The Paris Affair (3 page)
“Did your analysis not take into account the startup costs? We’ve been in this business for forty years. There ought to have been plenty of historical data to use for the estimates.”
Claire uncrossed her legs and shifted in her seat. The motion distracted him for half a second, and he couldn’t help noticing her tuck her bare feet beneath her. He could just make out the pointed toe of one shoe under the edge of the table. He had to force his gaze from the expanse of her bare legs, and clamp down on the rush of heat that went straight to his cock. He cleared his throat, trying to formulate an answer to her question.
“We do rely heavily on historical data in our estimating process,” he said. “If you would allow me a moment to explain. We have twenty-five years of data in the computers to utilize when we bid a contract. But this is the first time we have ever dealt with the US military. We underestimated the overhead of the additional security, background checks, and facility upgrades that need to comply with their terms.
“I am sure the Shadow Fly project manager would be happy to go over this in finer detail than I can provide. Remember, my department only handles the final numbers. Back to where I was, Betty, if you please.”
Helmut heard the bitter edge in his own voice and resolved to keep his cool for the remainder of the meeting. He normally kept tabs on all of the major projects, and could explain any of the numbers—good or bad—in more detail than most accountants could. Ben had some serious explaining to do.
The smell of garlic and pepper assailed Helmut’s nostrils the instant the elevator opened, making his stomach growl. He had hoped to leave work two hours ago, and stop by the gym on the way home. Maybe catch the end of the Blackhawks game on ESPN. Instead, the night was serving up takeout and endless spreadsheets.
He nodded to the night guard and grinned at the lanky young deliveryman leaning on the security guard’s desk, eyes closed and head bopping to the beat playing on his iPod.
“Still on the evening shift, eh Stevie?”
Stevie grinned back, still bopping his head. He held up one finger. Helmut waited, patiently. He knew the drill.
After ten more seconds, Stevie yanked out his earplugs and rolled his head around, cracking his neck. “Sorry, still working on the last ten measures of that song.
Jesu, Joy of Men’s Desiring
snuck in there somehow. My sister’s wedding must have infiltrated my mind.”
“Is this the last composition for your master’s thesis?”
“Yeah, man. I’m cutting it close. The performance is scheduled for the day after tomorrow. You coming?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. As long as you didn’t forget my wonton soup again.”
“I never,” said the graduate music student with a dramatic flourish of his hand.
“Just giving you shit. Here, keep the change.” Helmut handed over a fifty.
“I can’t take that much.”
“Sure you can. I don’t have anything smaller. Besides, I’m being selfish. If I piss you off and Mr. Hon gives some punk this delivery route, I’ll never get a hot crab Rangoon again.”
Stevie chuckled. “Thanks, Mr. Forrester. Much appreciated.” He handed Helmut a warm paper bag with a menu stapled to the side. “Careful, think the sauce is leaking a bit.”
Helmut palmed the bag, turning the greasy splotch away from his tie. He started to walk away, then noticed Stevie plugging his earphones back in.
“You hanging out here tonight?”
“No, another delivery.”
Belatedly, Helmut noticed another bag sitting on the desk behind Stevie. He raised one eyebrow. There weren’t many people left in the building at this time of night, and he was surprised someone else had ordered from such a tiny restaurant twelve blocks away. There were half a dozen Chinese places between here and Hon’s, though none worth mentioning, in his opinion.
“Who’s it for?”
“CJ something or other. I guess the guy’s new to the building.”
Claire.
Hon’s was one of her father’s favorite joints, too. Helmut smiled to himself. After yesterday’s disastrous presentation, he’d managed to speak only three words to her. “Good morning, CJ.” A little dinner party was just what he needed to start gaining ground.
“That’s my new boss. If you don’t mind, I’ll take it up to her. I needed to drop by her office for a minute anyway. How much is it?” Helmut set his bag back down and pulled out his wallet.
“
Her
office? Your new boss is a chick?”
“I wouldn’t call her a ‘chick’ to her face if you wanted a tip. She’s James’ daughter.”
“No offense intended. But watch out for a lady boss. My advisor’s a tough old bat. Keeps me in line better than my own mother.”
Helmut handed over another fifty and smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind. Take it easy, Stevie.”
Helmut hefted both sacks and whistled to himself as he strode back to the elevator. He hadn’t been lying about needing to talk to Claire, but he didn’t know she was working late. After hours of catching up on the email he’d missed on vacation, he had just started digging into the preliminary results of the yearly financial audit. Had James still been in charge, Helmut would have been in his office going over the results together. Not because Helmut needed James’ guidance, but because he always kept his boss in the loop.
There was a conference call scheduled with the auditors on Wednesday, and they had requested the CEO’s presence. Helmut wanted to triple check all of his own reports before calling Claire. He had intended to email her tonight and set up a quick face-to-face before the call. Bringing her dinner would be much cozier.
Carefully juggling both bags, Helmut knocked on the CEO’s office door. It was open a crack, yellow light spilling out into the dimly lit hallway.
“Room Service,” he called out as he gently pushed open the door.
Helmut looked around. At first glance, the office was empty. The dark paneled space had been James’ power center for Helmut’s entire seventeen-year career here. He could still remember when he was first hired, right out of college, and had greeted the intimidating older man with a sweaty handshake and a lot of “Yes, sir” and “No, sir”. Over the past few years, he’d spent more time in meetings up here than anywhere else in the building, except his own office on the floor below.
“Hello?” he asked again and turned to leave.
“Do you cook, too?”
Claire was sitting cross-legged in the overstuffed brown leather sofa. She was small compared to the scale of the thing. With her blond hair tucked behind her ears, she looked very girlish. And then she unfolded her long legs and stood.
His eyes traveled upward from her feet to gently curved hips and a slender waistline. She wore the slacks from today’s black pantsuit but had removed the jacket, and her silk blouse hugged pertly rounded breasts. Very grown-up breasts. He cleared his throat.
“I do. Cook, that is. If I’m desperate.” He held up the sacks. “I guess we both ordered from the same Chinese joint. Would you care for some company?”
Claire yawned, covering her mouth delicately with one hand. She actually blushed. “Sorry about that. I’ve been going over last quarter’s project reports all evening.”
“Heh. That will put you to sleep in a hurry.”
“No, they’re all very educational. I’m not used to sitting still for so long.”
Helmut looked around. The only spot on the huge mahogany desk not covered with printouts held her laptop. “Understandable. Where would you like me to put this?”
“Over here on the coffee table would be great. Thanks, Helmut.” The coffee table was piled with notebooks and file folders, too.
Her hair had been down but carefully styled earlier in the day, but she had drawn it back into a loose ponytail. A long strand had escaped the band and curled around the back of her ear while she bent over the piles, stacking things to clear a corner of the table. The tips of her ears were flushed pink despite the chill of the office. Another blush? She motioned for him to set down the bag, and moved an armful of notebooks to the desk.
“Mind if I join you? We can make it a working dinner. I wanted to show you my notes for tomorrow’s conference call.”
She turned then, and he saw a flicker of something in her eyes before she schooled her features into a smooth, cool façade. Uncertainty or calculation. Maybe both. He could work with either.
“That would be nice.”
Helmut smiled. “Great. I’ll be right back with my notes.”
Claire laughed so hard at Helmut’s story about the dog riding sidecar on its geriatric owner’s motorcycle that she let a piece of shrimp slide off of her chopsticks. It landed with a wet squish in the paperboard box, splatting her blouse with Kung Pao sauce.
She set down her chopsticks and grabbed a paper napkin to blot the mess.
“Let me help with that.” Helmut jumped to his feet.
Claire watched as he strolled over to the mini-bar refrigerator her father had installed along one wall of bookshelves. She had no business checking out her CFO’s butt. No matter how firm his ass looked, or how toned the muscles of his thighs beneath the smooth gray fabric. She was a firm believer in casual dress, but tailored wool slacks did hang especially nice from some men’s backsides.
Helmut turned back around, a clear plastic bottle in one hand, and Claire quickly looked back down at the greasy splotch on her top. She hoped that he attributed the hot flush of her cheeks to laughter.
“Club soda.” He wet a napkin with the bottle. “It’s a lifesaver in emergencies like this.”
He stood close to her, and she smelled faint traces of juniper and rosewood and something deeper that was primal and male. His scent shot a desire of heat through her, pooling in the pit of her stomach. And between her legs.
Helmut touched the napkin to a tendril of her hair, gently cleaning off the sauce. The slight motion sent sparkles down her scalp. Then he lowered his hand and touched it to her stomach.
The cool liquid soaked through her blouse jolting her temporarily befuddled senses into awareness, tightening her nipples into hard nubs.
She snatched the napkin from his fingers. “I can do that.”
Helmut shrugged and sat back down on the chair across from her while Claire concentrated on blotting her blouse. It gave her an excuse to focus her eyes somewhere away from his hands. Strong, capable hands.
Nimble fingers.
She patted the stain a few more times for good measure.
“My dry cleaner won’t fire me after all.” She set the napkin aside. The liquid had left a swatch of the fine silk nearly transparent and clinging to her abdomen. She tucked one arm across her lap self-consciously.
“Happy to be of service.” His dark green-gray eyes held a shine that made her shift in her seat, even though his posture was relaxed, easy. He broke a crab Rangoon in half. “I’ve told you all of my secrets. What about you?”
“I don’t have quite the repertoire of anecdotes that you do.”
“How about the basics? What do you do for fun?” Helmut took a bite of the Rangoon, leaving her to fill the silence.
“Fun? What’s that? I live for my job,” she said with only half a laugh.
“Yeah right. Living for your job always gives you a deep bronze tan.”
Claire blushed again. “I had a few weeks of downtime after I left my last company. I spent most of it on my bike.”
“Motor or foot-powered?”
“Foot-powered. You didn’t notice how clueless I was about all the motorcycle stories you’ve been telling?”
Helmut shrugged. “I didn’t see cycling listed on your official company bio.”
Claire rolled her eyes. “I think my assistant wrote that for me. Golf and tennis, right? Or did she add ‘charity work’ this time?”
“Do you actually golf?”
“I can generally hit the ball with a club, sometimes in the right direction, if that’s what you mean. Most of the techno-wizards I worked with at my last company didn’t play any games that didn’t involve a console and a joystick, so I never bothered to work on it. Let me guess, you’re a semi-pro?”
“I can keep up, when I have to. When you’re the C-
F
-O and not the C-
E
-O, your job is to make small talk and not outshine the boss.” Something in his tone made Claire shift in her seat again, but the air seemed noticeably cooler than it had a minute a go.
She busied herself closing the lid on her half-eaten dinner and carried it to the same mini-fridge where Helmut had found the club soda. She shuffled aside cans of soda, beer, and a bottle of wine and settled her takeout in the empty spot, and made a mental note to have the fridge cleaned out. Her father belonged a different generation, where offering a visitor a “drink” implied that alcohol was acceptable during the workday.
Claire dared a look over her shoulder at her dinner guest. Helmut carefully gathered up his own trash, then wiped down the coffee table where they’d eaten. That last touch was way more thoughtful than she would have expected from a guy.