She gave him a penetrating look. The kind his nanny used to give him when he snuck his brussels sprouts into his napkin. Damn it, she couldn’t make him squirm. He was the boss, not the other way around. Gib shot his cuffs, adjusted his already-impeccable Windsor knot. And waited for the standoff to end.
With a sigh, Agatha picked up the phone and called the kitchen. Right. Gib grabbed a muffin and sauntered into his office. Love. Wasn’t it just like a woman to leap ahead like that? Good thing Daphne was more sensible. He sat down, but set the muffin aside. Didn’t turn on his computer. Instead, he steepled his fingers, elbows on the desk.
Was she? After all, she did own half of a wedding company with Ivy, the biggest romance addict in the world. Daphne spent all day, every day, putting together flowers to celebrate other people’s love. Amid their horror and classic-movie marathons, she did force him to watch a few chick flicks. Kept her parents’ wedding photo on the mantel in a burnished gold frame.
Sure, she didn’t talk about it much. Over the years, she’d dated casually, hooked up a few times. Didn’t seem to have that diamond-ring-focused mind-set. Of course, until last night, he hadn’t even known about her secret yen for jewelry. Last night had been perfect. Funny, he’d never thought he’d describe any night that involved talking about his family as perfect. Yet he’d felt a million pounds lighter after finally telling her. Their make-out session in the carriage had been so hot it was amazing the snow on the road hadn’t simply evaporated. And they’d laughed for hours over pizza and beers. Followed by more slow, sweet kisses in between bites of ice cream at his apartment. At least, until Milo came home and plopped down on the couch next to them. Did one good date mean she now had expectations? Ones that he was by no means capable of fulfilling?
Fuck. Suddenly he regretted sleeping with Doc Debra. It probably meant that he couldn’t go back to her for advice on this. Gib worried he needed advice. Under normal circumstances, he’d turn to Daphne. But that option was off the table. He could only imagine how she’d take an oh-so-casual question about whether or not she realized how huge a step he’d taken, just by committing to try a relationship. That love and a fairy-tale ending just weren’t in the cards for him. Not now, at least. Would she cut him loose?
He couldn’t risk it. Damned if he’d call it love, but damned if he’d lose this woman who was so much a part of him, either. One day at a time. That’s how they’d proceed. Daphne would be fine with it. Probably. Hopefully. And maybe he would give Doc Debra a call. See if she wanted to meet for coffee. Someplace public—not his hotel, with all its available rooms—so she wouldn’t get the wrong idea. Maybe she’d let him pick her brain one more time.
The phone buzzed. Gib jabbed it to speakerphone. “Gibson Moore. How may I help you?”
“Monsieur Moore, it is a pleasure to hear your voice again.” The smooth, French-accented voice belonged to not his North American regional manager, but Phillipe Goudreau, the vice president in charge of his division. Gib had worked with the man during his initial training in Geneva. As he rose through the ranks, Goudreau did as well. Once a year, Cavendish Grand flew all their managers in for a weeklong meeting. Depending on your performance, it could also entail a public verbal flogging, or the presentation of a coveted crystal-and-gold-etched award. Gib glanced at the case on his wall, which held three such awards. Chatting with Goudreau at the annual meeting didn’t bother him at all. Receiving an unscheduled call from him, however, raised Gib’s hackles.
“Phillipe. Hope you enjoyed the holidays.” He sped through his mental Rolodex to come up with the name of the man’s wife. “Did you get some skiing in at St. Moritz with Eloise and your sons?”
“Some. A blizzard rolled in, confined us to the resort for two days. We stayed at the Kempinski, so it wasn’t much of a hardship. Excellent powder after that, though.”
“Good to hear.” To hell with the small talk. This call couldn’t be good news. He’d rather get right to it. Gib couldn’t begin to imagine why Goudreau would call. As Agatha had said, his hotel had exceeded its goals for the last eleven straight quarters. They had the usual amount of workers comp claims, and a few outstanding wrongful dismissal suits. One woman who’d been in litigation with them for nine months, claiming their hotel was responsible for her husband’s shacking up with stewardesses twice a week. Nothing out of the norm. “I know it’s almost the end of your workday in Switzerland, so what can I do for you?”
“This must remain confidential. For the moment.”
“Of course.”
“The Castellan Compagnie has purchased the Cavendish Grand.”
Gib’s mind reeled. There hadn’t been so much as a hint of an imminent takeover. But Goudreau didn’t call just to pass on company gossip. Undoubtedly there’d be a memo circulated to all managers addressing the purchase. Why the personal notification? He braced for the worst. Said in a calm voice, “Quite surprising. Didn’t we just change hands ten years ago?”
“Oui. Priorities change, cash flow ebbs and flows—and so here we are. We’ll describe it as a merger, of course. But the fact remains that they now own a controlling interest. The good news is that they want to keep the Cavendish Grand brand separate, worldwide.”
Terrific. Minimal absorption, minimal turnover. Probably nothing more than a change of the company masthead. Maybe a vacation policy or two. The fists Gib didn’t realize he’d made relaxed. “That is good news.”
“Eh, but there is bad news, as well. Castellan is very conscious of the intricacies of doing business on an international level. Being mindful of national pride...how do you say, quirks?”
It would help if Gib could figure out exactly what Goudreau was trying to say. Would they have to fly the flag of every country that boasted a Cavendish Grand? Start providing menus in ten different languages? “Not sure where you’re headed with this, Philippe.”
“They do not want their American hotel managed by a foreigner. It presents the wrong image. No Frenchmen in London, no Italians in Munich—you get the idea, non?”
No. Fuck no. Gib stood, paced to the window and pressed his head against the cold metal of the frame. Stared down at the bumper-to-bumper line of cars barely moving down Michigan Avenue. Couldn’t see through the four blocks of buildings between him and the lake, but knew it was there. No matter where he went in Chicago, the presence of Lake Michigan hung over the city, just like the canals in Venice or the Danube River in Budapest. And he loved it. Loved the lake, the city, his whole life here. No bloody way would he give it up without a fight.
“Philippe, you’re going to have to spell it out for me. Because my personnel file is bulging with exemplary reviews, early promotions, bonuses. I’m staring at a case full of accolades and trophies, so you need to say exactly what it is you mean.”
The sound of shuffling papers. A throat clearing that attested to Philippe’s pack a day habit. “Due to your British citizenship, Castellan will no longer permit you to work at any Cavendish in the United States. They are happy, however, to offer you the opportunity to manage the Cavendish Grand London. Once an opening arises. Until such time, there is an assistant manager position open in London.”
“I’m not just losing my job here, I’m getting demoted?” Gib couldn’t hold back his temper any longer. Not like this was a video conference. He pounded the flat of his hand against the wall. “No. Absolutely not. I’m staying in Chicago.”
“You can’t.”
“Watch me,” he growled, equal parts a threat and a promise.
“No, Gibson, you cannot stay in Chicago. You have two weeks to wrap up your affairs and transfer to London. Otherwise Castellan will terminate your employment—which means your American work visa will be revoked. One way or the other, you will have to leave Chicago in two weeks. My apologies.” An aggrieved sigh followed. Gib could picture the Gallic shrug which inevitably accompanied it.
He
paced back to the desk. Leaned over to brace his hands on it. Wasn’t as satisfying as getting in Goudreau’s face, but from four thousand miles away, it would have to suffice. “This is bullshit. I don’t display a Union Jack in my office. Keep my mouth shut about politics. Hell, we’ve hosted the president twice in the last year. If anything, our guests get a kick out of my accent.”
“You misunderstand. This isn’t a personal vendetta. It is an across-the-board policy being instituted. As black-and-white as our sick leave. Human Resources ran a report for everyone with foreign worker visas. There are multiple employees equally affected by this new policy. It applies to concierges, front desk managers, catering executives...how do you think the assistant manager position just happened to be open? We’re shuttling people all around the globe.”
If Gib was still manager, he’d care. He’d even offer to help in whatever small way possible. But right now it took all his control not to stalk over to that fucking display case and start lobbing awards through the window.
Silence for a few beats from Philippe. “It pains me to remove you from your position. It is true, you have been tres magnifique as manager. If only you were an American, you could continue to head up Cavendish Chicago for years. I wish there were some other way. Let me know what you decide. Au revoir.”
The drone of a dial tone filled his office. Gib didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Because when a black hole of bureaucracy swallowed up the life you’d worked so hard to create, what was the point?
How could they do this? How could some faceless human resources exec who wanted to make his mark at Castellan so carelessly fuck with people’s lives? Years of training. Years of sixty-, even seventy-hour weeks, proving himself. Proving his worth to his supervisors. Once the awards started rolling in, profits edged up, proving his worth to the company.
All that rendered meaningless. No discussion. No chance to present his case. Hell, he’d be gone before it was time to get another haircut. The enormity of this change felt the same as a sucker punch straight to his balls. Knocked the breath out of him. Cemented him to the spot, still hunched over his desk. Erased every other thought from his mind.
His office door burst open. Pink cheeked and beaming from ear to ear, Daphne said, “Geez, why didn’t you tell me you were going to Lyons? Would’ve saved me a trip—” Her voice faded out. Dropping her coat to the floor, she rushed to him. Threw an arm around his shoulders. “Gib, what’s wrong? Are you hurt? Are you having a heart attack? Panic attack? Should I call an ambulance?”
“No.”
“No to which?”
“All of it. Everything.” Gib let her press him back into his chair. Knees folded automatically, just like he kept breathing. Registered the outside chill clinging to her hair as it swung across his face. The fresh scent of crushed flowers that clung to her fingers as she stroked his cheek. Daphne must’ve unloaded an early shipment today. He saw the worry line indented between her eyebrows. None of it mattered. Like Han Solo encased in carbonite, nothing penetrated his layer of icy anger.
Cool lips brushed his. Once. Twice. On the third time, Gib’s lips responded involuntarily. No thought, just reaction. The way his heart knew to beat. The way his hand curled around a cricket bat. A soft warmth spread from her lips to radiate through his body. Still working on autopilot, he grabbed, twisted her to land in his lap without breaking their lip-lock. Daphne curled into his embrace with a soft moan.
He speared his hand through her hair. God, it felt like satin and sex rippling through his fingers. Gib opened her lips. Hungrily swept in to lick the sensations straight from her tongue. His other hand slid down to cup that sweet, heart-shaped ass.
Daphne broke away, eyes bright and panting just a little. “Hang on, there. This is nice, don’t get me wrong. But we’re in your office. With a glass door. With Agatha right outside. Workplace hanky-panky’s not very doable. Not here, anyway. My office at least has a supply closet for these sort of shenanigans.”
“You’re right. Sorry.” Gib let her slide off his lap. Part of him couldn’t believe he’d acted so unprofessionally. The other part of him, the part with the raging hard-on, pointed out that professionalism hadn’t gotten him jack shit. It had gotten him demoted and deported. “I needed that. I needed—you,” he admitted. She’d managed to pull him back from the brink. “Didn’t expect to see you this morning.”
“I needed a break from processing a trillion and two tulips. For the party this weekend.”
He looked at her blankly. Even with his brain deadened by shock, he knew the event calendar without checking. The Cavendish had three weddings and a bar mitzvah in the next two days, but no party. “What party?”
“Duh. Your party, Gib. The one where Windy City magazine honors all its top bachelors. You’re the main attraction, remember?” Daphne rested her butt on the edge of his desk. “What’s going on? Because you’re acting very, very weird. Frankly, you’re scaring me right now. Did something bad happen?”
Bad. Catastrophic. Like a fucking stallion kick straight to his balls. “Yes.”
“Well, what happened?”
God, where to start? “It’s complicated.”
Daphne rolled her eyes. “I do have a college degree. Might not be as pretty as the one Cambridge gave you, but I think I can follow along. Unless your current problem involves quantum physics. Just spit it out.”
“On second thought, it’s simple. I’ve been notified my services as manager are no longer required here. I’ve got to ship out to London, and suck up a demotion to assistant manager for who knows how long. And before you suggest that I quit, they’ll yank my work visa. One way or the other, I’ve got to leave Chicago.” He’d thought hearing the news was bad enough. But speaking the words stabbed the sword of finality through him once more.
Daphne exhaled, as though his news thumped all the air right out of her. “No.”
“In two weeks. That’s all the time Goudreau gave me to wrap up my life.” He pushed out of his chair. Paced to the far wall, then back again. Did another circuit when Daphne didn’t say anything. Wished desperately that there wasn’t a foot of snow on the ground. Gib needed to stretch his legs, run along the lakeshore until the cold knifed his chest and his muscles cramped. That would clear his head.
Twisting to face him, Daphne said, “We’ll fix it. We’ll find a way to make it right.”
“You can’t fix this.” And then, with the weight of a freight train, the truth barreled into him. “In fact, you’re the one who caused the problem.”
She sucked in a breath. “That’s not funny.”
“I agree.” He cracked his office door. “Agatha, why don’t you take those muffins down to the catering office? Chat them up for a good quarter of an hour. Find out if Raquel’s having a girl or a boy—I think her sonogram was yesterday.” Gib waited until she’d collected her sweater, purse and the bakery box. The woman went nowhere without her purse. Even carried it between the living room and kitchen when he went to her house for their monthly Sunday dinners. Then he locked the outer door behind her. Shut the inner door, too. Couldn’t take a chance on any staff member overhearing him lose his shit with Daphne.
Gib advanced on her. His anger hadn’t really had a target before. Hard to yell at a faceless conglomerate. But now he knew where to focus his rage. He knew exactly where the blame should lie. With one finger, he pointed straight at the cause of his ruin. The blonde, blue-eyed living doll with the quivering lip looking as confused as a Bears linebacker would be at the Queen’s garden party.
“You cost me my job. You cost me my life here. You cost me everything.”
“Gib, no.” Her voice shook. She slid off the desk, backed away from his tangible anger. “I would never do anything to hurt you.”
“But you did. This is all your fault.” He stabbed his finger in the air between them.
“How can y
ou say that?”
Gib could barely look at her. “The only reason I’m no longer allowed to work at Cavendish Chicago is because I’m not an American. A detail I tried to remedy five months ago. Got my papers in order. Studied my ass off for the citizenship test. Let Milo stick a tie with the Stars and Stripes on it in my pocket, to put on for the ceremony. Remember what happened next?”
“Oh.” Daphne squeezed her eyes shut tight. Bit her lip.
“What’s that? Little hard to hear you over the noise of my entire bloody life crashing down around me.”
In a near whisper, she said, “I stopped you.”
“That’s right.” Gib crossed his arms over his chest. “You barged into the courtroom. Interrupted the bailiff. Pissed off the judge. And gave me an elaborate song and dance about duty. Birthright. Legacy. Queen and country. How I needed to be constant, honor my heritage.”
Her eyes flew back open. “Those things all still hold true.”
Christ. How could she be so stubborn as to refuse to shoulder the blame? “Do they? You’re in my back pocket most of the time. What part of my daily life involves my title? How often do I speak of my estate holdings? Yearn for anything British other than more soccer on television?”
This time, she advanced into his space. Balled her hands onto her hips and jutted her chin defiantly. “I know you, Gib. You wouldn’t have been happy splitting your loyalties. As much as you enjoy America, you’re British to your core. I helped you stay true to yourself. I know you made the right choice that day.”
Bollocks to that. “Really? Because here’s what I know.” He splayed his fingers and ticked points off, one by one. “If it wasn’t for you, I’d be an American citizen. I wouldn’t be sacked. I’d still have a job. I’d still be here in March to throw Ben a bachelor party. I’d still be here to help Sam load up all his chocolates for the Fancy Food Show at the end of the month.”
Friends to Lovers (Aisle Bound) Page 22
