Calculated Risk (2 page)

Hazel eyes narrowed on the paper one
last time. “Find out who they are.” Stevie tossed the florist bill
on the desk. “Pay this and cancel any standing orders. It seems the
perfect red rose that’s been arriving every day for a month is not
another thank you from the Pit Stops for their album going
platinum. It’s from some seventeen-year-old boy whose father just
accused me of seducing!” Her hands made a gesture of
disgust.

“Well, well!” Gloria winked saucily.
“And I would have bet your preferred a more aged cut of prime
beef.” The easy way in which she joked with Stephanie came from her
status as friend and confidante more than employee.

“Please.” The word came out
a groan. Stevie prowled the vacant reception area. “There I was,
minding my own business, enjoying a leisurely dinner before the
concert, when I get –“ her hand moved beneath her suit jacket to
massage her sore shoulder “—mangled in public by a man wearing work
boots, jeans, and a T-shirt with an obscene foreign word on it.
In
Le Chalet
of
all places!” Her fist landed a heavy punch against the
desk.

“Damn Quintin Ward!” Stevie’s eyes
glowed more green than amber. “Thank God for potted palms and the
fact that this guy had shoulders like a linebacker.” Her fingers
pushed through thick russet hair, shattering the soft waves that
whispered across her shoulders. “I don’t think too many people
could actually hear and see what was going on,” came her relieved
mutterings.

“What was going on?” Gloria demanded,
her interest piqued as she stalked her boss’s every
step.

Stevie gritted her teeth. “He wouldn’t
let me talk. He kept slinging accusations. He’d push me back in the
chair …” Her emotions were swelling out of control. “He had the
nerve to say I looked thirty-four and … he kept telling me to shut
up!” Again, her fist attempted to shatter the oak
desktop.

She swallowed hard. “If I could have
stood up, I would have decked that man!” Her thumb and forefinger
pinched the bridge of her nose, hoping to relieve the mounting
pressure. “I’d love to know how he found me at that
restaurant.”

Gloria, who had been trying to
coordinate Stevie’s rather disjointed tirade, suddenly shifted in
discomfort in the navy posture chair. “Ouch! That’s my fault.”
Noting a pair of speculatively arched tawny brows, she hastily
cleared up the mystery. “I got a phone call from a man who claimed
to be the florist about another flower delivery. I thought it’d be
a little flattering PR to have them bring the rose to you at the
restaurant.”

An exhausted sigh escaped from Stevie’s
lips. “That was a nice idea, unfortunately …” weary hands massaged
her face. “Gloria, could you please find me some aspirin and send
out for a burger.” She grimaced. “My dinner is on the florist’s
bill. And --“ her hand twisted the latch on her office door “—find
this kid named Ward!”

Stevie traded the reception area’s
album-art-covered, midnight blue walls and high-impact chrome décor
for the decidedly more subdued environment of the president’s
office. The cinnamon sculptured carpet, butter-cream leather sofa
and side chairs complemented the carved oak wall panels. The
oversized executive chair was an instant balm to Stevie’s taut
nerves. Black pumps were slid off and ankles propped and crossed on
the desk corner as her tense body relaxed into the plush leather
cushions. Her red-gold hair formed a vibrant cascade around an oval
face that held a smattering of freckles expertly hidden under an
ivory-tinted makeup base.

Taupe shadowed eyelids drifted closed.
Her breathing became more regular and her mood adjusted to the
tranquility of her surroundings. A smile curved the corners of her
full lips. For most people their work atmosphere bred nothing but
stress and indigestion – but not hers. Stevie was surrounded by
very happy, healthy and harmonious elements.

Her half-hooded gaze surveyed the
impressive milieu. Stevie knew that clients, both prospective and
established, focused not on such incidentals as floor covering and
furniture but on the vividly commanding group of platinum and gold
albums that adorned every available wall space.

Those were her badges of honor. In the
two years since she had taken total control of her father’s
business, the number of top sellers certified by the recording
industry to her clientele had doubled, along with various other
music awards, including the prestigious Grammy and
Oscar.

Her hands clutched the chair’s arms;
the worn patina on the leather gave evidence of a previous occupant
– her father. Her thoughts digressed in nostalgic retrospect.
Steven Brandt had groomed his only heir to succeed him in the
business of managing recording artists and musicians. It was a
labor of love for both parties.

She had grown up amid musicians; her
father was a jazz trumpet player and her mother a gospel singer,
and this was the world Stevie knew and thrived in. While her own
vocal capabilities were poor, she knew how to make music and how to
sell it.

Her life had been a mixture of
education and business. For all his support, Steven Brandt had been
a hard boss, demanding more from his daughter than any other
employee and never letting emotions get in the way of business.
Stevie added law and accounting courses to bolster her liberal arts
degree and signed on for an apprenticeship in broadcast engineering
for actual hands-on knowledge of audio and video
equipment.

When Steven Brandt made his farewell
speech at his retirement dinner, the old-timers who controlled
Nashville’s Music Row sneered and labeled him a fool to entrust his
prosperous thirty-year-old business to his twenty-eight-year-old
daughter. A son they could have blessed and helped, but a daughter
–

Stevie swallowed the sour taste that
had suddenly formed in her mouth. Old memories could still taint
her triumphs with bitterness. She had realized she might face some
discrimination, but Stevie never imagined it would come from those
she called friends. Longtime clients and backers had abandoned the
agency, along with many seasoned employees.

For a time, Stevie felt that she had
fallen into an abyss and was aimlessly drifting in a lonely black
void. As she struggled to survive, her father wisely kept his own
counsel, letting the new president run the company without
interference.

Her appetite for a challenge proved to
be the armor that shielded and protected her. She persevered and
aggressively sought new talent and employees to replace old.
Colleagues called her stubborn and bullheaded and she had agreed.
Like the legendary Frank Sinatra, Stephanie Brandt did things her
way.

When she was wrong, she took it on the
chin and learned. But more often than not, she was proved right.
Her analytical mind and her uncanny ear for talent slowly began to
earn Stevie acceptance along Music Row. She challenged her father’s
legacy. Her genius was for choosing creative and innovative
singers, groups, and musicians who not only turned vinyl into gold
and platinum but who were adept at multimedia
promotions.

Billboard
, the nation’s leading music
trade magazine, had called her the “queen of precious
metals;”
Variety
labeled her “Nashville’s golden girl.” Stevie had concentrated
all her energies on one thing – her company. And she was beginning
to reap the rewards of her success. She was confident about her
choice of key management people and was beginning to delegate some
of her authority. Now, just when Stevie was planning to relax and
enjoy life and start focusing attention on herself – “I get Quintin
Ward!”

Her eyelid began to twitch
uncontrollably. Gossip was a plague that destroyed many a career in
the entertainment industry. Stevie’s own morals and those of her
clients had always been above reproach, but if Quintin Ward’s
slanderous statements ever made the rounds –

A knock interrupted Stevie
speculations. “Here are two aspirins, a cup of hot tea and a
cheeseburger.” Gloria Lansing placed the filled tray on the wide
oak desk. “Plus—“ she took a file folder from under her arm “—I
found Robert Ward.”

Stevie’s stocking-covered heels landed
with a thud despite the thickness of the carpet. “You
did?”

Her assistant’s expression creased into
a smile. “Robert Ward works for you,” Gloria announced, settling
into the side chair and adjusted her beige skirt. Viewing her
boss’s confused, helpless look, she continued. “Bobby, the mailroom
go-fer? He comes in Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday after school.
All legs, dark hair, acne on his chin. Yesterday he had on denim
coveralls and a red-striped rugby shirt.” Her hands hovered around
her ears. “Ear buds and an IPod are part of his
anatomy.”

A mouthful of burger wedged in Stevie’s
throat. “And his father has the gall to think I’d seduce a kid who
uses Clearasil instead of aftershave!” She reached for the mug of
tea. “I barely remember him. How long has this kid been working
here?”

Gloria handed her the employment form.
“Five months. Don’t feel bad,” came her soft-spoken directive. “I
hired Bobby and didn’t make the connection. We’ve got four mailroom
clerks and they all are invisible.”

Between sips of orange spice tea,
Stevie perused the neatly printed information sheet. “Address is
the same.” Her auburn head nodded. “Age, seventeen. Line drawn
through his mother’s name. Father, Quintin.” Her nose
wrinkled.

“You can’t blame Papa Ward for being
upset, Stevie. That florist bill was three hundred
bucks.”

“Tell me about it! I’m stuck paying
it.” The file slid down her lap while she remembered various
allegations. “He said I gave Bobby presents?” It came out a
question, her white teeth worrying her lower lip.

“You gave everyone a Christmas bonus,”
Gloria recounted. A pencil tapped her chin. “Could you have given
Bobby any promo CD’s, T-shirts, maybe a few concert
tickets?”

“I don’t know.” Stevie sank
back into her chair, fingers picking at the remains of her dinner.
“I give those things to everybody. I suppose I could have tossed
any one of a dozen so-called
presents
at him.”

She rubbed the center of her forehead;
the skin felt oily and moist. “Now I’m feeling guilty for every
smile, every joke, and every breath! I don’t remember consciously
teasing the kid.” Stevie frowned. “You know me, I never lead anyone
on.”

“I think Bobby’s father was just being
a … father,” Gloria soothed. “I’m the mother of a teen-age son, and
let me tell you even when they don’t do anything you get wrinkles!”
Her lips curved. “Bobby Ward has made you the star of his own
personal love fantasy. Puppy love, we used to call it.”

Stevie’s head tilted to one side,
sending a pennant of bronze waves streaming over one shoulder.
“Ah…yes, puppy love.” She was silent for a moment. “I remember
having a crush on an older man,” Stevie confessed with a rueful
laugh. “Tom Dyer was my high school Latin teacher. What a hunk! I
mooned over him for two years, even practiced writing Stephanie
Dyer in flowing script in my notebooks.” Her complexion took on a
rosy glow. “Do you know I still remember what Tom looked like,”
came her husky admission. “Tall, blond Viking type with wide
shoulders and a narrow waist. I purposely failed tests just to stay
after school for some personal attention.” Tawny eyebrows lifted
suggestively.

“At night, in bed –“ her gaze rolled
toward the ceiling “—boy, talk about steamy puberty fantasies!”
Stevie grinned at Gloria. “I even saved my allowance and bought him
a leather wallet for Christmas. You never saw such an embarrassed
man.”

“What was your parent’s
reaction?”

“Pop couldn’t understand why I needed
two years of Latin, no one spoke it in Nashville. Mom…well…I think
she knew I was having my first love affair, albeit a mental one.
Eventually my one-sided dreams died a natural, unresolved
death.”

Gloria straightened the sleeves on her
striped blouse. “Now you’re in the same position you put your Latin
teacher in,” she expressed her considered opinion. “The object of
someone’s affection through no fault of your own.”

“You can say that again,” Stevie
concurred wearily. She straightened in her chair, palms flattened
on her desk. “What really galls me, though, is the way Quintin Ward
jumped to conclusions. He acted more adolescent than his son,” she
announced with feeling. “He attacked me in public. I wasn’t even
given a chance to say one word in my own defense. He put my head on
a chopping block and chopped. He ranted and raved and threatened.”
Hazel eyes narrowed. “I hate being threatened. What is moral
turpitude anyway?”

Gloria manufactured a shocked
expression, hand fluttering against her bosom. “My dear, it’s a
depraved and shameful act with a minor.”

“Quintin Ward’s the shameful act,”
Steve growled. Her fingers laced the hair back from her temples.
“The man needs a course in parenting. It’s obvious that he’s
unfamiliar with normal teen-age crushes. These things come and go
so quickly. He should learn to communicate with the boy instead of
looking for a scapegoat – me! I get convicted on circumstantial
evidence. That’s the easy way out!”

Her hands rubbed together in a nervous
gesture. “I don’t like that. I’ve got an excellent reputation, and
if this gets around –“ Stevie looked with unseeing eyes at the wall
clock. “What time is the gospel concert tonight?”