Breach of Trust

by Kimber Chin

  What? Had the Angel not fully understood the situation? “Philippe fired me."

  "Yes, unusual for him to be so impulsive. He's seldom so irrational. His loss...” was Ms. McKenzie's gain, the unspoken implication.

  "He felt he had just cause.” Why Anne defended him, she didn't know. “He believes I sold information to the competition, destroying his client and damaging his own company's reputation."

  "He listened to the facts,” facts being said sarcastically, “and we all know how the facts can lie. Philippe made a mistake."

  Ms. McKenzie sounded so confident, Anne asked, “How can you be so sure?"

  "Look, child, Philippe might not trust his gut but I do. He trusted you. I believe he still trusts you. He simply let that horrid temper of his get in the way of good business."

  "He made a mistake with Kevin,” Anne pointed out.

  "He never trusted Kevin, not since day one,” Ms. McKenzie confided. “Why do you think Philippe was so hands-on with him? Did Philippe micro-manage you?"

  "Nope.” He had let her run with the ball, make her own decisions.

  "He felt a need to hold Kevin's hand. Why? Simple. He didn't trust him. Turns out that Philippe was right."

  "And you feel he's wrong about my involvement?” Anne didn't make an effort to defend herself.

  "Not feel, I know he's wrong.” Ms. McKenzie spread out some files on the desk. “Are these yours?"

  Anne's eyes skimmed over the names. Good companies, great business plans. For the first time in two weeks, Anne felt her old confidence returning. “Yes."

  "I thought so. All I had to do was take a sample of the very best plans presented to me. With a couple exceptions, it was clear that one person drafted all of them, someone especially skilled, the best. Philippe works only with the best. He hired you so you must be the best. Stands to reason that they're yours.” Ms. McKenzie looked quite pleased with herself.

  "So?” Where was the financier going with this?

  "So, Philippe's gut aside, no one putting this level of work, of art, of love into a complete stranger's business would ever sell out their integrity for a handful of dollars or a couple months less work. Am I right or am I right?” Ms. McKenzie gathered the files back up into a tidy stack.

  "I suppose you're right.” The two women studied each other, Anne waiting for the Angel's next move.

  "Child, what did you say when Philippe accused you?"

  What did she say? Nothing, absolutely nothing. Anne continued the trend now.

  Ms. McKenzie's sigh was deep and heartfelt, like she was too weary for all this. “You didn't defend yourself, did you?"

  Anne shook her head. Why should she have to? He automatically should trust her. Wasn't that what a relationship was? Mutual trust?

  "Did you, at very least, tell him that you didn't do it?"

  "Nope."

  Ms. McKenzie looked to the right, off into space. Anne watched different emotions flicker across her face. Finally she seemed to come to a decision.

  "I can't believe I'm saying this. I must be getting soft in my old age,” the financier muttered to herself. “Child, I'll walk through this with you slowly. You clearly aren't thinking rationally."

  Great. Now she was getting insulted, in her own office. Anne straightened. She didn't have to take this.

  "I'm telling you this because I like you.” The Angel stopped her protests before they started. “So when you coach entrepreneurs to pitch to Philippe, what do you tell them to do?"

  And the point of this is? “Be confident; be certain; be strong."

  "Right.” The Angel nodded. “And what do you tell them to expect?"

  "Push back,” Philippe always pushed back, to see how far he could.

  "And what is your entrepreneur to do when that happens?"

  "Push right back.” This was a difficult concept to sell to capital-starved business owners. They had to risk losing financing in order to obtain it.

  "Why?"

  "Because Philippe's a bastard and bastards respect only other bastards.” Anne could see where this was heading and she didn't like it.

  "So when Philippe pushed back, when he accused you, what did you do?"

  "Nothing.” Anne sagged. “I know, I know. I should have pushed back but he should have..."

  "Forget,” Ms. McKenzie slammed her hand down on the desk, startling Anne, “what he should have done. That is irrelevant and out of your control. Accept the responsibility for your own failure, Anne. You, better than anyone, should have known what Philippe's reaction would be. His actions were no surprise. He did what he always does—push. You got emotional and failed to respond properly."

  Anne had. She had failed, failed him, failed herself, failed their relationship. What could she do about that now? Nothing. “What's done is done."

  "Hell no!” Ms. McKenzie snorted. “The first failure is not the end. Your entrepreneurs fail time and time again and still they try. They have to. Just like you have to talk to Philippe, tell him that you didn't do this, that he was right to trust you."

  Put myself out there to get hurt again? No way. “Why would he believe me?” Anne questioned aloud instead. She had no proof, nothing but her word.

  "Because he wants to,” Ms. McKenzie stated, “and because you're going to figure out who did this. Who put this black mark on your reputation. With or without his help, you're going to do whatever it takes to clear your name."

  "Why should I?” Her destroyed reputation would never recover.

  "You have to. Until you do, a part of your brain always will be fretting about it. You won't be able to do this level of work.” Ms. McKenzie slapped the files on the desk. “And I don't want any less from you. So settle it. Then come to me. I'll make you an offer worth your while."

  Ms. McKenzie rose, like it had been all decided. Has it? Anne debated as she accompanied the Angel out. Ms. McKenzie was right; the accusation ate at her. The unfairness of it. An accusation that should have been leveled at the real culprit, the thief, the coward.

  She could bring him to justice. “I just might follow your advice,” Anne told Ms. McKenzie.

  "Do it,” the money woman urged, “Whatever it takes. Get it done."

  Whatever it takes including meeting with Philippe?

  Could she do that? Again, she had no choice. She had to. Anne needed access to Lamont resources to prove her innocence. And when she did and Lamont found out he was wrong, so very wrong ... Anne's lips curled into a mirthless smile.

  * * * *

  Anne wasn't as confident the next day, sitting in the Lamont Ventures reception area. She arrived first thing in the morning and put her request to meet with Philippe in with the front desk. Philippe was there, she was told, and he would see her. Anne didn't know when. By noon, she was having second thoughts. Still no meeting and no sign of Philippe. Former co-workers came in and out of the doors, looking at her curiously, a few brave enough to say “Hi,” but no one lingered. No one wanted to get caught talking to the exile.

  Anne didn't dare move, even to go out for lunch in case she missed the appointment. When her stomach started rumbling, her appetite coming back with a vengeance, the receptionist, out of pity, brought her a sandwich and a bottle of water from the downstairs deli.

  At least Anne had the foresight to bring reading material. She was halfway through Sun Tzu's The Art Of War. Appropriate for the battle she planned against Philippe yet familiar enough that her mind could wander.

  Five o'clock came and the receptionist packed up. Yes, Philippe would meet with her. No, she didn't know when.

  Six o'clock, Sylvie wandered out, her briefcase in hand. Seeing Anne, Philippe's executive assistant walked towards her.

  "Will he...?” Anne asked as the older woman kissed her cheek. Sylvie would know better than anyone.

  "I shouldn't say.” Her kind eyes sparkled. “But this is the only exit."

  So Anne was to wait and hope. “His mood?"

  "The same as the past two weeks.
” In other words, not good. If Philippe was in a good mood, Sylvie would have said so.

  "I hope this isn't a mistake.” What could this solve with him in a lousy mood and not wanting to see her?

  "It's not.” Sylvie squeezed her hand in support. “I'm going, Philippe won't see you with me here, but don't give up Anne. Some things are worth fighting for."

  And then Anne was alone again. Alone with her thoughts and fears and misgivings.

  By nine o'clock, Anne was asleep in her chair. She finished her book, finished counting the ceiling tiles, finished studying the dust on her shoes. The boredom numbed her mind, quieting the worries and, exhausted, she finally drifted off, her body needing the rest. Anne hadn't slept at all the night before, being too anxious about today.

  * * * *

  Philippe checked his watch. Ten o'clock. He sighed. It's time. He waited long enough and if Anne was out there stubbornly waiting for him, he'd see her. He didn't know what she wanted. Philippe had expected, had hoped, that Anne would return shortly after he fired her. Return to give him a reason why. Something to justify why he continued to think about her. Despite disgust over her actions, he cared for Anne, trusted her. It didn't make any sense.

  But a week passed and then two, and Philippe came to terms with her not returning. He moved on with his life. What was left of it. Which wasn't much. Work, that kept his mind busy. Sex? Suzanne attempted to seduce him. He wasn't interested. Not in Suzanne, not in any woman. That part of him was dead. Anne killed it. Or so he had thought. When Philippe opened the main doors to look at the source of his thoughts, all the desire he thought long gone was rekindled.

  She slept, looking as innocent as he wished her to be, small enough to curl up comfortably in the chair, her feet tucked underneath her body. Was she even thinner than before? He thought so. And there were dark circles under her eyes. Philippe wanted to take her in his arms, forget about the past, love her. He couldn't do that.

  "Anne James,” he barked, feeling a tinge of guilt as she jumped, her brown eyes blurry.

  "Philippe.” She stood, smoothing down her skirt.

  Oui, she had lost weight. The skirt hung around her hips. A straight skirt, no garter belt today. Those, what did she call them? Stay ups? Something like that.

  "Maintenant.” Philippe couldn't look at her any more.

  Not without his traitorous body responding. Not that he had to look to see if she was following him. He could hear the click, click, click of her heels on the hardwood. He could smell the fruity scent of her, light on the air. He could hear her taking deep breath after deep breath, her normally indestructible composure pierced. Philippe strode to his desk, standing behind it, using it as a barrier between them, but not bothering to sit down. He forced her to tilt her head up to hold his gaze. “Qu'est-ce que c'est?” He was too upset for English.

  "I didn't do it.” Anne looked at him rock steady, not even blinking once. Not that she blinked when she lied.

  No, Philippe watched for the guilt indicating slight pursing of her lips. That's what her tell was, the clear sign she was lying. There wasn't any, her mouth remained partially open, that full bottom lip begging for a good long kiss. Or had he deliberately missed it? Because some part of him didn't want to see it? Had his attraction for Anne colored his judgment? Philippe couldn't even trust himself anymore.

  "What proof do you have?” That would put this to rest for good. Proof he could hang onto, proof he could verify with cold, hard facts.

  "I have none. Yet.” Anne rested her fingers on the desk top, leaning forward determinedly. “But I intend to uncover who did this and why. I'll do whatever it takes."

  She sounded so sincere and Philippe desperately wanted to believe her. “So do it.” What's stopping her? Why is she here?

  "I need your help to investigate."

  That's it. She can't do it on her own.

  "You need my help.” Philippe laughed harshly. “You have some nerve."

  Anne's smile was sad. “Nerve is all I have left. Without your cooperation, I won't have access to all the information. I need that information to clear my name."

  Philippe could feel the hurt as acutely as if it were his own. He didn't know why he cared. She was the source of her own unhappiness. “Why should I help you?"

  "I don't know."

  "Come on, Mademoiselle James, you know the rules of negotiating.” He couldn't help the sarcasm. “You ask me for something. You must have expected to give me something in return."

  She was silent, that brain he loved most likely working at full throttle, running through various scenarios.

  For her to come up with a plausible lie. He didn't have the time for that.

  "So Mademoiselle James, what do you have to offer me?"

  "I'll do whatever it takes,” said in a whisper but Philippe heard her.

  Anne's brown eyes met his and his breath caught. He knew before she reached up to undo that first suit jacket button what Anne was going to offer him. Was he interested? Damn straight. She still turned him on. His body heated up at the thought of touching her. It defied all that he thought he stood for but she had that control over him.

  "Any interaction with my company goes through me,” Philippe clarified, trying to keep his expression disinterested even as he watched her intently.

  Anne nodded, continuing to unbutton, the jacket gaped open, showing the blood red camisole underneath. A slutty, primal color.

  "I don't want you talking to anyone at my company or Denise's company directly.” The jacket slipped to the ground.

  She reached back to undo her skirt.

  "Non." He walked around the desk, clearing the top as he moved, stopping her. He turned her so she was facing away from him, and pushed her against the desk. “I'll take what I want the same way as you'll get what you want. Fast, expedient, purely a business transaction.” He yanked up her skirt, pressing her shoulders down to the wooden surface with his other hand. She gasped as her skimpy red satin panties ripped.

  His fingers tracked the angry indents the straps had made on her hips and then he moved lower, her skin soft like the satin under his palms. Mon Dieu, she was wet for him already. Despite his intentions to simply take Anne, Philippe couldn't help stroking her, giving her a bit of pleasure.

  She didn't protest. The exact opposite. Her back arched, that full mouth of hers opened, her eyelids fluttered closed.

  Her responsiveness. The red panties. The camisole. Whatever it takes.

  Did she want this? Had she known? Is this her plan? His own pants puddled around his ankles as he kicked her feet apart. The tip of him ready teased her opening. Philippe paused. He had to be sure. He wouldn't take a woman by force. He couldn't hurt Anne.

  "Do we have a deal?"

  She didn't say anything, only arching even more, giving him easier access. Philippe felt her heat, smelled her, this woman who enflamed all his senses. She made him insane, violent. Although all her actions said yes, Philippe needed to hear the words. He had to be absolutely certain.

  "Do we have a deal, Mademoiselle James?” Philippe repeated, placing his hands on her hips, shaking her a bit.

  Anne looked back, brown eyes glowing and then she smiled, a tight little taunting smile. “You know we do, M'sieur Lamont. So seal the deal, damn it."

  And Philippe did, slamming into her with a force that surprised even himself.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fourteen

  Whatever it takes. This was her new mantra, Anne reminded herself, as she tagged along after Kate Winslow, the PR manager for Wedding Pings, main competitor to Be My Guest. Good thing too, as there was no turning back now. Anne was well behind enemy lines, her Birkenstocks flopping through the corridors in time to Muzak from hell. Stanley dressed her in a snug ribbed knit tank top and long multi-colored broom skirt, assuring here that this was what all the artsy university journalists were wearing.

  Stanley might have been right. Ms. Winslow hadn't even blinked.

 
"Your audience is exactly the demographic Wedding Pings is targeting,” she told Anne. “Young, educated, tech-savvy, starting to think about marriage. We were thrilled when your editor approached us."

  Her “editor,” a long time friend at a nearby university paper, approached the company upon Anne's request. Sure, she would actually write an article up, that wasn't a lie, but the real purpose was to snoop around.

  "We were thrilled that you could slot some time in for us.” Of course, the company jumped all over the opportunity, this was free advertising. “I was surfing, doing some dreaming, and came across the clever way you manage guest lists. I haven't seen any other site do this."

  The woman beamed. “And you won't. No one else has it. It's an innovation, exclusive to Wedding Pings."

  Right. Exclusive after her company stole it from Denise, putting the blonde out of business before she even started. “Did he mention I'd like to make that technology the focus of the article, follow the project from conception to implementation?” At least that was what she had told her buddy to say.

  Heavily mascara laden eyelashes fluttered.

  Drat ... that sounded too nailed down. The woman was suspicious. Nothing would be leaked if Anne went at it too hard-nosed.

  "I mean ... it always amazes me how people think of these things,” Anne hastened to add, “so creative, so freeing to the brides. Doing your part to make the world a better place.” Complete crap but was it enough peace and love?

  Must have been because the P-R woman relaxed and smiled, a little condescendingly. “That's who we are thinking of. Busy brides who already have enough on their plates. They shouldn't have to worry about seating arrangements and thank-you cards, don't you think, Marie?"

  Marie? Oh, yeah, that was her. For an extra layer of invisibility, Anne gave her second name as her first, her surname being common enough to keep.

  "Thank you cards? As in snail mail? That's so prehistoric,” Anne bubbled, sickening herself in the process, “I mean send an e-mail, already."

  "Unfortunately, weddings remain very traditional with mailed cards being the norm.” The door to a boardroom was opened and Anne was offered a pink cushioned seat. Did the place actually smell like flowers too? Too, too much. “I've set up interviews with a number of my associates so you can have different viewpoints."