Corporate Affair (15 page)

The dress she chose reflected the mood she carried inside. It was vaguely retro, made of light cotton printed in pale yellows and greens and chocolate browns. It dipped just low enough at the décolletage to be feminine and still be demure. Short sleeves with small keyholes gave it a flirty look, and she chose a pair of summery yellow pumps for a pop of color. She finished with sterling hoops and several sterling bangles on her wrist.

The offices of Chat were quiet when Jordan arrived just after noon. Most of the staff was having lunch. Ashley’s desk, always full of papers, water bottles, coffee mugs, and her company laptop when she was there, was barren and sterile, its marble top polished to a reflecting shine. It stood like the first line of defense against the outside world, awaiting her return. Ashley never left even the hint of a mess on her desk, whether she was going home for the day or stepping out for lunch. If she wasn’t sitting there, it was hard to tell it was a desk.

Jordan’s desk was a different story. As she stepped through the door to her own office, she made a wry face. Her office bore witness to the night before. There was an open pizza box with a couple of pieces of cold pizza in it, two or three empty beer bottles, and the unoepend remainder of the six-pack. Unfiled papers were strewn on the desktop, and the two portfolios lay on the small table between the wing chairs.

Jordan opened the heavy drapes, allowing the spring sunlight to flood in. Methodically she began to clean up the mess, stuffing the pizza box and leftover pizza into her waste basket. Then she walked across to the wing chairs to gather together the portfolios.

“It looks like somebody was working late last night,” said a male voice.

Jordan gave a little yelp and spun around. In the open doorway of her office stood Christopher Fenton. Her stomach suddenly tightened, and she felt her mouth go dry.

“Mr. Fenton,” she said, gathering her wits. “You should knock.”

“The door was open. May I come in?”

Jordan hesitated. “Do we have something to discuss?”

Christopher Fenton took two steps into the room. “As a matter of fact, we do,” he said. A slick smile spread across his face, but Jordan could see the malice behind his eyes. “You look lovely this morning. Ready to do business, I see.”

Jordan ignored the remark. She wished Ashley would get back from lunch. She didn’t enjoy being in the same room with a man who had purposely tried to bring about her demise.

“May I sit down?” His eyes traveled to the two wing chairs, but Jordan slipped behind her desk and gestured to the large Windsor chair across from her. She sat primly and upright, her back did not touch the back of her chair.

Fenton sat in the Windsor chair and leaned forward, his arms folded on the desk. “I want to talk to you about your decision to go with Trade Winds—or should I say Aiden Stewart—instead of Fenton Industries.”

Jordan remained silent, trying not to look at the little clock on her desk. Where was Ashley?

“I just want you to be sure that this is the right decision for Gene Palmer’s company,” Fenton continued. “Something tells me he’s not the kind to accept an offer of lesser cash value, to say nothing of the long-term benefits to the people he leaves behind when he…retires.”

Instinctively, Jordan adopted a defensive body language. She leaned back comfortably and folded her hands across her lap, her elbows leaning on the arms of the chair. “I think it was the long-term issues of your offer that finally persuaded me to go with Trade Winds. I did my research, Mr. Fenton. You have a disturbing habit of chopping companies up. In fact, Trade Winds is a communications company, like Chat. Fenton Industries, on the other hand, is a holding company, and while you purport to be buying Chat for the purpose of expanding your interests in this area, your company history doesn’t support that premise. Most of the companies you acquire are dead within two years. Chopped up, sold off, and relocated for the express benefit of Fenton Industries. Mr. Palmer has a keener sense of responsibility to his employees than that.”

“Gene Palmer’s final responsibility has always been to the bottom line. You know that. Have you discussed this decision with him?”

“Of course,” Jordan lied. She would not betray Mr. Palmer’s physical condition to the likes of this predator.

“How much have you told him about how you came to that decision?”

“Mr. Palmer and I discuss all aspects of the business freely, but that isn’t any concern of yours, Mr. Fenton.” Jordan was gaining confidence. Then, Fenton dropped a bomb.

“Does he know you’re sleeping with Aiden Stewart?”

The color drained from Jordan’s face.

“Yes, I know about that,” said Fenton with a ghoulish smile. He lowered his voice. “I saw you go up to his room at the Inn the other night. You see, I’m staying there, too.” He sat back and adopted a similar pose as Jordan’s, his pale eyes gleaming with animosity. Jordan fought for control over her fear. Her palms were sweating. She wouldn’t put anything past this man. Her throat seemed to be closing. After all, he had tried to poison her, to destroy her reputation in the eyes of her employer.

“I wonder how he would feel about that,” murmured Fenton, suddenly interested in his own fingernails.

Jordan stood up, holding the edge of her desk to disguise her shaking hands. “Mr. Fenton,” she said clearly and calmly, “my personal life is absolutely none of your business and absolutely off limits in any discussion you and I will ever have. I remain steadfast in my decision to merge with Trade Winds because Mr. Palmer and I believe it is the best thing for ChatDotCom. That’s all you need to hear. Now, I must ask you to leave immediately.”

Fenton stood up. He was still smiling his malicious smile. “Merge? Is that what you call it?” He gave a nasty short chuckle. “I’m not surprised, but I’d like to hear Palmer’s take on it. What did he say when you told him?”

“Please leave now,” said Jordan through gritted teeth. Suddenly, not thinking, she added, “Leave immediately, Mr. Fenton, or I will go to the police and tell them how you drugged my drink in an effort to sabotage my negotiations. Leave, Mr. Fenton.”

Jordan saw a shadow cross Fenton’s face. She had dealt a blow, but he was cool. In an instant his face had cleared. “Good-bye, Ms. Fitzgerald, but I’ll warn you, you are a neophyte in the business world, and a little success in a tiny company does not make you competent to run with the big boys. We’ll see how this all goes down.” He turned and left, slamming the door behind him. Jordan fell back in her chair, tears of frustration and anger welling up in her eyes.

A moment later, Ashley came flying into the room. “What! What’s going on here? I just passed Fenton in the hall. He didn’t speak or look at me. What was that dirt bag doing here? Are you okay, Jordan? You look shaken.”

Jordan hid her face in her hands for a minute and sighed. Then she looked up. “Sit down,” she said. “I’ll tell you.”

Jordan told Ashley the whole story starting with her dinner with Fenton, the drugged ginger ale, Aiden’s intervention that saved her from a certain DUI or worse, her feelings about Aiden, and her decision to accept Trade Winds’ proposal for merger.

“Now all I have to do is tell Mr. Palmer,” she said quietly, slumping back in her chair. She let out a deep breath between pursed lips.

“I knew that guy was bad news the minute I saw him! Fenton is a terrible person, Jordan,” said Ashley, shaking her head in disbelief. “You are absolutely right to send him down the road. What a jerk!” Ashley walked to the big windows overlooking the river. “I just hope he doesn’t find some other way of undermining your decision. He’s a dangerous man with a lot of money. What’s our next move?”

Jordan swung her chair around and followed Ashley’s meditative gaze out over the lively river, its waves bounding and leaping over its banks with the spring run-off. The season’s foliage had turned the bank into a palette of pastel colors, dotted with little white clouds of early cherry blossoms. “I want you to call Mr. Palmer,” she said resolutely. “Tell him that I’d like to meet with him this afternoon. Tell him I’ve decided to go with Trade Winds and would like him to meet Aiden Stewart.”

“You’re going to bring Aiden with you?”

“Yes. Ashley, I don’t know what’s going to happen between Aiden and me, but I want Mr. Palmer to meet him. He has a real talent for nailing someone’s core personality just by looking at them and talking to them. I want his opinion of Aiden.”

“Then are you going to tell him about your personal relationship with Aiden?”

“I won’t need to, Ashley. I won’t need to.”

Ashley turned away from the window and met Jordan’s eyes. “I’ll call him right away. I’ll call Aiden, too, if you want.”

“No, thanks anyway. I’ll go to the Inn. He can come with me to Mr. Palmer’s. When you call him, tell him we’ll be there about three.”

A few minutes later, Jordan was driving into town to find Aiden. She tried twice to call him. Each time, her call went straight to his voice mail. “This is Aiden Stewart. Please leave a message and a number where you can be reached. I’ll call back.”

After Jordan had left that morning, Aiden showered, dressed, and went downstairs for coffee. He didn’t feel particularly hungry, so he took the coffee out onto the wide front porch. He found a quiet table, sat down, and called his father. The old man, Aiden knew, would be pacing back and forth in his office, fussing and fuming to himself because Aiden hadn’t reported in for twenty-four hours.

“What the hell is going on there, son?” was Gordon Stewart’s opening remark.

“A lot, Dad, a lot.”

“Let me have it. Have you closed the deal? What’s Fenton up to? Don’t trust that jerk, Aiden. What’s Palmer’s condition? Have you met with him yet?”

“One question at a time, Dad,” said Aiden firmly. He heard his father bluster and then silence. “You still there?”

“Of course I’m still here. I’m trying to give you a chance to tell me what’s going on!”

“I’m meeting this afternoon with Gene Palmer and Jordan Fitzgerald. We’re going to sign the contract.”

“Have you spoken to Palmer?”

“No, not yet.”

“Then you don’t know for sure.”

“Jordan Fitzgerald is in charge of the decision making process—”

“Just like you’re in charge of the decision making process for Trade Winds, but I sign the papers. I give the final word.”

Aiden sighed. “Yes, that’s correct.”

“Well, then, good work, Aiden. I hope it all goes through.”

“I see no reason why it shouldn’t.”

“Well, you let me know as soon as you can and then get back here so I can finalize the whole thing.”

“I will, Dad.”

“Good luck.” His father hung up without comment, as was his habit.

Aiden put his phone down on the table and bent his head to the daily newspaper that had been left there for customers to read as they lingered over coffee in the spring sunshine.

“Aiden Stewart?”

Aiden looked up to see Christopher Fenton and his cohort, dressed impeccably in three piece suits, standing in front of him. Aiden blinked. Of course, Fenton didn’t know that Aiden knew who he was. He was cool in his response.

“That’s right.” Aiden offered nothing further.

Fenton sported an oily smile. “I’m Christopher Fenton of Fenton Industries. This is my CFO, Richard Tate. We were just finishing breakfast. I saw you sitting over here and recognized you from your picture on the Trade Winds website. I thought it would be interesting to meet the representative arm of Trade Winds. I understand we’re after the same prize.”