“I need two minutes with Roger.”
Myra glanced at Roger’s door. “I’m afraid he’s-”
The office door opened.
Chantal Charbonnet stepped out, a stack of files tucked under her arm. She was wearing a leather skirt today, with a glittering gold blouse. Her heels were high, her neckline low. She gave Sinclair a disdainful look and passed by with a sniff of her narrow pert nose
“Looks like he’s free,” said Sinclair.
Myra picked up the phone. “Let me just-”
“I’ll only take a second.” Sinclair didn’t give the woman a chance to stop her.
Before Roger’s door could swing shut, she blocked it. “Excuse me, Roger?”
He glanced up, lips compressing, and a furrow forming in the middle of his brow.
“I don’t recall a meeting,” he said.
“I believe you have my files?”
“Chantal’s taking a look at them.”
Sinclair struggled hard to keep her voice even. “May I ask why?”
“I’ve asked her to provide her opinion.”
“On?”
“On the Valentine’s ball preparation. She’s taking a bigger role in the new product launch. I think we all recognize Chantal’s talents.”
Well, Sinclair sure didn’t recognize Chantal’s talents. And the ball preparations were all but done. She just needed to babysit it for the next week and a half. She sure didn’t need somebody messing with the plans at this late date.
Roger took in her expression, and his tone suddenly turned syrupy. “I appreciate how hard you’ve been working, Sinclair. And I know you’re busy. This will take some of the burden off your shoulders.”
“There’s no-”
“You’ll get your files back in a couple of days. Thanks for stopping by.”
He’d pulled the most interesting and important project of her career out from under her, and
Short of a raid on Chantal’s office, Sinclair didn’t know what to do. If the woman started messing with things, the ball could be completely destroyed. What if she called Claude at the Roosevelt? The head chef was temperamental at the best of times, and Chantal might push him right over the edge.
The conductor also needed hand-holding. The music was cued to coincide with speeches and product giveaways. Entrances and exits of VIPs were specifically timed, and the media appointments had to come off like clockwork.
But Sinclair couldn’t outright defy Roger.
She headed for the elevator, desperately cataloguing potential problems and possible solutions. By the time she punched the button, she realized there were too many variables. With a rising sense of panic, she knew she couldn’t possibly save the ball from Chantal. That left her with Roger. How could she possibly make Roger understand the danger of Chantal?
She entered the elevator, then froze with her finger on the button.
Wait a minute. She had this all wrong. She shouldn’t be fighting them. What better way to demonstrate the error in their thinking than to go along with it? Ms. Chantal wanted to take over the ball? She could bloody well take over the ball. It would take less than twenty-four hours for her to get into a mess. Sinclair wouldn’t argue with the president. She’d graciously step aside. She’d take the day off and leave Chantal with just enough rope to hang herself.
When Sinclair came back tomorrow, hopefully they’d be ready to listen to reason. As the elevator dropped, Sinclair drew a deep, bracing breath.
It was all but suicidal. But it would be worth it.
Ha!
Roger wanted to give Chantal a chance to shine? Sinclair would graciously step aside. When she came back tomorrow, hopefully they’d be ready to listen to reason.
As the elevator dropped, Sinclair warmed to the idea. When she got back to her office, she informed Amber they’d have the files back in a couple of days, and that she was going home to paint.
A few hours later, with U2 blaring in the background, Sinclair’s frustration had translated itself into a second coat on most of one wall. She was busy at one corner of the ceiling when there was a banging on the door.
She climbed down the ladder and set her brush on the edge of the paint tray.
The banging came again.
“I’m coming,” she called. She wiped off her hands, then pulled open the door.
It was Hunter, and he was carrying a large shopping bag.
“I’ve been buzzing you downstairs for ten minutes.” He marched across the room and turned down the music. “Thank goodness for the lady on the first floor walking her dog.”
“I was busy,” said Sinclair.
Hunter dropped the bag onto the plastic-covered floor. “What happened?”
“I decided I should spend the day painting my living room.”
“I talked to Amber.”
Sinclair shrugged, picking up her paintbrush, and mounting the ladder. “What did she tell you?”
“That you were painting your living room instead of working.”
“See that?” she gestured to the brushes, paint cans and tarps. “All evidence points to exactly the same thing. I am, in fact, painting my living room.”
“She also told me you haven’t taken a day off in eight years.”
Sinclair dipped the brush in the can on the ladder and stroked along the top of the wall. “Meaning I’m due.”
“Meaning you’re upset.”
“A girl can’t get upset?”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “What happened?”
“Nothing much.” The important thing now was to get the painting done, then go in tomorrow and see if her plan had worked.
“Do I have to come up there and get you?”
She laughed, dabbing the brush hard against the masking tape in the corner. “Now that would be interesting.”
“Quit messing around, Sinclair.”
She sighed in defeat. Being micromanaged was embarrassing. “You want to know?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Hunter. “I want to know.”
“Roger gave Chantal my Valentine’s Day ball files. She needed to review them because, apparently, we’ve
“We have?”
Sinclair dipped the brush again. “Therefore, she’s ready to be the PR assistant. No. Wait. I think she’s ready to be the PR manager.”
“What exactly did Roger say?”
“Not much. He just gave her the files. He seems hell-bent on involving her in every aspect of my job.”
“Oh.”
There was something in Hunter’s tone.
Sinclair stopped painting and looked down. “What?”
He took a breath then paused.
“What?” she repeated.
“There’s something we should discuss.”
“You know what’s going on?”
“Maybe.”
