feel him pressing against her.

  As her own body temperature rose, as his musky male scent reached out to ensnare her, Anne looked up. What she read in his eyes brought her back to earth with a bone-jarring thump. There was emotion there; yes, but it wasn't passion. It sure wasn't love. Nope, it was pure unmistakable triumph. Like this was some battle he had won.

  The bastard. Anne pushed him away, disgusted with both him and herself. She should have known better. She knew Lamont. She knew how he operated. Anne scrubbed all emotion from her voice until her breathlessness was barely detectable.

  "I'd appreciate not being manhandled during my three months here, M'sieur Lamont. I trust you can control yourself."

  Yet another emotion colored Philippe's eyes dead black, anger. “I'll manage, mademoiselle,” he growled, “Since we're clearly done here, please leave. Forgive me if I don't walk you out."

  She understood this lack of courtesy only too well, his arousal outlined against his navy blue dress pants. His brain might have been experiencing triumph but his body told a more primitive story. Philippe Lamont wanted her. Her, Anne James, plain brown Anne. It was almost beyond comprehension.

  She scurried from the room, eyes forward, avoiding Mrs. Depeche's curious gaze. It wasn't a pure physical wanting, Anne knew that. It had purpose, an ulterior motive.

  But under all those layers, it was still desire at the core. That was something, wasn't it?

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Four

  For the past three weeks, Philippe hadn't touched Anne. That wasn't exactly true. He had touched her, a fleeting hand on her wrist, a circling of her waist, a gentle squeeze of her shoulders. Once he had been unable to resist running the back of his finger over the softness of her cheek.

  But he hadn't explored any forbidden places, not one curve of that perky rear, not one plum sized breast. Not that he hadn't wanted to; he had, with every essence of his being. Even now his hands itched to travel along her jawbone, down that long neck of hers and disappear into the gentle valley below. She was driving him absolutely mad, this little brown sparrow, and she seemed unaware of that fact.

  These afternoon meetings were a special kind of torture, designed especially for him. It was the two of them, alone in his office, Anne so close he smelled the fruity fragrance of her hair. He should stop holding the meetings, oui, he really should, but he couldn't help himself.

  Right now, she frowned down at a contract he gave her to peruse. A feather-light sigh escaped those full lips, rippling her sleeveless beige shirt, her chocolate brown jacket hanging on the chair back behind her.

  "I'm not being too hard on you, am I, Cherie?” Philippe had to touch that exposed bare arm, stroking it with his fingertips, her skin humming.

  "Hard on me? I've done nothing for the past two weeks.” Anne knew not to glance up. Philippe would be watching her, his brown eyes glowing gold, not bothering to hide his need.

  "You will.” Anne also ignored his touch or at least tried to. It was as light as a breath upon her and did funny things to her mind, over-riding rational thought with pure sensory reaction. “I intend to get my money's worth, my pound o
f flesh so to speak."

  His pound of flesh, figuratively and literally. There was a promise in those words, a promise of more than business. And she would give in, her resistance, pitifully weak to begin with, cracking. But not yet. Anne had no delusions that Philippe's attraction to her was purely physical. There were a million more desirable women he could vent his lust on, and she'd prefer to know his reasoning before taking it to the next level.

  "Why are you introducing me to everyone, Philippe?” Anne's eyes met his, watching his reaction.

  One dark eyebrow merely raised. “You don't want to know your co-workers?"

  "They're not the issue as you well know. Why introduce me to your clients? Your business associates?” She was getting recognized outside the office, receiving invitations to luncheons, becoming part of the networking loop. It made Anne nervous.

  "You knew most of them already."

  "But they didn't know me,” she pointed out. The same people she used to watch were now watching her every move, listening to her comments. It couldn't be a good thing.

  "Ah, Cherie,” he murmured in understanding, “your business will never grow big, big if you shun publicity, if you don't make connections.” Philippe moved around the desk to the mini fridge in the far corner of his office.

  "Water?” He held out a plastic bottle.

  A trap. Say no, walk away, her mind did its best to warn her. The warnings were blithely ignored. “Yes, thank you.” Anne reached for the bottle. Philippe didn't let go, hanging onto it, until he could grab her other wrist, his long fingers cool and wet with condensation.

  Yet again, her mind had been right. She was trapped. Part of her was appalled. Part of her didn't care. All of her knew it was too soon.

  Anne distracted him. “I don't need to grow the company. I like it the size it is."

  "But when you retire, the income will stop,” Philippe pointed out, “Right now, your business is based on your personal touch with the plans, and doesn't have enough volume to support a full management team. It isn't self sustaining; it isn't a true business."

  "That doesn't concern me, Philippe.” She licked her lips nervously, inadvertently drawing his eyes there. “If it stops, it stops. Even if that happens tomorrow, I'll be okay. I'm taking care of myself."

  "Are you?” He took the bottle of water back from her and placed it on the nearby table. “Are you, vraiment?” and she knew exactly what he was going to do.

  Anne put up one last feeble attempt at resistance. “Missus Depeche will be in any minute."

  "Sylvie doesn't gossip.” With what little consolation that offered, Philippe pulled Anne to him, his hands running over top her trousers, scooping her buttocks. “I prefer you in skirts."

  "I don't dress to please you. I dress to please myself.” That was the half-truth. She intentionally wore slacks this week, trying to damper his unrelenting fascination with her undergarments.

  "And the stockings, Cherie, are they to please yourself?"

  "Yes.” Her hands pressed against his dress shirt, a solid wall of muscle under her palms. “I get hot."

  "You do, mais oui, Cherie, you do.” He brushed his cheek against hers.

  Before the sharp tap at the door registered in Anne's brain, Mrs. Depeche entered. Their shared assistant blinked at their close proximity before baldly stating, “Miss James, your four o'clock will be here shortly. I assume you'll be seeing him in your own office."

  "Yes, thank you.” Mortified, Anne managed a calm response. “I'll be there momentarily."

  Anne waited until Mrs. Depeche left to slide on her jacket. “I have to go."

  "We're not finished, Cherie. This will continue after your meeting.” Philippe didn't ask. He told.

  "Maybe. If it doesn't go long.” She wouldn't be bossed around, “I need to be somewhere right after work.” Tonight was her Young C.E.O.s class and nothing, not even a temptingly handsome man, would make her miss it. Lamont would have to learn patience.

  He wasn't a quick learner. “I need to hear your thoughts on Henri's business."

  "It'll wait ‘til the morning."

  "Cherie!” came out as a growl.

  "There's no need for you to be involved, Philippe. It's my call to make, and I won't have you looking over my shoulder, second-guessing my decisions. I do have total control over accepting, don't I?” Anne verified. Those were her terms.

  "You do.” He nodded. “But he's my cousin. I'll need to know our answer, oui ou non."

  Anne didn't reply as she gathered up the papers. Philippe's lips twisted. “Try not to be too hard on Henri, will you? I like the man."

  "I can't promise anything.” Anne threw over her shoulder while she exited the office. Was that deep throated rumble a chuckle? Sounded like one. Fine for him to laugh. He isn't the one turning down an entrepreneur for funding. And not any entrepreneur, one of Philippe's beloved relatives.

  * * * *

  Philippe's cousin, Henri Lamont, headed up a hot sauce company requiring financing for a marketing campaign. He was in the awkward stage between being a small business, creating hot sauce in his certified home kitchen, and having enough volume to fill a complete co-packer production run. To mitigate losses, he had to ramp up sales quickly. To ramp up sales, he needed the marketing funds.

  There was another tap, this time at her own office door. Mrs. Depeche, exercising more caution, waited for Anne's acknowledgement before showing her entrepreneur in.

  "Hello, Henri.” Anne walked over to the rotund man, stretching out her hand. “Thank you for meeting with me. I'm Anne."

  "Enchante." Henri's jovial smile lit up his round face. Instead of shaking her hand, he pulled her forward to kiss her cheek.

  And that's not where his similarity to Philippe ended. As they seated, Anne studied the cousin. An older version of Philippe, a little more plump, more gray hair, wrinkles around the same laughing brown eyes. Still attractive. Still charming.

  Henri, not trying to hide his own curiosity, was examining her as thoroughly. “Have you been working with Philippe long, Miss James?” His voice lacked his cousin's heavier accent. “He never mentioned your name."

  Why would Philippe mention her? And why would it bother her that he hadn't?

  "Please call me Anne, and this is my third week. I have years of experience evaluating business plans, however,” she added, anxious that he not think her an outright amateur.

  "I'm sure you do and even if you didn't, I'd have no reservations. Philippe hires only the best.” Henri was in no great rush to get to the topic at hand. “You're not what I expected."

  Oh, lordy, not a male chauvinist. “A woman?"

  "No, no.” The man laughed. “Your name gave that away. I guess I expected someone like Suzanne or Denise."

  Suzanne, she knew. Denise, Anne gathered from office gossip, was an ex-girlfriend. Supposedly even more gorgeous than Suzanne. “Well, I'm not.” And that irritated her also.

  "Well, I'm pleased.” This sounded sincere. “I love Philippe like he's the younger brother I never had. He stayed at my parents’ house when he first came to America for school. It was tough, his being away from his family, but selfish boy that I was, I loved it. Didn't have any siblings myself."

  What was Henri doing? Building sympathy for his cause? Pulling at her heartstrings? Not going to work. This was a business decision.

  "So you make hot sauce?” Anne put the conversation back on track.

  "Yep.” The man had the audacity to wink at her. “I adore the stuff; put it on everything."

  Not Anne. She didn't like hot sauce to start with. After all week sampling competitive product and more than one stomach ache, she hated the condiment now.

  "Is that why you got into the business?” Henri hadn't swung into the usual entrepreneur hard sell razzle-dazzle. Must be nerves.

  She never received an answer. The door opened, and Kevin Maple, the V-P of new business development, sauntered in, a smirk on his insolent face.

  This interruption ha
d been planned. Why Maple was gunning for her, she didn't know, but he had from day one. “Can I help you, Kevin? I'm with a prospective partner.” She smiled to offset the irritation in her voice.

  "Then allow me to help you."

  Help me? Yikes, this is going to be trouble.

  "I pulled the Nielsen numbers.” Kevin rushed on. “Even a junior analyst knows you can't make a decision without them."

  Junior analyst? He's calling me a junior analyst?

  The exec continued, turning to Henri. “She's new.” Like that explained everything.

  "Thank you. I sourced the numbers elsewhere.” Anne placed the pages on top of the file as proof. Nancy ran them for her this morning, the request for information Anne placed with Maple's group last week ignored, purposely she suspected.

  "Confidentiality, Miss James,” implied that she spilled start up secrets while gathering simple statistics. “Henri.” Maple settled into the other guest chair, signaling that he planned to remain for the duration.

  "Maple."

  Great, the cousin knows him. Anne fumed in silence as the two gabbed about last night's football game and barbeque and every other boy skewed topic under the sun. Except Henri's hot sauce. That wasn't mentioned once. Not once. Peculiar, for an entrepreneur. His sort tended to live and breathe their companies.

  Anne let the male bonding go as long as she could. Finally she had to say something. “Kevin, I appreciate your assistance,” her tone perfectly cordial, “but I can take it from here."

  "I'm not certain that you..."

  Anne wouldn't let him finish. “I'm certain.” She held the door open pointedly.

  Maple was leaving, “Henri, you have my card,” but not going quietly, “Call me if you have any questions."

  "I'm perfectly capable of handling my entrepreneur's questions.” Enough with this power play.

  "Sure you are."

  Sarcastic jerk. She was happy to close the door behind him. Now where were they?

  "Do you have a sample of the product?"

  "Of course.” Henri didn't comment on the rough transition, flipping open his square black leather case, rummaging through the mess inside. No organization, everything tossed in.