by Kristi Lea
“Your point?” He raised one eyebrow in challenge.
“Have you ever heard of the law governing kickbacks?”
“Kickbacks...what are you implying?” Helmut’s voice lowered dangerously. “Do you think I bribed Juliana with a trip to Jamaica?”
Claire recoiled at the intense fury she saw in his eyes, but she didn’t back down. This was her job, whether she liked it or not. “It certainly looks that way. At least to the government oversight committee.”
Helmut sputtered. “We didn’t even discuss business on that trip. It was just a vacation. Two consenting adults who enjoyed each other’s company. No contracts involved. When the hell did this come about?”
“The other bidder filed a complaint with the government oversight committee just before the close of business on Friday. One of the committee members told us yesterday, as a courtesy. An inquiry isn’t slated to start until later this—”
“Yesterday?” His eyes flashed.
Claire lowered her gaze again. She’d gotten the call while she was still in bed with Helmut. And then he practically snuck out of her condo while she was still on the phone. She should have stopped him. Could have stopped him. Could have told him all this up front. But she hadn’t wanted her father to know that Helmut was at her house. Besides, she thought the whole thing was some grotesque joke at first.
“I have already talked to the committee chairman, and they agree with me that it was probably an innocent coincidence,” she said carefully.
“Damn straight.”
Claire gulped. This was it. “However, if we do nothing, they won’t let us off the hook. The usual consequence for a company’s first time offense is to suspend our right to bid on contracts for six months. In exchange, we have to educate our employees about business ethics, and what behaviors constitute an appearance of impropriety—”
Helmut snorted. “What is this, the eighteenth century? Appearance of impropriety?”
Claire held up one hand, cutting him off. “There’s another condition. Your termination.”
Helmut sprang to his feet. “My what? You can’t fire me. I know this company better than anyone besides James.”
“I am aware of that, Helmut,” she said quietly. Horribly, embarrassingly aware of it. She might have an intuition for diplomacy, and a knack for leadership and for fostering productivity among her employees. But she had been painfully aware for the past week that it would be years—decades—before she could match Helmut’s breadth of knowledge of all aspects of this business.
“I’m the CFO. Only the board can—”
“They have already voted. They are offering you a generous severance package if you will voluntarily resign. It’s all spelled out in here—”
Helmut ignored her outstretched hand. She set the folder down on the desk in front of him.
“I will not go quietly,” he spat. “And James will hear about this. What do you think he will say about you firing me after we—”
“Don’t finish that, Helmut,” she warned. “Father knows. About Juliana and the Shadow Fly contract, I mean. He’s the chairman of the board. He drafted the severance package himself. Please don’t make this personal. This has nothing to do with you and me—”
Helmut spun on his heel and stalked out of the office.
Claire jumped to her feet and tried to follow him. He pushed past Steph, nearly knocking her down. Helmut’s jacket sleeve brushed a stack of papers off of a filing cabinet, scattering them on the floor at Claire’s feet. He didn’t look back.
“That went well,” Steph said.
Claire gave a wistful glance as his retreating back. “Yeah. Right.”
“I take it something happened. Between you two?”
Claire knelt down and began stacking papers. Neatly. Perfectly. Ensuring that each one was aligned just so with the one below it. She took a deep, shuddering breath.
Steph bent down next to Claire and scooped all of them, including Claire’s stack, into a loose heap. “That bad, huh.”
“It’s complicated.”
Claire had a feeling it was going to take a long time before she, and Sheffield and Fox, finished picking up the pieces of this mess.
***
This was the first time he’d ever been fired.
“Asked to resign.” Ben took a hearty swig of his beer.
“Same damn thing,” Helmut sputtered defensively. He gulped the shot of whiskey—his fourth in under an hour—and clanked the heavy crystal down on the mahogany bar. The bartender didn’t even glance up from the stack of glasses he was polishing at the far end. A hefty up-front tip should have assured Helmut good service, and the bar on the ground floor of the Ritz Carlton was all but deserted at ten a.m. on a Monday.
Helmut raised one arm and snapped his fingers. The bartender glanced his direction, and strode purposefully down the length of the room. Helmut shoved his glass toward the man.
“Might I offer you a soda, sir?”
“No, goddammit. I want another whiskey. Do I look like I want a goddamned soda?”
“No sir,” the bartender replied smoothly as he filled a glass with ice and then Coke from the nozzle. He set the full glass next to Helmut’s empty double old-fashioned. “But this one is on the house.”
“What do I look like, some kind of fucking drunk?”
“Of course not, sir. Are you a guest of the hotel, sir? Could I perhaps call a bellhop to assist you to your room?”
“Helmut,” Ben interrupted. Ben looked irritatingly amused by the whole scene. “Give the guy a break. They probably have some corporate policy—”
“Fuck corporate policy. Fuck him and fuck you, Ben. You’re probably getting a promotion out of all this bullshit. And what the hell do I have? Nothing.”
Ben set his beer down quietly on the bar. His voice remained calm, and his expression mild. “I wouldn’t call nine months full pay plus stock options ‘nothing.’ Think of it this way, you can spend the next year sitting on a beach, sipping rum and screwing the señoritas while I’m working 90-hour weeks.”
Helmut took a gulp of the soda. He didn’t want to talk about beaches and señoritas.
“Or, better yet, invest some of that money into that business plan you’ve been mooning over for the last five years. This is probably the best damned thing to happen to you, Helmut.”
It was the best thing to happen to Ben. With Helmut gone, Ben’s boss was the logical choice for the CFO spot, which put Ben in charge of the entire rotorcraft division.
“Too bad you didn’t screw the bitch yet,” Ben continued between gulps.
It took Helmut a minute to understand Ben’s meaning. “Why do you say that?”
“Lawsuit city, Helmut. What did she call it? The ‘appearance of impropriety?’ How ‘proper’ would it be if she got caught fucking her executive team?” Ben laughed at his own cleverness. “By the way, man, you owe me a thousand bucks.”
Helmut lifted his glass and gave it a swirl, entranced by how the carbonation bubbles danced in the fine crystal. He’d nearly forgotten about the stupid bet. Pursuing Claire had become the goal itself, instead of the means to an end. He tried to recall just when he’d lost his focus, but all he could remember was a pair of clear blue eyes glowing in pleasure.
“It’s been great, buddy,” Ben said as he pushed back his barstool and set the empty beer bottle on the counter. “But I’ve got a job to get back to.”
If he weren’t so damned drunk, Helmut would have replied with some witty remark. Probably comparing the size of Ben’s dick with that of a small rodent. “Hey, Ben,” he said.
“Yeah, Helmut?”
“My two weeks aren’t over yet.”
Chapter 12
Helmut was everywhere but by her side. Claire sipped her Bordeaux and made small talk with yet another French private airline executive.
“Non, non, Mademoiselle Sheffield,” a short, bald man said. “We do not buy refurbished planes, no matter how luxurious.”
The half dozen middle-aged men standing around her burst into a heated multi-lingual debate over the emerging market for refurbished jets in Eastern Europe. Even if she could understand the swirling French and Italian discussion, her mind was anywhere but on business.
Steph had warned her that she had no time in her schedule for jetlag, and the marathon of executive breakfasts, press conferences, VIP lunches, and cocktail parties weighed on her.
The Paris Air Show was one of the industry’s most prestigious—and most exhausting—events. Held only every other year, all of the major players in aerospace had a presence at the week-long conference. There were daily air shows, a convention hall the size of three football fields, and endless opportunities for networking.
Tonight, it was not the dizzying number of new faces and business cards that she had exchanged that weighed on her. It was the constant, haunting presence of a pair of gray-green eyes that followed her every move.
Why is he here?
His sudden departure from Sheffield & Fox was a minor scandal in the business world. Her feet had barely touched French soil on Tuesday before reporters from the Wall Street Journal, Business Weekly, and Fox News had thrust microphones under her nose, demanding that she elaborate on the tersely worded notice of his departure.
Claire heard Helmut’s deep laughter echo across the small reception room. She stiffened her shoulders. Everywhere she went, it seemed, he was there, too. Chatting with her suppliers and competitors like they were old pals. Heads together with various government heads—higher-ups from the FAA, and the British and French equivalents. He knew everyone.
That was the biggest rub. Even Claire’s memory for names and faces was taxed by meeting hundreds of Important Contacts in two days. With virtually no sleep. And Helmut seemed to know them all. He would have been the perfect person to have by her side, to help with introductions and smooth over awkward silences. But he talked to everyone in the room except her.
This was some kind of damned vacation for the man.
Claire’s calves ached from the spike-heeled Monolo Blahniks she wore with her black Anne Klein cocktail dress. Suddenly her vision went blurry, and she frowned at the balloon wine glass in her hand.
Networking opportunity or no, she had to sleep.
She politely excused herself from the debate and headed toward the door. They barely seemed to notice her departure.
Before she could reach the hallway that led back toward the main portion of the hotel, Claire’s small black clutch vibrated. She pulled her cell phone out of the evening bag and frowned at the urgent flag on an incoming email. She clicked the button to read it as she walked.
A crisp white shirt and the olive tweed of a sport coat slammed into Claire’s vision. She squealed in surprise as she ran straight into a man’s broadly muscled chest. Her phone and evening bag skittered to the floor and she clutched at the lapels of his jacket as one of her narrow-heeled shoes twisted out from under her.
“Whoa,” a deep baritone said as strong hands gripped her around the waist, steadying her.
“I’m so sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going,” she sputtered, and then stopped. She recognized the warm spicy scent of Helmut’s cologne before she lifted her gaze to his laughing eyes.
“Fancy running into you here,” he said, still holding her close to his body.
The heat of his hands burned her through the smooth silk of her dress, and she fought the urge to melt into those familiar arms.
“Let go, Helmut.” Claire put the palms of her hands on his chest and pushed lightly. He relinquished a scant inch.
“How is your first Air Show?” His eyes swept downward, lingering on the swell of her breasts.
Claire’s nipples hardened, the peaks straining against the layers of bra and gown. Desire pooled in her lower abdomen, making her knees weak. It annoyed the hell out of her. “It’s nice to see you, too, Helmut,” she said through gritted teeth. “Don’t create a scene. Please.”
“No, we can’t have that. It would be such a shame to drag the lofty name of Sheffield & Fox through the mud.”
Claire peeled his fingers from her waistline. She backed away from the acrid tone of his voice as much as the longing she felt to wrap herself around this man. She had already risked the reputation she was building for herself in the industry once. Giving in again now would be worse than foolish.
“Mademoiselle.”
A black and white clad waiter materialized next to Claire, calmly holding her purse and cell phone. Claire took a deep, refreshing breath and smoothed the fabric of her skirt. She took her things and thanked the waiter with a hasty “Merci.”
“Good night, Helmut.” She lifted her head high and staunchly refused to glance at the cocktail reception behind her. If anyone had noticed her scene, she would not add jet fuel to the fire by looking guilty.
“Do you mind if I walk with you?” Helmut fell into step beside her without waiting for a reply. “How are you enjoying the Air Show?”
“Didn’t we already cover that?” Claire rounded the corner into the hotel’s main lobby, her heels clanking obnoxiously on the marble tiled floor. She longed to slip them off and ease the cramps forming in her arches.
“You never answered.”
She punched the up button on the elevator and rubbed her bare arms against the chill of the room.
“Why are you here, Helmut?”
“I found myself with some unexpected free time, and a ticket to Paris. Thought I’d come hang out with some old friends. Maybe look for a job.” The elevator doors slid open, and Helmut smiled and stood back, waiting for Claire to enter first.
She glanced nervously around the lobby before the doors closed on the two of them. Alone. No one seemed to be paying them any attention.
“Didn’t you turn that ticket in with the rest of the company property?” Claire hated the petulant tone she heard in her own voice.
“Is the company in such bad shape that a couple thousand dollars would bring you down? Sounds like I chose a good time to retire.”
With a groan, the elevator began to move. The space felt entirely enclosed, even with the brass-plated walls and ceiling polished to a mirrored shine. Everywhere she looked, she saw Helmut’s mocking grin.
“I should have taken the stairs. I think this is the slowest elevator I’ve ever set foot in,” Claire muttered.
“Not everyone likes to fly to the top. Some of us prefer a steady climb,” he replied mildly.
She clamped her mouth shut before the wine and exhaustion could make her say something she regretted. She leaned sideways for a moment, resting her hip against the wall and closing her eyes as she waited for the slow ascent to finally finish.
“It can be overwhelming, I know,” Helmut said quietly.
Claire peered up at him from under half-closed lashes. He was leaning against the opposite wall, looking relaxed. And pensive. Suspiciously she asked, “What is overwhelming?”
“The Show. The mad crush of people and information. The first time I came, eight years ago as a middle-manager, I felt like a kid at Disney World. Wide-eyed with wonder at all of the possibilities. The technology. The cooperation between companies and countries. The scale of the deals brokered and careers ruined.”
The tiny bell of the elevator dinged and the doors slid open with a whoosh. Helmut motioned again for Claire to precede him.
“How did you know what floor my room was on?” She realized she hadn’t pressed a button.
“We stay in the same hotel every time. Most of the suites are on this floor. Your father always stayed up here. I guessed you would, too.”
Claire nodded. Her room reservation had originally been made in his name. Her father and stepmother had rented a townhouse not far away instead. She wanted to think he had given away the reservation so that she could have easy access to some of her meetings. More likely, it was about the parties her stepmother wanted to host.
“Good night, Claire.” Helmut’s expression had lost
its smirk.
For half a heartbeat, she considered asking him back to her room, foolish and desperate as the invitation would look. But he was already heading down the opposite corridor without so much as a backward glance.
Claire sighed as she hobbled down to the last door and slid her key card into the lock.
She kicked off her shoes, dropped her clutch onto a table, and collapsed onto a slate-gray suede sofa in the suite’s sitting room.
It wasn’t until her evening bag vibrated, announcing another message, that she remembered the email she had started to read when she ran into Helmut downstairs.
Chapter 13
Helmut paced the length of his room. His gut tightened into a knot, and his fingers clenched into fists. His heart thudded impatiently in his chest, blood simmering. When he’d held Claire’s body in his hands down in the reception hall, it was all he could do not to sweep her into a dark corner and free those beautiful curves from the confining little dress.
Get a grip. He had boarded the red-eye out of O’Hare Monday night still ripe with righteous anger and buzzing from the two shots of bourbon he’d downed in the airport bar before takeoff.
The plan was simple. He would breeze into Paris and whisk the vixen with her long legs and wickedly beautiful eyes back to his hotel room, where he could douse the fire of his desire by burying himself between those legs.
Winning the bet with Ben would not be his primary objective. Hell, he’d already won, though Ben would want proof before he parted with one red cent. But the money wasn’t the problem either. Ben was right. Helmut could easily afford to take a year—or five—off. His finances were secure.
The biggest irony of this whole affair was that he spent money on women because he had so little else in his life to spend it on. And even lavishing his dates with expensive dinners and weekend getaways didn’t amount to much of a dent in his wallet.
With most of the women he’d dated over the past ten years, the passion was short-lived. Quickly snuffed once he realized that he had nothing in common with them when their clothes were on. Even damned Juliana, his longest relationship in years, had only lasted a month before they parted.
