Rivals (9 page)

“This has to have top priority, Matt,” Chance reminded him, the hard gleam in his eyes leaving the man in little doubt that he meant it. “If you can't find the information one way, then try another, but find it. Don't let locked files stand in your way.”

“I understand.” Matt nodded quietly, not needing any elaboration on that statement.

After he'd gone, Sam turned to Chance, his hands thrust deep in his pockets in a troubled and thoughtful pose. “It doesn't look like Hattie was running a bluff, does it? But you never thought she was. Why?”

“You didn't see her. She was like a cat still busy licking the cream off her whiskers.” He picked up the report from Matt and carried it to his desk.

“I still don't believe it,” Sam declared, raking his fingers through his hair. “To have some long-lost cousin wind up with Morgan's Walk…Chance, what are you going to do?”

“I'll buy it if I have to.”

“What if this person won't sell?”

“Everybody has a price, Sam. That's where Hattie made her mistake. Whoever this relative is—he isn't going to give a damn about Morgan's Walk. All he's going to care about is how much he'll inherit.”

“But if Hattie's already talked to him, she could have turned him against you already. And if she hasn't, you can damned well bet she will.”

“It won't matter. We'll use a third party to make the deal. He'll never know he's selling it to me.”

“I wish I could be as sure as you are.”

“It's a hand we'll have to play when we find out who this relative is and get some background on him. Maybe by the time I fly back to San Francisco for Lucianna's opening night this Friday, we'll know. Which reminds me…” He picked up the phone and punched the intercom line to Molly's phone.

“Yes?” came the crisp response.

“Molly, I want you to send some flowers for me.”

6

T
ension
gripped the small meeting room off the agency's graphic arts department as Flame studied the rough sketches spread across the long table in front of her. Proposed layouts for new print advertising lay side by side with storyboards for television commercials. A shirt-sleeved artist with rumpled brown hair shifted uneasily in his chair, the strain of waiting for a reaction from her finally showing. The movement drew a sharp but sympathetic look from the copywriter. Ellery ignored both, and Flame didn't even notice either, the whole of her attention focused on the concepts before her. Slowly and reluctantly she shook her head.

“You don't like it,” Ellery concluded, his remark covering the half-smothered curse from the artist.

Flame breathed in deeply and released the breath in a regretful sigh. “Truthfully? No.” She picked up the storyboard. “This idea for a new commercial is merely a slicker version of the one we've been airing.”

“It's been very successful.”

“I know it has, but we've been reworking this same theme for a year now. We need a new slant, something that will appeal to younger crowds. The results from the market research and demographic study we did this summer indicated that a very low percentage of people in their twenties shop at Powell stores. In my opinion, that should be our target market. The whole point of any advertising campaign is to increase sales and broaden the consumer base. If there's a segment of the market we're not reaching, then we go after it.”

“Any ideas on how we might accomplish that?” Ellery walked over to stand beside her.

“Ideas are your province.” A smile played at the edges of her mouth as she handed him the storyboard. “My job is to point you in the direction our client wants to go.”

“Thanks,” he murmured dryly.

The copywriter paused in her doodling and pushed her glasses higher on the bridge of her nose. “This survey you mentioned—did it say why they don't shop at Powell's?” She hooked an arm over the back of the chair, training her entire attention on Flame, her thoughts already focusing on the problem at hand.

“Basically, their reaction to Powell's fell into two categories. One, they saw Powell's as being too staid, too conservative. Second, and not too surprisingly, they thought it was too expensive.” She paused to glance at Ellery. “I'll get a copy of those reports to you.”

“That might be helpful.”

“I think it will.” She nodded. “The objective of this new campaign has to be to give Powell's a youthful, modern image—
without
alienating its established customers. I think you should begin to think about a new logo—something to relate to the nineteen nineties and the year two thousand. That will lead to new copy and new visuals.”

“A piece of cake,” the artist snorted, lifting his shoulders in a mock shrug of unconcern. “We can do that in our sleep, can't we, Andy?” he said to the copywriter. “Problem is, we're not going to get much sleep.”

A knock at the door interrupted the discussion. Flame turned as the door opened and her assistant, Debbie Connors, poked her head inside, her long blond hair swinging forward in a mass of crinkly waves. “Sorry, Flame, but you asked me to remind you about your luncheon appointment with Mr. Powell. The car's out front now waiting for you.”

Flame glanced at her watch and sighed. “Tell them I'll be right down.”

“Mustn't keep the great man waiting,” Ellery murmured dryly.

There was irony in the look she sent him. “You may be jesting, but it happens to be the truth.” She started to the door. “I'll have Debbie drop those reports by your office. If there's anything you need clarified, we can talk after I come back from lunch this afternoon.”

Ellery nodded, then added with a sly smile, “Have fun.”

The sleek gray limousine, polished to a gleam, was at the curb waiting for her when Flame emerged from the building. The stocky chauffeur hurriedly tossed his cigarette aside and reached to open the rear passenger door for her.

“Afternoon, Ms. Bennett.” He touched his cap to her, a smile wreathing his broad face.

“Hello, Arthur.” She returned the smile and automatically handed the portofolio case to him. “How are the grandkids?”

“Just fine, Ma'am.” Pride widened his smile even further. “Growing like weeds, they are.”

She laughed at that, partly because it was expected. “They have a way of doing that.” She lifted her glance to the strip of blue sky visible between the towering canyon walls of the street's flanking high-rise buildings. “Gorgeous day, isn't it?”

“Indeed it is, ma'am. Indeed it is.” His hand was at her elbow politely helping her as she bent to climb into the rear seat. He waited until she was comfortably situated then closed the door. The blare of traffic on the streets intruded briefly when he opened the front door and slid behind the wheel, laying the slim case on the seat beside him. Then there was silence, broken only by the whisper of the air-conditioner as the car turned into the flow of traffic.

Leaning back in the plushly upholstered seat, Flame took advantage of the quiet to relax from an unusually hectic morning. Absently she gazed out the window at the rush of people on the crowded sidewalks, caught in the lunch-hour bustle.

On either side, skyscrapers stretched upward, walling in the streets. The agency's offices were strategically located on the fringes of both the city's financial district, referred to by many as “the Wall Street of the West,” and the elite shopping area around Union Square with its high-fashion stores and deluxe hotels. Flame smiled, recalling an observation Ellery had once made concerning the proximity of the two areas, finding it singularly appropriate since on one side, the buildings were sky-high and on the other, the prices were.

“Where are we having lunch today, Arthur?”

With a turning lift of his head, he made eye contact with her reflection in the rearview mirror. “I don't know, ma'am. I was told to bring you to the store.”

“I see.” She sat back, briefly wondering at this break from the normal routine. Usually they lunched at Malcom's club. Still, she didn't mind. In a way, she almost welcomed it. A change of scene might satisfy some of this restlessness that had been bothering her these last few days.

A short five minutes later, Arthur let her out at the front entrance to the main Powell store from which all its many national branches had sprung. With portfolio case in hand, Flame entered the store, breezed past the perfume counter with its barrage of scents, and went straight to the executive offices located on the mezzanine level.

When she entered Malcom's outer office, the stern-looking brunette behind the desk glanced up and allowed a smile to cross her expression. “Go right in, Ms. Bennett. Mr. Powell's expecting you.”

“Thank you.” At the door to his office, Flame hesitated a split second, then walked in without knocking.

A Tabriz carpet covered the parquet flooring and every vertical inch was faced with hand-selected California pine that had been painted, laboriously stripped, then waxed, imbuing the expansive and imposing office with the aura of a captain's cabin. That feel of a mariner's room was subtly reinforced by the framed map of the China Seas that hung on the wall behind the massive antique desk at the far end of the room, a desk that failed to dwarf the man seated behind it, for all its size. Malcom rose from his chair as Flame approached, the tap of her heels muffled by the heavy Persian rug.

“As usual, you look lovely, Flame.” His gray glance ran over her in swift appraisal. “I especially like that suit you're wearing.”

“You should.” Smiling, she briefly lifted a hand in a model's gesture to show off the Adolfo suit of turquoise-blue knit. “It's from your fourth floor.”

He smiled back, the cleft in his chin deepening. “I always knew you were a woman of discriminating taste.” His look was covetous, revealing his desire to add her to his list of possessions.

Seeing it, Flame kept her smile in place and murmured a deliberate, “
Very
discriminating, Malcom,…in all things.” She set the leather portfolio onto the seat of the stiff-backed chair in front of his desk. “Shall we go over these changes before lunch?” Assuming his agreement, she started to unfasten the metal clasp.

“Has Harrison approved them?” he asked, referring to his marketing director.

She nodded affirmatively. “I went over them with him last Thursday.”

“Then there's no need for me to look at them. If he's satisfied, so am I.”

His reply was unexpected. In the past, Flame had always gone over such things with him, however minor they might be. It had been a means of maintaining the guise that these were business luncheons, even though she'd known all along that business had nothing to do with his desire for her company. This change to something openly social, something personal—what did it mean? She wasn't sure. Perhaps an increase of pressure from him to coerce her into a more intimate relationship.

Inwardly she was on guard, but outwardly she retained her easy smile as she relatched the case with a decisive click. “If you don't want to see them, that's fine with me, Malcom.” Turning to him, she let her smile deepen. “I never argue with a client.”

“That's very wise, Flame.” His gray eyes were thorough in their close study of her. “Because the customer is always right. And if you don't believe that, try doing without him.”

Was that a threat? It certainly had the sound of one, but the warm light in his eyes seemed to deny that. Flame chose to regard it as nothing more than a clever rejoinder.

“You should include that in your next company newsletter as a proverb by Powell. Coming from the CEO, it would definitely make good copy.”

“I might do that.”

“You should.” She paused to pick up her leather case. “So, where are we going for lunch today? You haven't said.”

“We aren't.” He came around the desk to stand before her. “We're going to eat here. I decided it was time I made use of my private dining room for something other than dry and boring business luncheons. Do you mind?”

“Of course not.” Flame didn't allow the faintest glimmer of misgivings to show, even though this was the first time she would be lunching with him somewhere other than a public place. “At least we shouldn't have any reason to complain about the service today.”

“Or the food, I hope,” Malcom added, a glitter of rare humor in his look.

“With a chef as superb as yours is reported to be, I'm sure we won't have to live on bread alone.”

“Shall we find out?”

Taking her by the arm, he ushered Flame into the anteroom he'd converted into a private dining room at a rumored cost of fifty thousand dollars, although it was too tastefully done to show. The wood-paneled splendor of his office was repeated in the anteroom. This time the decor's nautical feel was reinforced by a massive oil painting—of a China clipper ship running before a sea storm—that hung above the Edwardian side table.

Irish linen covered the small round table in the center of the room, its leaves removed to more comfortably accommodate a party of two. But no candles gleamed and no roses bloomed from crystal vases, and the brass chandelier overhead was turned to full bright, eliminating any suggestion of romantic intimacy. Noting that, Flame breathed a little easier.

As soon as they were seated, a waiter opened a bottle of wine. Malcom waved aside the presentation of the cork and the offer to sample the wine, gesturing instead for the waiter to fill both glasses with the bottle's deep red wine. Malcom lifted his glass to her in a typically silent salute, then waited, watching as Flame sipped from hers.

“A cabernet,” she said with approval.

“Do you like it?” The tone of his question implied that if it didn't meet with her approval, they'd have something else.

“It's excellent.” Although many considered it fashionable to drink only the dry white wines, Flame had always preferred the full-bodied taste of a good red.