In a Heartbeat (3 page)

He exchanged handshakes with Renard, passed completely by Angela and took up position behind his desk.

“Did you catch the game last Saturday?” he asked Renard, referring to the local university football game. Without a professional team to call its own, Columbus sports fans followed the college circuit with a passion.

Renard shook his head, “Although, now that I’m taking up residence here, I guess I’m going to get reacquainted with the Buckeyes.”

“You went to Ohio State, didn’t you?” Wilson asked Angela.

The question surprised her as she was beginning to feel ignored.

“Yes, but I—”

“Heck of a team, those Buckeyes. Now, what exactly are we here to discuss?”

The acute dismissal lodged in her gut and rendered her speechless.

Renard cleared his throat. “Basically, we’d like you to walk through the accounting systems and reports so we can get an overall view of the system.”

Although Wilson acknowledged Angela’s presence with an occasional nod, the meeting was clearly staged for Renard. Angela seethed as she took notes. How could Renard regard her as a peer, if she was already reduced to the role of secretary? Tom finished his exposition on how product was shipped from the vendor to the warehouse with a flurry of 18

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In a Heartbeat

statistics no doubt gleaned from the stacks of computer printouts on his desk.

“Excuse me,” Angie interrupted.

“Yes, ma’m?” Tom smiled with a patronizing glint to his eye. “Am I going too fast? Would you like me to repeat that last ratio?”

“I was wondering if everything flowed through the warehouse?”

Tom pulled forward and picked up a pen on the desk. “I’m not sure I know what you mean…?”

“I believe I saw mention in the workpapers about something called a direct ship.”

If Renard hadn’t been sitting so close, she might have missed his slight shift in her direction. As it was, she welcomed his attention. Now she could show the arrogant bastard that she knew her stuff.

“Oh, direct ships.” Tom relaxed, a wide grin on his face. “For a moment there, I thought maybe you were suggesting we were diverting merchandise.” He chuckled, glancing over at Renard. “I was going to have to see about gaining my fair share.”

Again, Angela fumed over the joke made at her expense. Tom Wilson leaned back in his chair. “Honey, direct ships happen when the merchandise goes directly from the vendor to the customer. It’s shipped direct, you see.”

She could feel the tips of her ears heat. “So the answer is yes, some of the merchandise bypasses the warehouse.”

“I suppose you could put it that way.” He smiled a sort of half-smile at Renard.

Angela felt her self-esteem oozing out like coffee residue out of upended mug. She had to do something to staunch the flow. A printout on Wilson’s desk titled Vendor Masterfile caught her attention.

“One other question,” she added. “When someone makes a change to the vendor masterfile, is a report printed out?” Tom nodded his head, his patronizing smile still in place. “And do you initial it to designate your approval?”

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Donna Richards

“Ms. Blake,” Renard interrupted, “I’d like to see you in my office for a moment.”

“I have a few more questions for Mr. Wilson,” she protested.

“Now,” he insisted.

She rose and silently followed him out of the office and down the hall.

He closed the door behind her and leaned in close. Too close. The scent of his woodsy cologne transported her back to their previous confrontation at the Hyatt. Only this time, she didn’t have the support of a limo door to reinforce her shaky knees.

“These questions of yours are a waste of time,” Renard stated without preamble.

“What are you talking about?” She bristled. “I’m following the standard audit questionnaires to determine internal control strengths and weaknesses.” There. He had to respect that she had established procedures on her side.

“Then your standard questionnaires are asinine. Who cares if some printout is initialed or not.”

That hurt. His lack of appreciation drained some of the wind from her sails, but she still rallied. “It’s visible proof that someone did their job.

How else do you know that someone checked the report for improper changes?”

“You trust them to do their job.” His tone, low and cold, held more command than if he had shouted. “All initials prove is someone has an ego problem.”

Takes one to recognize one.
She clenched her jaw to keep from repeating the childish refrain.

“You’ll cease asking these useless questions immediately.”

“I’m not your employee,” she reminded him.

“Thank God for that.” He glared. “I would hate my first official act as the new CEO to be to fire the auditors.”

She felt the blood drain from her face. He could do that. He could fire the whole firm of Falstaff and Watterson if he wanted. She swallowed, 20

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backing up a step. One call and she’d lose her promotion and most likely her job.

“I’m sorry,” he said, avoiding her gaze. He raised a hand to his forehead and stepped around the desk. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“I’m only doing my job,” she said around the lump in her throat. “I can have Max ask these questions if you prefer, but I need to have the answers to document any internal control weaknesses.”

“Internal control weaknesses?” He raised his gaze to hers. His eyes narrowed slightly. “Do you really think not initialing some report is an internal control weakness?” She nodded, though without enthusiasm. He braced his arms on his desk. “Or maybe you’re looking for things that aren’t there, like drugs in a limousine.”

“Is that what this is about?” Her spine stiffened. This reprimand wasn’t about business after all. “You’re still upset about the other night?”

An awkward pause hung in the air. Renard sighed and his shoulders sagged a bit. Angela noted dark shadows under his eyes that she hadn’t noticed earlier. “Look,” he said. “I’m just suggesting that some of your questions are targeted at the wrong things. This company is losing money and that’s not because someone forgot to initial a report.”

“Well, thank you for your observations of my professional prowess, Mr. Renard. I’ll take your observations under consideration.”
Like hell I
will
. She turned to storm out of the office.

“One more thing,” he shuffled papers around on his desk, “when you are interviewing or working with my people, you will wear pants or a longer skirt.”

She stopped abruptly, and turned. Heat flared from her face. “You think my skirt is too short?”

“How you dress on your time is your business. But I’m trying to do a job here and I can’t do it if my male executives are drooling over your legs.” He glanced up at her. “You can go now.”

Clutching her legal pad to her chest as if it were a shield, she backed out of Renard’s office. She was still swearing under her breath when she returned to the conference room.

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Donna Richards

“Hey, boss lady,” Max greeted her. “Your mother call— Whoa, are you all right?”

“What do you mean?” Angie asked, catching her breath after her stormy retreat down the hall.

“Your face is bright red.” He pushed back the chair and stood by her elbow. “Do you need your pills? Maybe you should sit down.”

Now that he mentioned it, she did feel flushed and her heart… Well, her heart reminded her that there were worse things in life than Renard, although at the moment she couldn’t think of one. Still she didn’t need Max fawning over her like an invalid.

“I’m fine, Max.” She took a deep breath. “Just give me some air. I had another run-in with the arrogant egomaniac.”

“Renard,” Max supplied with a knowing glance. “You know, Angie, all the secretaries and clerks like him. A lot. You’re the only female in this building who can’t seem to get along with the guy.”

“That’s because the rest of the women don’t have to work closely with him.” She pushed herself away from the wall and walked over to the pink pile of phone messages left by her computer. “If they did, they’d know better.” She picked up the top note. “My mother called?”

“Yeah, about ten minutes ago. She said it wasn’t important but to call her when you can. So what did he say this time?”

“He said I was wasting his staff’s time and, Max, can I ask you a question?” She shifted uncomfortably. “I need your honest opinion.”

“Sure, Angie, what’s up?”

“Do you think this suit is professional and appropriate for work?” She worried her lip, hoping he’d give her the answer she wanted.

“I’m not the fashion police but I think you look great.”

His wide smile gave her the confidence to narrow his response. “And the skirt, you don’t think my skirt is too short?”

“I’m not complaining.”

“Max.” A bit of doubt dampened her sense of righteousness. “Be serious.”

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“I am serious. You’ve got the best set of legs in the office.” He gave her a thumbs up.

Her heart sank. His overzealous response revealed what his words didn’t. How was she supposed to get through the rest of the afternoon when all she wanted was to hide under the conference room table? She lifted her trench coat from the back of the chair and slipped her arms in the sleeves.

“Now you’re cold?” He frowned. “Are you sure you’re feeling all right?

Maybe I should call your brother.”

“My brother?” She narrowed her eyes. “How do you know my

brother?”

“From the company picnic last July, remember? He played right field.” Max visibly withered under her glare. “He just happened to mention that if ever you needed help or anything, you know, due to your condition, he said I should call him.”

“He did, did he.” A weight heavier than that of the khaki trench settled on her shoulders.

“He also said you’d be pretty ticked if I mentioned it to you.” Max’s voice dropped. “Sorry about that.”

She buried her face in her hands. Her eyes burned. She might as well be back in that hospital bed with absolutely no privacy and unable to do the simplest thing for herself.

“Angie?”

Still, her heartbeat pounded in her ears, reminding her of the foolishness of that feeling. If only the others could hear the strength of that beat.

She pulled her hands away from her face and clasped them together in front of her. “You don’t have to call Stephen.” She chose her words carefully, not wanting to lash out at Max. “He sometimes forgets I’m not the little invalid I once was.”

“Angie, I didn’t mean to—”

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Donna Richards

She held up her hand to silence him. “I know, I know. If ever I feel I’m in need of medical assistance, I’ll let you know. But I promise you, this isn’t one of them.” Max looked so mournful she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

She picked up the stack of telephone messages. The one from her mother probably was to make sure that she was dressed warm enough, or that she had taken her meds, or that she had gas in the car. Angie sighed. She thought a thousand miles between them would have eliminated this daily game of twenty questions. Apparently not.

She picked up the next pink sheet. Panic spiked through her. “The office called?”

“Yeah, Falstaff wants you to stop by tomorrow morning.”

She recalled Renard’s threat. A tremor sped down her spine. He couldn’t have. Not this fast.

“How’d the interview go?” Max asked.

“Hmm… The interview?” She glanced up. “Not so well. And,” she frowned at her watch, “I have a whole twenty minutes till the next one.”

She slumped in her chair. “I may not survive.” Her fingers slipped to her chest, lightly sliding up and down the scar beneath her blouse, while she pondered alternatives. “Max?”

“Yeah?”

“What do you think would happen if I asked Falstaff to transfer me to another job?”

“I think it would be rotten timing, looking for work right before the holidays,” he said, half-in-jest.

“I’m serious, Max.” Maybe she could prove her marketing skills on a job without the insufferable Mr. Renard.

Max leaned back in his chair. “One of the secretaries told me that Bennett did that once.”

“Bennett? Why, he’s been in the same position since Falstaff was a manager.”

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Max nodded. “That’s what I heard. He asked for a transfer and they transferred him right off the promotion track.”

Ouch. If that were true, she’d have to tough out this assignment. A promotion was more than a financial brass ring. It would prove to her family that she was independent, capable of handling everything that came her way, including the Renards of the world. That thought pulled at the corners of her mouth.

She picked up the phone handset and punched in the numbers to the office. All too quickly Falstaff’s voice rang in her ear.

“Angela, how are things progressing?”

“Fine, sir. Max and I are right on budget.”

He sighed in her ear. “I’m not talking about the budget. I was a little concerned about Renard’s reaction when he met you earlier. Is everything going smoothly?”

“Smoothly, yes, sir.” Her stomach tightened with the lie.

“I don’t need to remind you how important Hayden is to this firm, Angela. I’d like to impress Renard with a good strong letter of recommendations. Keep your eyes open.”

“Yes, sir.” She replaced the receiver after cursory goodbyes.

“What’s up?” Max asked.

“Falstaff wanted to remind us to document points for the rec letter.”

She scrambled around for prior year’s files. “I want to track my notes against the documentation from last year. No one initials the vendor masterfile report for changes, and I didn’t see any signoffs on the bank reconciliation.”

“The ol’ lack of documentation review point.” Max shook his head.

“Those always seemed so lame to me.”

Angie stopped her shuffling and looked hard at Max. She would have choked him if she could reach him. “It’s still important.”