“Stop it, this isn’t funny. I don’t get you. This is a huge opportunity. Yes, I thought you were crazy when you accepted it, but you did accept it. Now you got to deliver, or we’re going to be the laughing stock of San Francisco.”
Xavier sat back and inhaled deeply, drawing in the aromas around him: the pesto, fresh bread baked in a local oven, the lingering scent of lavenders…
“I hope you know what you’re doing.” Jack sighed as he signed off on the bill. “Lunches like this don’t pay for themselves, you know.”
A Selection of Tea
A fine line existed between fashion and sadism. On days such as these, Rosalind Betters felt she was tripping that line—sometimes literally—via her obsession for ridiculous high heels with higher price tags.
The meetings had started at 7 a.m. with a conference call to parties in Germany, Italy, and Switzerland. They had ended at 8:30 p.m., with a sayonara to Mr. Akiko at NKH in Tokyo. In between, she’d assured, denied, reported, projected, and otherwise labored, all whilst strolling the floor in a pair of pumps that should have appeared in Clue! as a possible murder weapon.
If she’d been five years younger, Rosalind would have ended up at one of the chic wine bars in North Beach after work, ordering something with a little more zing. Unfortunately, she wasn’t in her twenties anymore. The concept of drinking alone didn’t exactly appeal, especially in public and especially in an area where one of her competitors or, worse yet, one of her employees might catch her. No, now at the end of a hard day, nothing sounded better to her than a cup of cinnamon apple tea, cut with cream, sipped while stroking Strudel’s ears and watching Mae West turn heads on the silver screen, alone.
So this is what it felt like to be a young, successful entrepreneur in the city.
The gray-browed pup nudged his snout under her master’s hand while Rosalind attempted to tap into Zen and the Art of Making Tea. It wasn’t until she had rescued the screaming pot from the burner and positioned it over her chipped Stanford logo mug that she realized she’d forgotten to get out a tea bag.
“Did you enjoy your walk today?” she asked her captive audience as she reached down to where she housed her selection. Strudel’s eyes glistened and he shuffled in place, knowing the pull-out drawer was also the sacred temple holding the chicken jerky dog treats. Actually, the door held a trove of random essentials cleverly thrown about willy-nilly to give the appearance of junk. Even though she didn’t agree with Xavier Hommes’s assessment that even her fortified tower was susceptible to intruders, a patch of prevention was worth a gigabit of debugging. Carmen had been instructed to squirrel away any small, important items into the unassuming door. Near its back and buried out of sight were an extra set of keys to her personal office at BetaHouse, a black book containing a backup of all her most important passwords and account information, her passport—borrowed away when needed for travel—and an emergency chocolate bar.
“Yes, sweetheart,” she cooed while blindly fishing for the plastic pouch. “I’m looking for them. I know they’re in here somewhere.”
Strudel perked up when the sound of wrinkling plastic emanated from within. Rosalind grabbed the corner of the bag to bring it forward, but it snagged on something. When she looked down, she saw a sliver of manila.
“Hello, what is this?”
Carmen hadn’t mentioned anything about dropping off a folder. Then again, Rosalind had had barely a moment to take a breath let alone have a conversation with any of her employees outside the series of meetings all day.
A stranger’s penmanship met her eyes when she opened the folder. Most of the documents inside resembled what one might expect to see while perusing a psychiatrist’s portfolio. Not … that she would know. She recognized its composition as resembling that of the disappointing portfolio Xavier had presented her a few nights prior. The selection in this particular collection, however, brought a sense of kindred anticipation bubbling up through her psyche.
He must have forwarded the file to the office, and Carmen, knowing the need to keep this particular assignment on the D-L, had wisely dropped the folder off for her to find. She had noticed that her assistant had added a dinner meeting to her calendar for Monday night; she should have guessed that this would be waiting for her at home.
Tea—and much to Strudel’s dismay—doggie treats forgotten, Rosalind rushed to the table and fanned out her discovery, splaying out the individual reports like a deck of cards. Not every candidate was as eye catching, but the first few presented a solid package. She examined each with a studying eye, not rushing through anything, but taking her time to let each introduce themself to her. Rosalind would admit, drastic improvement in quality had been made since the last round. Yet, though cautioning herself not to read too far into any, she found herself finding excuses for each one.
By the time she reached the final folder, her hopes sagged like melted mozzarella. Being that it was the sixth profile, she began to have vague memories of childhood confirmation classes and the jokes she and her friends would make about six representing the devil and all things evil.
With a sense of bold resignation, she fished out the final option, inhaled deeply, and prepared herself for the not-so-great-but-not-terrible revelation.
At first, she thought it must be a joke. Then, Rosalind was sure it was a set up. Lowering the folder, she rolled her eyes around the perimeter of the room, trying to pick out any heretofore unknown items that might actually be a planted camera, streaming her image.
“Okay, very funny, y’all can come out now?”
Other than the ambient city noises rising from below and sneaking in through the open window at the other end of the room, only silence answered.
Rosalind looked to Strudel. The resigned pup sat sprawled across the barrier between the kitchen and the dining area. His eyes focused on his master, though his chin stayed fixed on the floor, between his feet.
“This has to be a joke, right?” she asked.
Strudel’s head rose quirked to the side.
“I mean, there’s no way… no way Xav could have known. I mean, no one knew. I didn’t even tell Kamakshi or the others. But, how?”
If this had been any other job search, Rosalind’s next move would have been to phone Carmen or even Xavier Hommes himself to request an appointment. Given that Kane Kennedy’s digits stared back at her from the paper in her clutches made that step seem excessive. Then again, would it make her seem desperate, if it was she who made contact with him before one of her representatives?
Who the hell cared? Like most undergrads of the female persuasion at Stanford in her class, Rosalind would have passed out cold if Kane “More than Able” Kennedy had even flicked his pencil shavings in her direction. She’d bumped into his name in a few conversations over the years, enough to know that, like predicted, he’d come from his ranking near the top of his crop of MBAs and taken San Francisco’s financial district by storm. She’d even almost met him once when BetaHouse had been taking off and in need of capital. Kane’s money had found its way into more than one pool of capitalist funders. Unfortunately, one of those darned European debt crises had broken out, and his colleague met with her instead.
My, oh, my Mrs. Rosalind Kennedy… It did have a ring to it, didn’t it?
Strudel shot to his feet along with Rosalind. This time Rosalind made sure to fish out not only one treat, but two. She tossed them on the floor as she crossed the kitchen to fetch her phone off the charger.
Can I Make A Substitution?
Xavier’s hand reached out, keeping the overly eager attendant from topping off his drink. One glass of wine had unwound him. The second glass had emboldened him. A third glass in so short a time would make him an unpredictable fool.
Which he was doing fine with on his own, thank you very much.
“Perhaps she is not coming, monsieur?”
The waiter’s voice chid
ed where Xavier thought a man who lived and died on tips may have shown a bit more compassion.
He looked back over his shoulder, examining the middle-aged man’s face. “Pensez-vous vraiment parler français?” This waiter wouldn’t be the first “Frenchman” he’d encountered with a fake accent meant to gloss over a less-than-impressive working competence of the tongue. The waiter’s tone was a little off; even though not a true Frenchman himself, Xavier could deduce that much.
The waiter’s eyes smiled. “Oui, monsieur. Je suis originaire de Strasbourg. Et vous?”
Ah, that explained it then. Natives of the border city, Strasbourg, spoke a peculiar dialect, a hybrid tongue that both melded and mocked its German and French ancestors, with a smidgen of originality thrown in just to piss off both sides of the dividing line.
Xavier turned his eyes back to the front door. “Quebec,” he said simply, then continued back in English. “How do you know I’m waiting for a she?”
“You keep looking at your hand, monsieur.” When Xavier’s confusion twisted his face, the waiter continued, “Your finger, in particular, as though you are thinking there’s something missing there. You’ll, how is it said, pop the question, tonight.”
That put a stopper on his admiration of the man’s insight. Yes, Xavier was planning on asking Rosalind an important question, but it wasn’t to marry him. It was simply not to marry someone else. Not yet, at least, until he had a chance.
“She’ll be here,” Xavier assured. “She doesn’t break appointments. Or at least, I would have heard from her assistant by now. Thank you.”
At that very moment, he caught sight of a dome of blonde hair pinned in intricate patterns atop a head that swiveled in his direction. Rosalind’s face erupted into a smile when his eyes met hers. He waved and tried not to grin like a gremlin as he watched her bounce across the dining room.
Xavier hastened a look at the brown leather-bound portfolio sitting on the seat beside him, preparing himself for the moment in the forthcoming conversation when he’d lean over to retrieve it. He maintained confidence that Rosalind would find round two of his candidate pool truly eye-opening. In fact, he had limited the refined second draft to a single profile.
“Ms. Betters, you’re looking fine this evening.” He rose, offering his hand. More than hyperbolic chit-chat, she exceeded his definition of fine.
“Not bad yourself, Xav.” She perused his suit, from his gray tie to his platinum cuff links, and nodded approvingly as she shook his hand. If he’d been a girl and fifteen, he would have blushed.
An arched eyebrow telegraphed his surprise. “Xav? I thought you were a firm believer in formality, and that is perhaps the most informal form of my name. ”
Rosalind shrugged. “I’ve reconsidered. I’ think after all you’ve done for me, I can make an exception. Shall we sit?”
“Um, yeah. Yes, please.”
His hand reached down cautiously to fish out the folder as Rosalind ordered a glass of Zinfandel. The waiter caught Xavier’s eyes, and some silent affirmation that this woman had been worth the wait passed between the two men. Xavier nodded, as though to say, “Yes, she certainly is.”
There was something different about Rosalind’s appearance. She… glowed. She looked like a child who had managed to squirrel away some secret joy, and he wanted nothing more than to learn what was fueling her giddiness. “You seem to be all bubbly and bold.” He tried to sound dismissive. He wanted to build up to his big reveal, and wasn’t about to push her over the top too soon.
“I feel…” Rosalind’s voice trailed off as her eyes rolled up, as though the proper term were dangling in the air for her to discover, “…resplendent.”
She looked it, too. Rosalind had always complimented his eye since first he met her several weeks back, but something about her tonight was beyond beauty. Her cheeks held a blush that could only come from too much smiling. Her eyes sparkled, as though on the edge of crying with joy. Her reed-like body swayed in the breeze of contentment.
God, how he wanted to embrace her, bring her to harbor against his chest, bring his lips to hers…
Xavier chastened his thoughts. Business, he reminded himself. Business first.
He started to reach down to his folio to pull out the manila folder when something Rosalind said stopped him.
“Can I ask, how did you know?”
His open hand stilled. “Know what?”
Rosalind leaned in, her voice hushed. “About Kane.”
“Kane?” He picked his brain for a clue, but the infernal and unreliable organ proved uncooperative. “Kane who?”
“Kennedy, of course.” Her humor-flecked statement accompanied a teasing eye roll. “After the first group of—and please don’t take this as an insult—bozos you pushed on me, I honestly thought you were off your rocker. But then I saw the file of the second group of candidates, and now I understand why you’re so high in demand. How in the world did you track down who I had a crush on back in college and recruit him into this search? Oh my God, Xav, you’re worth every penny.”
If the waiter had jumped on top of the table, stripped down to his boxers, and declared his undying love for the San Francisco Giants right fielder, Xavier could not have been more confused.
“Second group of candidates?” he muttered.
“Yes, from the ones you messaged over the other night.” Her matter-of-fact words fell over themselves to get out. “Carmen said she had a few things sent over, but with all the meetings I’ve had her coordinating lately, she didn’t get a chance to look through them herself. And when I saw Kane’s file, I just knew I… Oh! There he is!”
“Wait, what?” Xavier’s hands slammed on the table as he shot to his feet. When a wide-eyed and slightly panicky Rosalind turned toward him, he softened his expression, running his hands over his tie.
“Kane!” Rosalind resumed, jumping and waving like her favorite rock star had just wandered into the dining room. “Over here.”
It was easy to see why any woman could fall for Kane Kennedy just on his looks alone. Back when Xavier had been pursuing this placement with a proper amount of self-disinterest, he recalled having this thought. Like his unrelated and infamous namesake, Kennedy possessed a profile that could melt polar ice caps, and dressed like GQ had him under contract. With his blond hair crew-cut and a gray suit over a muscular frame that would have made even Jack question his own fidelity, he drew than a few glances as he approached.
He leaned into Rosalind, kissing her on the cheek. “Sorry it took me so long. Closest place I could find to park was two blocks away.” Then he turned his attention to Xavier, sticking out his hand and his chin. “So, I meet the infamous Xavier Holmes face to face.”
Xavier glared momentarily at fingernails perfectly squared and polished to a shine, wondering if it would be inappropriate to grip the manicured man-hands until he heard cracking. Schooling his irrationality, Xavier instead reached out and gave a moderated, firm handshake. “It’s Hommes, actually, Mr. Kennedy, and likewise. How do you do?”
“Kane, sit down,” Rosalind suggested, leading both men to take a seat. “I was just telling Xav about how brilliant he is.”
“One of my favorite subjects,” Xavier returned. Telling himself not to blow this over some silly momentary flutter of emotion—inappropriate emotion, at that—Xavier instead kicked in his cultivated professional air and set his mind on getting through this as quickly as possible. You didn’t get as far in the business world as Xavier had without learning how to wear shine on your face while your soul was drowning in shit. Luckily Rosalind was far too busy flagging down a waiter to notice if anything was off kilter. He turned serious eyes to Kane. “You didn’t mention knowing Rosalind when I phoned you,” Xavier said accusingly.
Kane Kennedy’s mouth rose in one corner. “You never asked,” he answered coyly. “Besides, technically I didn’t know Rosali
nd, I only knew of her.”
“But I knew him,” Rosalind jumped in, turning back toward the two men. “Maybe we never really hung out, but we had a few friends in common and had a few meaningless conversations. We were just laughing about it this morning at breakfast…”
Xavier’s eyebrow slanted, and he was positive the nerve jumping in his temple made it look like an alien was about to explode from his skull.
“We met for breakfast, Mr. Holmes,” Kane inserted. Seemed the step-in applicant for Rosalind’s coveted position was keeping close tabs on every mannerism Xavier failed to squash. “Rosalind didn’t mean to imply she’d slept over.”
“Oh!” Rosalind’s hands slapped over her mouth as the realization punched her in the stomach. “Oh, no, Xav. I didn’t mean, like ‘over’ breakfast.”
The hapless HR man’s hands flattened against the air. “It would really be none of my business if you had. I was only surprised because you, well… Again, none of my business. Mr. Kennedy, I wonder if I could ask for a few moments to speak with Miss Betters in private?”
“But he just sat down,” Rosalind argued. As though to further the statement, the waiter chose that moment to pour a glass of wine from the opened bottled on the table for Kane.
“It’s no problem, Rose. I need to make a quick phone call.” He rose to his feet, leaving his only recently unfolded napkin on the table and leaning over to Rosalind to plant a chaste kiss. “He just wants to make sure I haven’t gamed his system or somehow gotten to you through devious means. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Professional, calm, courteous. Xavier repeated the words in his head like a mantra, closing his eyes and collecting himself before he spoke once they were alone.
“You’re upset that I contacted Kane directly,” Rosalind jumped in before he could start.
Have Gown, Will Wed Page 12
