The Champagne Sisterhood
Page 32
“I see. If you’ll excuse my forwardness, your English is impeccable.”
“Thank you. I got my BA from Oklahoma State University.”
Soon the clutter of traffic captured Stephanie's attention. Streets designed for three lanes of vehicles carried trucks, busses and motorcycles all jockeying to create four and five lanes, depending on which suited them best. A matchbox-sized taxi wrangled its way in front of a multicolored bus with an unexpected finesse that kept her face plastered to the bulletproof window much like that of a child fascinated by a passing parade. A pair of stray dogs tangled with a peddler at the edge of the road. Her attention drifted to a grungy older man dangling sheets of lottery tickets in the faces of passersby. Scattered childhood memories of quiet streets, green lawns, and romantic, ornate mansions gave way to the challenged progress of a growing city thrust into the realities of the twenty-first century.
“We’re here.” Lydia smiled warmly, as though sensing Stephanie’s need for reassurance that returning to the city of her birth wouldn’t be the biggest mistake of her life.
Startled when her car door swung open before she could reach for the handle, she relaxed at José’s bright grin.
“Señorita.” The tall man with shoulders wide enough to play fullback for the Green Bay Packers nodded. From the looks of it, at least he and Lydia were two people in this city who didn’t mind her visiting. Soon she’d know if her father made three.
Lydia walked with purpose through the large oak doors of the old building. As a child, Stephanie had thought them to be the size of a city gate and would pretend she was the princess entering the royal grounds of the fabulous palace. Now the doors looked surprisingly ordinary. Briefly she admired how well the sturdy oak had withstood the passage of time, and squelched the disappointment that clutched at her already-nervous stomach. She wondered how many other grand memories from her childhood perspective would shrink in comparison to stark reality.
Inside, desks were scattered in nooks and crannies along the long hall with several offices hidden behind closed doors. Everyone she passed busily pretended not to notice the boss’s American daughter making her first appearance in sixteen years.
Waving at a plump leather chair, Lydia stepped to one side of the doorway. “Your father is still tied up. Would you like something to drink while you wait? Coke, lemonade, tinto?”
Tinto, the coffee her mother once claimed was strong enough to preserve a corpse. “No, thank you. I’ll be fine.”
“He shouldn’t be long.”
“Thank you.” Her focus immediately fell on the massive desk by the window. An unexpected surge of delight warmed her soul at finding the hand-carved piece of furniture as big as she remembered. Sitting in her father’s chair and playing reporter while waiting for her mom and dad to return to the room was one of her few memories of life with her father.
Trailing her fingers across the barley-twist edging, she walked around the oversized mahogany desk. Her brow creased as she searched for any recollection of the chair she had twirled around in as a young child spouting orders to imaginary assistants. She wasn’t sure if it was the same well-worn chair. Perhaps if she sat…
Easing into the comfortable chair, Stephanie continued to admire the rich wood under her fingertips until the frustrated tone of a deep, male voice in the outer office caught her attention.
“I don’t care who he asks for. When Guido Campo calls, you put the call through to me!”
“Yes, sir, but Señor Cortez heard me answering the phone—”
“Anita, I’m counting on you.” He flashed a soft grin, changing the tone of the conversation.
Watching the scene unfold through the doorway, Stephanie strained to hear. The man’s voice lowered almost seductively, and if the secretary’s nervous smile and batting eyelashes were any indication, she wasn’t the only one to pick up on his now-sensual tone.
“I don’t want Señor Cortez talking to Campo. No matter what it takes, keep Campo away from him.” From her seat at her father’s desk, she could see the successful impact of his broad smile on the woman.
“Señor Hernan.” A petite blonde in a snug, blue dress that barely covered her well-rounded bottom hurried up beside him. “Señor Cortez is delayed. He wants you to take care of his daughter.”
“Daughter? She’s here?” He didn’t need an answer. With a slow turn of his head, his eyes narrowed, shifted to what he had obviously thought to be an empty office, and landed sharply on Stephanie.
Dragging his gaze away from her, he turned back to the two women standing beside him. Giving them a warm smile, in complete contrast to the icy stare he’d shared with Stephanie, he thanked them, entered the office, and closed the door. “It has apparently fallen on me to welcome you to Colombia.” His English, among other things, was flawless. “I’m Daniel Hernan.”
“Thank you.” She was uncomfortably aware of the piercing glare sizing her up, leaving another crack in what was left of her barely controlled facade.
“My pleasure.”
He stood perfectly still, like a fine marble statue that filled its audience with reverent awe by its mere existence. Hair the color of ebony, scarcely long enough to reach the top of his collar but long enough for a stray lock to dip casually over his brow, framed strong, chiseled features. His voice was warm and smooth, but the temperature in the room had just dropped ten degrees, and it had nothing to do with the air conditioning. His expression was one of barely restrained hostility. His jaw was set like stone. Eyes, a clear azure blue, held no sign of the almost-playful maneuvering of moments before. They held only fury and contempt.
“Planning on replacing your father so soon?”
The bitterness in his words slapped her across the face. Already unsure of the meaning behind the overheard conversation, she had no idea what to make of the not-so-subtle jab.
He walked farther into the room, his stride smooth and graceful, his glare still sharp and angry. “If I were you, I'd find someplace else to sit, quickly.”
She opened her mouth to explain why she couldn’t resist sinking into the well-worn leather seat, but his arrogant tone still hanging heavily in the air stopped her cold.
“You studied journalism.”
“That’s right,” she answered, pleased her voice had not betrayed her unsteady nerves. The way he'd said it, journalism sounded like a four-letter word. She remembered how her mother had made every effort to hide her disapproval when Stephanie proudly announced her major. It hadn’t occurred to her at the time that her mother would still harbor resentment towards the profession she’d always blamed for the failure of her marriage.
Daniel leaned forward, palms flat on the desk. “I don’t know what your game is...yet, but don’t think you’re going to waltz in here waving an expensive degree and become managing editor. I don’t care who you are, this paper is as much mine as it is your father’s, and it’s going to stay that way. Understood?”
His verbal assault knocked the wind out of her as skillfully as if he had marched up and slammed a clenched fist into her stomach. She knew she was gaping, but she had no idea what to say. Words simply wouldn’t come, only questions. Who was this man? What had she done to make him so angry? And how could anyone so rude make her stomach flutter like a nervous schoolgirl?
One thought flashed through her mind: Welcome home.
Read the rest of THE HOMECOMING here!
OTHER BOOKS
BY CHRIS KENISTON
The Champagne Sisterhood
The Homecoming
Hope's Corner: Texas
Honeymoon For One
ALOHA SERIES
Shell Game
Aloha Texas
Almost Paradise
Mai Tai Marriage
Dive Into You
Shall We Dance (novella)
Look of Love
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About the Author
Author of eight contemporary novels, including the award winning Champagne Sisterhood, Chris Keniston lives in suburban Dallas with her husband, two human children, two canine children, and now her kitty grandchild. Though she loves all her family equally, she admits being especially attached to her German Shepherd rescue. After all, even dogs deserve a happily ever after.
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