Chances Are (4 page)

"Let me see." Chip looked over her shoulder. "That can't be real."

Veronique cocked her head and turned the magazine sideways. "I don't know. It looks authentic to me."

Chip frowned and plucked the magazine from her hands. "This photo's been retouched. I'm sure of it."

"Sour grapes, Chip?" she teased. When he muttered several choice words and handed the magazine back, Veronique laughed and looked over the side of the platform for her friend. She was across the aisle, in the Ralph Lauren shop. "Hey, Debbie... catch!" At the same moment she tossed the magazine, Debbie signaled frantically, then ducked behind a rack. Veronique understood too late her friend's bizarre behavior. The magazine landed, centerfold up, at Brandon Rhodes's feet.

"Double damn," she muttered as he paused, then bent over and picked it up. For long moments he stared at the photograph before slowly lifting his eyes to her. Veronique took a deep breath. "I only buy them to read the articles," she called down.

Brandon's lips twitched. "I'll bet."

Veronique balanced on the balls of her feet and rested her elbows on her knees. "No, really. Mr. March didn't interest me a bit."

Brandon rolled up the magazine and thoughtfully slapped it against his palm. "Why didn't you tell me you worked for me?"

Veronique smiled and shrugged. "You never asked."

"For an employee talking to her boss you're pretty—"

"Impertinent," she supplied, liking the way his lips tipped up at the corners. "We all have to be good at something."

Brandon worked to maintain a stern expression despite his desire to laugh. "You and my father must have gotten along great."

"Mmm." Veronique tugged on the end of her braid. "We avoided each other. It worked out quite nicely."

Brandon shook his head. She was crazier than he'd first thought. Weren't all artists supposed to be a little nuts? "I'd like to talk to you about the display department."

She sat, then began swinging her legs over the edge of the platform. "Talk away."

"I hardly think shouting up to you is appropriate." He tossed her the magazine; she caught it neatly. "Why don't you and Mr. March come up to my office when you're finished here?" Without another word, he turned and walked away.

Veronique stood and placed her hands on her hips. "Well, goodbye to you, too."

"Veronique, it would be nice to get those pins today."

She tore her eyes from Brandon Rhodes's stiff back and squared shoulders to glance at Chip. "Yeah, sorry."

"No problem." He stuffed red fabric into a large wicker basket. "Great stunt, by the way."

"Right." Veronique jabbed one of the long pins into the fabric.

"In fact, it should take you a long way to a promotion."

"Smart aleck," Veronique muttered. "Besides, it could have been worse."

"Oh, sure. The magazine could have landed in the perfumes, sent several of the most expensive crashing to the floor and stunk up the store for a week."

"Eat navel lint and die, Carson." Their eyes met, and they laughed in unison.

* * *

The pungent odor of cigars hung in the air. Brandon frowned at the empty room. Hand still on the doorknob, he swung back around. "Maggie, who's been in my office this morning?"

Startled, the receptionist's eyes met his. "Why, no one, Mr. Rhodes."

"Impossible. My office reeks of cigars."

The receptionist stood, obviously flustered. "Maybe it's just the leftovers—"

"See for yourself." Brandon moved aside so she could step into the office. Although dissipating, there was a faint haze of smoke and a definite odor.

"I don't understand. I was at my desk all morning. No one could have entered without me seeing them." She pushed her glasses back up the bridge of her nose, a thoughtful expression on her face. "Wait... right before you came in I went down the hall to use the copier. But there wasn't time..." Her words trailed off. "I closed the door behind me," she finally said.

"It's not your fault, Maggie. You were doing your job." Brandon ran a hand through his hair and released his breath in a frustrated sigh. "From now on lock my office whenever you leave. And call security and notify them." She nodded and hurried back to her desk.

Brandon shut the office door and strode across the room. He stopped just short of the desk and looked back at the door. He felt as if someone were watching him. Shaking his head, he settled into the leather swivel chair behind the desk.

The chair creaked as he leaned back. He remembered the sound from everytime his father had sat in this chair. He ran his hand along the polished tabletop. This desk had seemed huge when he'd been ten, and his father had always seemed larger than life behind it.

He looked around the room. Although it was a large office, it seemed cramped because of the massive wine-colored leather-and-mahogany furniture and the years of business and personal memorabilia that covered the walls and shelves. Three walls were exposed brick, the fourth was a picture window. The window looked out over the busiest street in New Orleans's central business district, Canal Street, and provided enough light to keep the room from being gloomy, but not enough to make it cheerful.

Brandon leaned back in the chair, testing its spring and feeling like an impostor. He had to put aside his father's death and get to work. There was a lot of it to do. Besides the everyday business of running an establishment of this size, Rhodes was in the middle of renovating the Atlanta store and in the process of determining the profitability of a new store in Dallas.

In the last two days he'd gone through all his father's papers and had talked to the attorneys and accountants. He had meetings scheduled for the rest of the week: buyers on Tuesday, department heads on Wednesday, advertising and publicity on Friday.

Brandon pulled out the Dallas file. As he did, a key dropped to the floor. What? he wondered, bending to pick it up. He turned the small unmarked key over in his hand.

It looked like the key to a safety deposit box. In fact—he pulled out his key ring—it looked exactly like the keys to his father's other two boxes.

But according to the will there were
only
two boxes. He'd gone over everything with his legal staff. There wasn't supposed to be anything else. He reached for the phone to call his mother, then thought better of it. What if the box contained something his father hadn't wanted her to see? Like the remnants of a love affair?

Brandon opened the file and carefully thumbed through the papers. He'd used this file yesterday and there hadn't been a key. But there must have been, he assured himself. It had to have been caught in a fold, or maybe it had been in an unsealed envelope.

His musings were interrupted by the intercom. "Veronique Delacroix is here to see you."

"Send her in, Maggie." Brandon closed the file and tucked the key into his pocket.

Veronique entered the office, glancing around in frank curiosity. "You wanted to see me?"

"Yes. Have a seat." Brandon watched as she crossed the room. She looked ready for the jungle. She wore khaki-colored cargo pants, a camouflage-print camp shirt with a bright white tee under it, and Timberland hiking boots. He smiled to himself. He could picture her in the jungle all right—conquering it.

"What's up?" She settled into the chair across from him.

He pulled out a file and flipped it open. What was that perfume she was wearing? She smelled like a field of wild-flowers. "You've been with us for five years," Brandon said, his crisp tone belying his thoughts.

"Yes."

"You have an art degree from the University of New Orleans."

"Yes." Veronique shifted in her seat. He was barking out her statistics like a drill sergeant.

"You were promoted to head of the Canal Street display department eighteen months ago."

"Yes." Her eyes swept over him, then crinkled at the corners. He obviously wanted their dealings to be strictly business. Well, there was nothing she liked better than crossing boundary lines. "Brandon?"

He lifted his gaze from the file to meet hers. "Yes?"

"How are you?" she asked softly.

He stared at her for a moment, then murmured, "Over the worst of it."

"I'm glad."

Several seconds ticked by before Brandon realized he was still staring at her. When he did, he silently swore and looked back down at the file in front of him. "Now, about your department. Overall I'm pleased with your performance. However, there are some problems. The main windows, mannequins and the large displays like the one you were working on this morning look terrific."

She knew what was coming. She beat him to it. "But the counter and fixture-top displays are a mess."

"Exactly." Brandon leaned back in his chair. "As are the departmental mannequins and minor windows along the side entrances. They look as if they were thrown together or done by the salespeople."

Veronique sighed and stood up. She walked to the picture window and looked out at Canal Street. After a moment, she turned back to him. "I'm aware of every aspect of this store's look. I cringe when I see some of the sloppy, mishmash arrangements that are passing for displays." She toyed with the end of her braid. "And yes, some of them
are
put together by the salespeople."

"Yet you let it continue."

Veronique's spine stiffened, and she shot him an annoyed glance. It really was a shame he was so damn handsome. "If you'd done your homework—" she gestured toward the file "—you'd know that your father cut the display budget every year for the last three. We've gone from six full-time artists, to four, to two. Chip and I are barely keeping up. We make sure the areas that are most visible are done well. There's been no money for new props or fixtures, and the old ones—" she held her hands out, palms up "—are beginning to look old."

"You sound frustrated," he murmured.

"I
am
frustrated. I hate to see the look of the store going downhill. And I hate being associated with sloppy work."

"Yet you haven't quit. From what I've seen, you're good. Why haven't you looked elsewhere?"

She slipped her hands into her pockets, her expression thoughtful. "Because, despite your father's insanity, this is a great store to work for. The other day you called this the finest store in the South, and you were right. I could move over to Macy's or Saks, but there the display department would always be a stepchild to the New York and Los Angeles display areas." She turned and pinned him with a direct look. "What's all this leading to?"

The room was quiet but for the creaking of the chair as Brandon leaned forward. He admired her forthright approach and appreciated her honesty. "I'd like your opinion of the display department—where you think it should go and what you think needs changing."

"All right." Veronique nodded, not bothering to conceal her excitement. She'd waited a long time for the chance to present her ideas and for the possibility to put her mark on this store. "I'm going to be honest. We look dated. Five years ago we looked good—lush, rich, elegant. But in five years our buying public has become visually more sophisticated. Like the addict who keeps looking for a better high, the public needs something new, something different to get their attention. In five years we've gone from elegant to stodgy, lush to slightly shabby."

Brandon toyed with a pencil. "What do you suggest?"

"Rock 'n' roll," Veronique said crisply. His eyes met hers, and he arched his eyebrows in question. She had his attention now. "Fun, cutting edge, lots of color." She began to pace. "We'd need new fixtures and new props. I'd need at least two of my artists back, all four would be better."

He tossed the pencil down and stood. "Keep in mind that this is the South. We move at a slower pace than New York; our life-style is gentler than Los Angeles. This is a town with lots of money and even more tradition; I don't think brash is going to work here."

Hands on hips, she squared her shoulders. "I'm not surprised you feel that way. But your view of New Orleans is much narrower—or should I say more exclusive—than mine. New Orleanians love a party and find any excuse to throw one. They down boiled seafood with as much gusto as they down beer. They host festivals and Carnival and throw cabbages on Saint Patrick's Day. As for funky, you can't get much funkier than the French Quarter at night."

Brandon held up his hands. "You've made your point. It's obvious you feel very strongly about this, but I'm unconvinced. What you're talking about is a radical change; our sales figures don't indicate that a dramatic change is necessary."

"I disagree. The Rhodes clientele is old-line New Orleans. The young, upwardly mobile consumers aren't buying from us. They're going to Saks Fifth Avenue or Macy's. Eventually our clientele is going to die off, and I mean that literally."

Her eyes were alight with the fire of enthusiasm; her cheeks were flushed with excitement. Brandon stared at her, then blinked in surprise. He hadn't recalled before how radiantly beautiful she was. Suddenly he wondered how her skin would feel against his fingertips, how her mouth would taste under his. With a small shake of his head, he dragged his thoughts back to the discussion at hand. "And you think changing our look is going to draw in the young consumers?"