Affair with the Rebel Heiress (2010) (8 page)

She set her jaw at a stubborn angle. "Besides which, Biedermann's
sells
jewelry, we don't make it." Once again she reached for the notebook. "We don't have the means or the experience to even do a mock-up of that kind of thing, let alone manufacture it."

"Biedermann's doesn't." He thumbed through the pages until he returned to the first image that had caught his attention. He flipped the book around to display the picture of FMJ. "But FMJ does." He grinned. "Sometimes it's good being the evil monster."

She blinked in surprise, then chuckled for a second. But then she studied his face, finally pulling the sketchbook from his grasp. "It's too risky."

"No, it isn't. Matt has a whole electrical engineering department that would love to take a whack at this. Let me just fax him a couple of the pages."

"No."

"But--"

She turned on him suddenly. "Biedermann's is practically hemorrhaging money right now. The absolute last thing we need to do is venture into something like this. If we took a risk like this and it failed, we'd never recover."

"Then the trick is not to fail."

"That's so easy for you to say. Everything you touch turns to gold, right? Buy a company, sell a company. It's all the same. You make millions in your sleep. Besides, if you're wrong, and Biedermann's dies off completely, you can still sell off chunks of us to recoup some of your losses. FMJ could probably use the tax write-off anyway. It may not matter to you whether or not Biedermann's flounders or flourishes, but it matters to me."

As gently as he could, he said, "You know, Kitty, for someone who claims to be desperate to save Biedermann's, you're sure not willing to take many risks to do it."

"I am willing to take risks. I'm just not willing to risk everything."

A second later, she'd snatched her purse out of the desk and was gone. And, damn it, she'd taken her sketchbook with her. He was going to have to find a way to get it back, because he was going to send those
drawings to Matt. This could be the key to everything. The niche market Biedermann's was looking for. Not just upscale jewelry, but high fashion accessories for the gadgets nearly every American owned.

Biedermann Jewelry. It's not just for engagements anymore.

He nearly chuckled at his own little joke. This could really work. Between Matt's electronic genius and Kitty's artistic brilliance, they could hit a market that no one else had tapped. Biedermann's would be back on top. And best of all, Kitty would be responsible for that.

He could do this for her. He could fix her professional life.

God knew there wasn't much he could do for her personal life.

F
rom the blog of New York gossip columnist Suzy Snark:

"Is any of this new blog true at all?" Ford asked.

She glanced at the image on his iPhone. Her stomach clenched at the sight of the scarlet swirl at the top of the screen. Another Suzy Snark blog. Just what she needed.

"Ah," she quipped, trying to sound completely blase. "Suzy Snark. What fun."

"Have you read it?"

"I don't read trash."

He held out the iPhone. "You need to read this."

Panic clutched her stomach. Her gaze darted from the phone to his face. She wanted nothing to do with any of that rubbish.

"Why don't you try to sum it up for me?" she suggested in her best spoiled-brat voice.

"It accuses you of negligence." Ford continued to hold out the phone as if he expected that to be all the encouragement she needed.

Though her heart seemed to stutter in her chest, she didn't reach for the phone. What exactly had Suzy Snark discovered?

Ford continued, his tone full of exasperation. "She says you've been spending your days at the spa. Getting massages and pedicures when you should be working."

"Is that all?" Her heart started thudding again, a rapid tattoo she was sure Ford would be able to hear.

"What do you mean 'is that all?' Is there more?" he demanded. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

Instead of answering, she tried to sidestep the question. "It's just a stupid gossip blog. You and Jonathon place entirely too much importance on what this woman writes. What does it even matter?"

He shoved his phone back in his pocket. "It matters. It may just be a gossip blog, but who knows how many people read it. This woman maligns you every chance she gets. Has it occurred to you that Suzy Snark may be the reason Biedermann's stock is in free fall?"

She sucked in a breath. "No. It hasn't."

"I did some preliminary research. Every time she posts about you, the stock price dips. Starting with today's press conference, we're going to defend you against this woman's lies. Now why don't you--"

But he must have seen the truth in her expression,
because Ford broke off. He studied her in silence for a moment before slowly shaking his head. "She's not lying, is she?"

"I wouldn't know. I didn't read the blog."

Ford ignored her comment. "Is she right? Have you really been spending hours of every workday at the spa?"

"I'm not going to defend myself to you."

"You're going to have to defend yourself to someone. The fact that you haven't denied any of this makes me think it must be true."

"What is it you want me to admit to? Going to the spa sometimes? Fine, I do that. Every woman I know gets regular manicures and pedicures. Most men I know, too. It's not a crime."

"No. But if you're doing it during office hours, every day, then it looks bad. It looks like you're not doing your job. It looks like you don't care about the company. And if you don't care about it, then why should anyone else?"

"Is that what you think? That I don't care about Biedermann's? I would do
anything
for Biedermann's."

"So you keep saying. But, frankly, I'm not seeing it."

"Are you kidding me? Since I took over as CEO, I've poured everything I have into this business. I've spent every waking moment trying to educate myself on how to be the best CEO I can. I've listened to every damn business book published in the last decade, from
Barbarians at the Gate
to
The 4-Hour Workweek,
none of which have been remotely helpful, by the way. I've worked eighty-hour weeks. I've abandoned my social life completely.

"None of that made any difference. The stock price just kept going down. So I decided to buy whatever stock I could in hopes of keeping the price up. I liquidated all of my assets. Sold everything I had. Furniture, art, jewelry. Things that had been in the family for generations. I quietly auctioned it off piece by piece. A year ago, I moved out of the townhouse where I grew up, where Biedermanns had lived for over a hundred years. I sold it and moved into a
walk-up
."

To her embarrassment, her voice, which had been rising in pitch steadily, broke on the word
walk-up
. She knew where she lived was the least of her worries, but somehow it signified all the things wrong in her life.

Knowing she was being ridiculous didn't make it sting any less when he said, "Come on, you make it sound like life without a doorman just isn't worth living. Surely it's not that bad."

"Have you ever lived without a doorman?" she asked.

"I live in a craftsman remodel down by campus in Palo Alto," he deadpanned. "I've never had a doorman in my life."

"Well, I now live on the fourth floor in a building without an elevator. I grew up with staff, for cripes sake. Our housekeeper worked for my family for forty-five years. After I let Maggie go, she couldn't even afford to pay the tuition for her granddaughter's college."

Maggie had been like family. No, more than that. To a girl who'd never known her mother, Maggie
had been
family. And Kitty had had to fire her. Sweet Maggie had tried to comfort her, made her hot tea and murmured
optimist platitudes like,
I've always wanted to travel
. Maggie had been too proud to accept a handout once she was no longer employed, so Kitty had done the only thing she could do. She'd tracked down Maggie's granddaughter and hired her at Biedermann's.

"Then why did you sell the house?" Ford was asking her. "And if you had to sell it, why not move someplace nicer?"

At his question, she bumped her chin up defiantly.

"Because," she shot back. "When the stock price started to drop, I couldn't just stand by and do nothing. So I bought as much as I could. And then when it kept dropping, I couldn't even pay the taxes on the townhouse. Selling the house was the only option."

"You should never have invested your personal assets in--"

"I know that, okay?" she snapped. "I was trying to help Biedermann's and I made a stupid mistake. I'm really good at making stupid mistakes, thank you very much."

It was just one of many, many stupid mistakes. Sometimes she felt buried under the weight of them.

"I'm just trying to--" he began.

But she cut him off with a belligerent glare. "I don't need your help."

He talked over her protests. "If Biedermann's really does go under, you'll have lost everything."

What could she say to that? All she could do was shake her head and blink back the tears. "If Biedermann's really does go under, then I've lost everything anyway."

But that wasn't entirely true anymore, was it? She'd have the baby. She'd have the family she'd always wanted. It was a small consolation that was turning into everything.

"So tell me this," he said. "If you're so desperate to keep Biedermann's afloat, why this elaborate act? Why don't you want anyone to know what you're doing? Why spend your days at the spa getting massages and facials? You've got to know how bad that looks."

She met his gaze. "I can't--" she began before breaking off. Then she swept a hand across her forehead, pushing her hair out of her face. "I can't explain that."

"Well, try. Make me understand what's going on here. Give me something, anything, that makes this make sense."

"This is just what I do."

Whenever the influx of written material got too much to handle, she took Casey, went to the spa and had her assistant read aloud to her. The paperwork was so overwhelming. Business documents were the worst. She just couldn't wrap her head around the pages and pages of words. Listening to them read aloud helped. But what kind of CEO had her assistant read everything aloud? Christ, it was like she was a preschooler at story time. How could she explain that to Ford?

Instead she said, "It's like a...a coping mechanism or something."

"You mean the massages are a way of relieving stress?"

She all but threw up her hands in frustration. "No. I mean, I was raised never to reveal my weaknesses. You always have to keep up appearances."

"I don't understand."

"No. Of course you wouldn't. My mother died when I was young. My father was completely loving and indulgent, but Biedermann's always came first, so he wasn't around a lot. I was raised by my grandmother, who was already well into her sixties when I was born. It..."

She struggled for words. Finally she finished with, "It made for an unusual upbringing. I grew up in the 1990s, but really, it's like I was raised in the 1950s. To my grandmother, appearances were everything. I know she loved me, but in the world she lived in, you never let anyone see your weaknesses. You never aired your dirty laundry."

And a child with a disability--a child who was imperfect--was the ultimate dirty laundry. She'd been such an embarrassment to her whole family. Such a disappointment. How could she stand disappointing anyone else?

"So, going to the spa is your way of whistling in the graveyard? Of pretending everything is okay when it obviously isn't? You're not fooling anyone."

"I fooled you, didn't I?"

"You didn't fool me so much as make me doubt your sanity." His words were like a slap. He must have regretted them, because he sighed and scrubbed a hand down his face. "Look, you've got to defend yourself
against Suzy Snark's allegations. Whoever she is, you've got to let people know she's wrong about you."

"And tell them what? That I was completely unprepared to take over as CEO? That I have no discernible leadership skills? That I have nothing to offer the company at all? How would admitting any of that help matters?"

"At least people would know you cared," he said finally.

Then she sighed, suddenly exhausted by the conversation. "My pride is all I have left."

For someone who'd lived her life in the public eye, Kitty seemed surprisingly nervous during the press conference. He doubted that anyone in the press noticed.

They stood side by side, along with Jonathon and Marty, a united front against the questions of the press. After he'd made the initial speech about FMJ's decision to acquire Biedermann Jewelry, Jonathon had stepped forward to outline the basis of FMJ's financial plan for Biedermann's.

As Jonathon spoke, Ford stopped listening. It was all stuff they'd discussed before. Instead he focused his attention on Kitty. She stood beside him, dressed in a gray pin-striped dress that wrapped around her waist. It managed to mimic the feel of a business suit, but its curve-hugging lines looked outrageously feminine. Her hair fell in dark, glossy waves, shadowing one side of her face. Bright red lipstick highlighted the bow of her lips. She looked like she'd stepped out of a Maxim photo
shoot. A teenage boy's idea of how a woman should look in the workplace. A sexpot in a business suit.

Probably every man in the audience was mentally undressing her.

Hell, he wasn't a teenager and even his body had leaped in response to the sight of her. He'd had to battle some primitive urge to drape his jacket around her shoulders and bundle her back to her office, where he could strip her dress from her body and worship her like an acolyte.

At least until he'd noticed how nervous she was. Outwardly, she seemed fine. More than fine, actually. The press no doubt saw the confident, beautiful--if a little overblown--woman that she intended for them to see. That he'd seen at first glance.

It was only at second glance that the illusion began to slip. Her smile, though open and alluring, was a little stiff. It was too unwavering. There was no play about her lips.

This wasn't just nerves. This was perfectly contained, well-schooled nerves. This was someone who spent a great deal of time and energy learning to hide her panic.

The idea that Kitty--so composed, so polished and poised--might be fighting panic knocked him off balance. So off balance, in fact, that he let the press conference go on much longer than it should have.

Before he knew it, there was a blond reporter who looked about twenty-two saying, "Ms. Biedermann, when your father died unexpectedly last year, you were obviously woefully unprepared to take over as CEO of
Biedermann Jewelry. Can you explain why you insisted on serving in a position you have neither the skill nor the training to hold? And furthermore, how do you answer allegations that it's your gross incompetence that has led to Biedermann's current predicament?"

Ford kept waiting for Kitty to interrupt the reporter. Sure, Kitty was obviously nervous. But he'd seen the subtle signs of nervousness from her on other occasions in which she'd gone on to cheerfully lambaste him.

From what he'd seen, Kitty never backed down from a fight and never took crap from anyone. So he was blindsided when the reporter made it past the phrase "woefully unprepared" without getting the verbal equivalent of a body slam. Why wasn't Kitty defending herself?