by Kimber Chin
Who could work that way? And what businessman didn't have a sample of the product right at the top of the bag? None that she knew.
While Anne was contemplating this, she set out some plain crackers, paper napkins, Dixie cups and a bottle of water on her now clear desk. Standard taste testing supplies.
She picked up the bottle finally found, rotating it in her hands. “We'll have to change the label."
"Why?” Henri demanded, defensively. “I like the label."
Anne stood up, her fingers flying over her recently acquired hot sauce collection, pulling a bottle from the back row. She plopped it on the desk, a solid clunk as the glass hit the wood surface.
"That's why.” She slid the two bottles so they were side by side. The packaging was almost identical and left Anne questioning Henri's development process. No competitive research done. No knowledge of the market. Her teens could do better. But she kept an open mind. Package re-design was simple. A superior taste could be enough to work with.
She sipped water to clear her palette and then dapped a drop of hot sauce on a cracker. Anne sniffed it first, a pleasing aroma for what it was, and then put the cracker in her mouth. Blast it, it would have to be an extremely hot one. Chile, habanero chile. Wait a minute! This mix tastes familiar. Again she stood up, looking over her collection, pulling another bottle.
She reset her taste buds and tried the competitor's sauce. Anne almost groaned out loud. It was identical. A rip-off product in a rip-off package.
Maybe he doesn't know. Anne dabbed the competitor product on another cracker and handed it over. “Henri, taste this one."
He took a swig of water and then a bite of the cracker. His face fell.
Nope, he didn't. His reaction cleared up that key point for Anne. The surprise was genuine, the theft unintentional.
"What do you think?” Come on, Henri, she silently urged, you seem like a nice guy, tell me what's going on. How can you, as the sole owner, be so uninvolved?
"It's good,” Henri admitted that much. “Really good."
It should be good. It was the product his company decided to copy. “I'm curious. How did you come to your formulation?"
The man wiped his forehead with a napkin, the hot sauce heating him up. Or maybe it was guilt causing him to sweat.
"Makes your mouth zing, doesn't it?” Henri puffed.
Anne noticed that he didn't answer her question, didn't meet her eyes. “I'd be interested on hearing how you came to this specific mix of jalapeno and chili peppers."
He started peeling the label off his beloved bottle. “It took a bit of trial and error. Some versions were heavier on the jalapeno and some on the chile. I thought this balance was just right, hot but not too in your face."
"Except that there are no jalapeno peppers in your product,” Anne pointed out quietly. A man who went through the tedious back and forth of formulation would know the recipe better than he knew his own name.
Henri gulped, speechless which was fine for Anne. She didn't need to hear more.
Anne slid his business plan across the desk. “Henri, I appreciate the work you've put into your business plan. However, Lamont Ventures prefers to deal with unique propositions. As your package is similar to a competitor's and the product itself is identical to yet another established brand, we're turning down your request for funding."
"But ... but.” The man's eyes blinked rapidly. “But, I've invested all my personal money into this company. I have a wife and kids to support. What am I going to tell them? How am I going to pay my bills? What am I going to do?"
Though not relevant to the business, it was sad all the same. “It's for the best, Henri, believe me. You're setting yourself up for a nasty lawsuit from not one, but two companies. And as you are a sole proprietorship, even a single lawsuit could wipe out more money than what you have put into the business. They could take everything, including your home."
"If I talked to Philippe...” Henri tried.
"The answer would be the same,” Anne told him firmly. She couldn't have him running to Philippe, not after she told her new boss she could handle it. “I assure you that I speak for Mister Lamont on this."
Henri's face drooped with merely mild disappointment. Interesting, considering his financial future was supposedly at stake. “Anne, I didn't know about it being the same, I swear. I relied on a third party to supply me with the product.” This, she believed, was closer to the truth. “I wouldn't have done that. It's not right."
"A learned lesson for your next venture.” Anne used this experience as a teaching tool: “Advisors can make or break a business. Do your research, be more careful with your choices.” She stood up to walk him out.
"Thank you, Anne.” Henri gave Anne an impromptu hug, surprising her. “Philippe was right about you being one smart woman."
Philippe was right? Anne stiffened. But Henri previously said Philippe never mentioned her name. That meant...
"That bastard."
"I blew it, didn't I?” Henri laughed, not at all distressed about his slip.
"From the start, you were a little off, not talking up the business enough. Entrepreneurs are usually stressed out and determined to hard sell."
"Told Philippe I wouldn't pull it off.” Henri sat back down again. “He insisted I try."
Anne glanced at the clock. She had to leave soon if she was going to make class. “You couldn't have mixed a couple hot sauces together to get a different formula?"
"I didn't know about that, I swear. Philippe's formula, and I guess he thought you wouldn't taste the competition. You do your research.” Henri nodded, impressed.
She did do her research, a lot of blasted research. Resentment built as Anne thought of all the time she put into this project. She worked two full-time jobs plus her Young C.E.O.s coaching. She didn't have a minute to waste.
"Well, that was a great allocation of time, wasn't it?” Anne moved to the door.
"Hey.” Henri held up his hands in defense. “Don't get upset with me. I did Philippe a favor."
"Oh, I realize that.” Anne sucked back her anger, reserving the few choice words for Monsieur Philippe Lamont. “It was nice meeting you despite everything."
The older man reached for her hand and brought it up to his lips in a brief salute. “Likewise, Anne. We'll meet again, I'm sure of that now."
Anne didn't know what that meant and she didn't care. She didn't have time to think about anything. She was late. After leaving Henri happily chatting with Mrs. Depeche, Anne closed her door to vent her irritation on the office furniture. She packed up, furiously stuffing the loose papers into her desk, slamming each drawer with satisfaction.
Before she could successfully make her escape, the internal phone line rang. She debated answering it, finally deciding that she didn't have time; she'd return the voicemail first thing tomorrow. But as the phone rang and rang, Anne gave into curiosity and checked the call display. Instant regret. It was Mrs. Depeche, impossible to sneak past and not pleased with her as it was for some reason. With a sigh, Anne pressed the speakerphone. Another mistake. Philippe wanted to see her in his office. Now.
Well, screw that. He wasted enough of her time today.
"I'm sorry, Missus Depeche,” Anne told the assistant, her voice overly perky, “I can't meet with him today. Schedule something for early tomorrow morning. If M'sieur Lamont protests, please tell your boss that I'm working on real business plans. He'll understand."
He did. Minutes later as she waited for the elevator,
Philippe came to stand beside her, his eyes wary, his own briefcase and laptop in hand.
"I wanted to talk to you before you left,” his voice deceptively quiet.
Anne didn't care about what he wanted. She wanted him to stop playing games and that wasn't about to happen, was it? “It's past five o'clock, Lamont. We agreed—no overtime, remember? Take it or leave it."
"Je comprends. Then we'll talk in the car.” Philippe entered the elevator with her,
pressing the button for the parking garage. “While I drive you to your office."
"I'm not going to the office.” She stared straight ahead at the blink of the descending floor numbers. 22—21—20
"It doesn't matter. I'll drive you wherever you are going,” Philippe insisted.
"And what will happen with my car?” Anne pointed out the error in his plan.
He had an answer for that too. The quick thinking ass. “I'll drive you back again, after dinner."
"I'll be hours.” 14—13—12
"I'll wait."
Anne checked the time again. If she arrived late—she was never late—the students would assume she wasn't coming, and leave. With traffic, getting there on time would be close as it was.
6—5—4
Arguing with the stubborn, stubborn man would take even more time. She didn't have a choice, not if she wanted to make the class.
2—1—P-1, the doors opened. Decision time.
"We'll be on my schedule, Lamont,” was her not-so-gracious acceptance.
Philippe held the doors open for her to exit first, his satisfied smile making Anne want to scream. If he thought he had her at his mercy, he had another think coming.
He offered to play chauffeur, then fine; a chauffeur would come in handy. Anne would recoup some of her precious time and correct business plans while riding in the back seat.
That should tick the man off.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Five
Philippe was more amused than ticked. Not that he misunderstood the situation. It couldn't be more clear. The sparrow's feathers were ruffled but good. Had she finished telling him off? Not even close.
The timing of the confrontation was key. If Anne lost her temper too soon, she simply would walk away from him and he would end up eating alone. That Philippe didn't want to happen. So it was worth forgoing the wise-ass comments. He kept his mouth shut. Even as Anne loaded him up with a box from the trunk of her Volvo. Even as she slipped into his own car's backseat, leaving him up front alone to drive. Et oui, even as she barked out directions like some power-obsessed line manager. Philippe bit his tongue and eased the Maybach out of the parking garage.
Non, he was not giving her a reason to change her mind. Not until they were well on their way. Not until there was no escape for her.
Was all of it a sacrifice? Non, non, non. Little did Anne know, but he had a better view of her in his rearview mirror than if she sat beside him. Philippe covertly watched her as she took her jacket off, and let her hair down. It fell in waves of brown satin around her face. Every once in a while, she ran a hand through that luscious mane of hair, the honey brown strands picking up the light.
As they moved onto the freeway, Philippe knew it to be time. “How did the meeting with Henri go?” his words penetrated the suffocating silence filling the vehicle.
Anne looked up from the papers in her lap, frowning slightly. “Philippe, can it wait until tomorrow? I'm off the clock."
His mouth turned upwards. Can it wait? Ah, non, it can not. He preferred to control the situation. “That poorly, Cherie? Let me know if you need any assistance with the evaluation."
As designed, his offer set Anne off. “Assistance with the evaluation?” She slammed the papers down on the black leather seat beside her. “What evaluation? None was needed, a complete waste of my time. I'm busy, Philippe, I don't have time for your stupid games."
Mon Dieu, she was magnificent, her whole body vibrating with anger. “Stupid games?” Philippe played the innocent.
"Cut the crap, there isn't any Henri's Hot Sauce. It was all a ruse, to mess with my mind. Do you know that I spent the week drenching every meal with hot sauces? I hate hot sauce."
That was his buttoned down sparrow, throwing herself heart and soul into every job. Did she put so much passion into her lovemaking? Philippe was determined to find out.
"I couldn't let you loose amongst the legitimate offerings without testing you first. I have to count on you to make the tough calls, Cherie, to not wimp out on me. You understand that, don't you?"
Anne rolled those soulful brown eyes of hers. “I'll have you know I don't wimp out, not ever."
"Noted, Cherie. The next one is the real thing, promise. If it makes you happy, you really will be squashing people's dreams."
"It had better be, and no more hot sauce.” She groaned, rubbing her flat stomach as in remembered distress.
Poor little sparrow, she punished herself to get the job done. He would make it up to her. Tonight, with any luck. “Nothing food related, something completely different, a different industry, something new, something fresh.” He watched as her eyes lit up with interest. “But we'll talk about this tomorrow. You're off the clock, remember?"
Philippe waited for her to ask what the next offering was. He should have known she wouldn't be baited. Anne went back to her papers, nibbling on the end of her red pen.
Philippe kept one eye on the road and the other on Anne, watching as she circled a paragraph. “So I guess no Indian food tonight.” He thought of their dinner options. What would a woman like Anne like? And why did he care? He felt nervous like this was their first date and if he wanted a second, he had to get it right. Was that what he wanted? A second? Non, a second wouldn't be needed. A one-night stand and she'd be out of his system.
"Indian?” She looked up puzzled.
"Or Mexican. That can be spicy too,” Philippe added.
Her forehead wrinkled, a picture of confusion.
"For dinner,” he clarified. Had she forgotten? They were going for dinner after her class. That was the plan. Wine her, dine her, bed her and then back to business. No more daydreaming about underwear.
"I don't know, Philippe, I don't have the time.” Anne put her papers aside again. “I should drop in at my own office."
She was trying to wiggle out of dinner, damn difficult woman. “You have to eat."
"I'll probably pick something up and eat at my desk."
He wasn't going to let her succeed. “I'll keep you company, Cherie."
Anne grumbled something very uncomplimentary under her breath. It was a new experience for him, a woman trying to avoid his company. Avoiding his company and blocking his physical attentions semi-effectively all week. What was Anne doing? Trying to stop the unstoppable? Keeping it platonic?
Wouldn't work. She could delay as long as she wanted, it would happen. After this afternoon's meeting, Philippe was sure. He wouldn't be satisfied until he tasted her fully, all of her, every soft inch. She intrigued him too much. It would cost him money. He wouldn't be able to look at one of her business plans logically afterwards. Likely he couldn't do that even now. All he'd see would be black stockings covering shapely legs.
And revenge? His plans for that were gone. Even one night of passion took Anne off his hit list. He might be a bastard but he played fair. It'd be worth all that to hear her moan his name, her voice throaty with desire. He'd do that to her. Make her moan.
Philippe grinned as he walked down the school hallway, his arms full. Oui, he was her little pack mule now. Later, ahhh, later they'd both be working even harder. He'd see to that.
The door was held open by a freckled faced teenager.
"Thank you, Dirk.” Anne smiled.
"No prob, Miss J.” The boy beamed at his teacher, his whole face lighting up. Then he glared at the following Philippe. Someone had a big crush.
She's mine, kid. Philippe's face conveyed the message.
"I'll take that box for Miss. J.” The boy's voice broke a little.
Philippe made his position even more clear. “I'm taking care of Anne now.” Today and maybe even tomorrow if the afterglow lasts, so get used to it.
The boy, Dirk, Anne called him, had guts. He didn't back down, staring at Philippe, shoulders thrown back, feet planted solidly apart. Philippe kept cool and steady eye contact, his one raised eyebrow daring the taller kid to dispute his claim. Finally the boy gave a curt nod, conceding P
hilippe's win. Without another word, he turned on his running-shoe heels and strutted to the front row.
"Do we have a guest speaker today, Miss James?” a baby faced goth-like creature piped up from the back of the classroom.
Anne turned to Philippe with more of a dare than a question in her eyes. He nodded. Might as well volunteer. His speaking was going to happen.
"Very observant, Rochelle.” Anne looked out at the class like she was a proud new mother and they were, every scruffy last one of them, her children. “As you all know, starting up a business often requires financing, sometimes a lot of financing. That's one reason we prepare business plans. What types of financing are there?"
Several suggestions were thrown at Anne. She probed until she got exactly what she wanted, Anne's love of teaching reflected in her animated face. From the rapt attention of this straggly group of teenagers, she was good at it.
"That's the answer I was looking for, Denny, venture capital.” Philippe stood up; this was his cue. “Today, we have the honor of having Philippe Lamont of Lamont Ventures, one of the country's top venture capital houses, here to talk to us about the process. He'll give you an overview of what he and his company does."
I will, will I?
"I'd like you to pay close attention and think of questions. Take this opportunity to find out how a real venture capitalist thinks."
Philippe easily won the rowdy group of teenagers over, smoothly mimicking her style of teaching with questions and informal discussions. They were a tough crowd, cynical of authority and bored too easily but he, with his use of juicy real life examples, held their interest. When the bell rang, the students didn't want to leave but they didn't have a choice.
Anne could see Glenn through the door window pointing at his watch. The Principal had a stick up his butt since her sister shot him down. Anne felt bad but not too bad. At least now, Glenn no longer bothered her about paperwork.
"Miss James.” Tanya's round face was flushed. “A bunch of us are going to my In-N-Out Burger, you know the one on the corner. We'd really like it if you came.” Her shy eyes slid to Philippe. “And maybe Mister Lamont, if he wanted too."
