When Empires Fall (11 page)

“Love you too, Ma.” Quinn smiled, her heart aching a bit as she heard the phone shifted and jostled over to where her father, most likely at that very moment, was resting comfortably in his favorite recliner, well worn and filled with the scent of Old Spice, flour and marinara sauce. She suddenly wished for the times long ago when she would curl up in his lap on that very chair and listen to him tell her stories of the old country, where he had spent only the first few years of his life. It was magic to her, the sound of his voice, and the love she had for him knew absolutely no bounds.

And talking to him now, hearing the pride in his voice as he congratulated her on her new job, reminded her of how important it was for her to be successful. Her parents had worked endless hours at their restaurant, night and day, in order to provide a better life for her and her siblings. They all owed it to them to make something of themselves, and as the oldest, she figured she had better set the example. Even if, at twenty-six, she was getting somewhat of a late start. But hey, better late than never, she figured. It had taken awhile to save up the money to go to school, and working full time while doing so had set her behind. But she was going to reach her goals now, as in her mind there was nothing to hold her back any longer.

Goddamnit, she was going to make her family proud.

Later, when she’d hung up the phone and nestled deeper into the tub, its water gone lukewarm and her wine nearly empty, Quinn let her thoughts drift back to her new job, and the family she was now working for.

Was the Vasser family as tight knit as her own? Did her new boss call his mother and father on the phone simply to discuss the day, or the weather, or any range of nonsense she found herself talking with her parents about? And were his parents proud of him, for all of the effort he put into the legacy he’d inherited? Did they tell him as much?

For his sake, she sincerely hoped that they did.

When Grant opened
the email from his mother, he grimaced and let out an impatient huff of breath. Here it was, just after six o’clock in the morning, and already his mother was asking for money.

It was so unbelievably typical that he wondered why he was even partly surprised. The woman was the only other person alive that seemed to be up and about as early as he was every morning, and money seemed to be the only reason she or anyone else in his family ever came to him anymore.

While he knew that wasn’t
exactly
true, it still felt good to write it off that way and be deservedly crabby about it. He was only human, after all, and allowed to be grumpy when he wanted to be.

Clicking on the email to reply, he started typing out an explanation on why his mother’s fundraiser did not deserve an inordinate amount of his time, effort, and money, and that it was her project and that maybe she should consider getting the funds to pay the caterers, florist, band, etc. from her personal accounts. Money was dumped promptly every month into her account from the divorce, so why in God’s name she couldn’t use
that
cash…

He stopped mid-sentence, already feeling bad and a little bit guilty. Despite how irritating and self-important she could be sometimes, she was still his mother, and he certainly didn’t have a reason to be so crass with her. It wasn’t as though she was asking for money to go buy a new diamond necklace or something ridiculous. She just wanted some cash to put towards the basics needed for the fundraiser, which was being hosted by the Vasser Hotel. As general manager, perhaps it
was
his responsibility to see that some funds were thrown at the event despite how little he cared about it. Not to mention the fundraiser was for his mother’s breast cancer charity, a disease that he knew full well both of his grandmothers had died from.

Damnit, he really was being an asshole.

With a frustrated grunt, he hit the backspace button and erased what he had typed, promptly replacing it with:
You have a budget of $20k. No more than that.

Content with his more than reasonable figure, Grant sent off the email and sat back in his chair, rubbing his face in his hands.

Coffee. He needed coffee the way a dying man needed salvation.

Getting to his feet, he stalked over to the Keurig coffee maker he kept on the counter in the small kitchenette in his office, punching the button to get the water hot as he opened the lid and dropped in a new coffee filter cup. Without even glancing at what flavor he was brewing, he shut the lid and grabbed a mug, setting it below the dispenser and pressing the brew button.

Hot coffee poured out in a tedious dribble into the mug. He stared at it stiffly as he waited, tapping his foot impatiently. It was still faster than brewing a whole pot of coffee, but, damnit, he really didn’t like waiting for things. He wasn’t necessarily an impatient man, but lately a whole host of pretty normal things had been trying his patience.

It was stress that caused it, he knew that much. He was overworked, running on fumes, more irritable and bitter than normal. And that was saying something, as his usual personality ran on the irritable and bitter side more often than not.

When the coffee finally finished, he yanked out the mug and drank it straight up, ignoring the heat and urging the caffeine to do its job. The day was just starting and he had work to do.

So he settled into his office chair and jumped in headfirst.

A few hours passed and he found himself much in the same spot he’d been in all morning, at his desk on the computer, but fortunately he’d accomplished quite a bit already. That joyful fact put him in a much better mood, and the energy he’d procured from the coffee was in full swing.

He shot a glance out of the window, allowing himself a moment’s break, and admired the sunlight that glittered off the buildings and the snow covered streets below.

There really was nothing like winter in New York. It was cold, mean, and at times deadly. But there was something to be said about the way the morning sun hit freshly fallen snow, exploding out in a flash of diamond-like brilliance. The first time he’d seen it, really seen it, it had taken his breath away.

A brisk knock on his office door had him jolting from his thoughts, feeling self-conscious to have even thought them.

“Come in,” he called out, reaching over to lift his coffee mug up to his lips to mask his embarrassment. He’d brewed a second fresh cup only minutes before and the scent of it still hung heavy in the air.

The door opened and Quinn peered in, looking exceptionally bright and cheerful, her smile warm as a sunbeam.

“Good morning!” she greeted, stepping forward a bit more so he caught a glimpse of the belted snow-white sweater dress she wore over freshly ironed gray slacks.

He blinked, for a moment caught off guard by thoughts of morning sun and snow, and the woman standing before him. Clearing his throat, he tried what he hoped resembled a smile.

“Good morning.”

“I just wanted to let you know that I’m here and to ask if you need anything.” She grinned again, but this time her eyes seemed to sharpen a bit and she sniffed at the air, glancing around his office until she found the source of the smell. “Oh. That coffee smells delicious! I just love the smell of hazelnut and cinnamon in the morning. Don’t you?”

Grant blinked again and stared down into his coffee mug, frowning. “I suppose…”

Quinn stepped further into the room, placing her hands on her hips as she did so. “I mean, I guess it’s my sweet tooth talking, but I adore a rich cup of hot caramel or vanilla or chocolate flavored espresso in the morning. If I’m being honest, I’m kind of a coffee snob, but maybe that’s just because I have an innate appreciation for any and all things food related. It comes from being Sicilian, I guess.”

Grant looked up at her, shaking his head in dull bewilderment. Really, he should be annoyed, but he was more stunned by how swiftly she’d come in and steamrolled him with small talk in his own office. Unsure what else to do, he warily held up his mug. “Do you want some?”

“Oh, no, thanks.” Quinn smiled with a quick laugh. “I don’t know if you can tell, but I’ve had plenty of caffeine for the day.”

“I had no idea,” he replied dryly, recovering from his initial reaction and setting his mug down, shuffling through some of the papers on his desk. He unearthed the one he was looking for and held it out for her to take. “I need you to send my cousin Sophie a bouquet of flowers; it’s her birthday. The address to send it to is on that sheet, along with a list of her favorite flowers. Just have the florist in Paris make up an arrangement of whatever is available of those.”

“Paris?” Quinn read the address on the sheet of paper, taken aback.

“They speak perfect English, so there shouldn’t be any problems.”

“Great, okay.” She smiled again, nodding at him. “You can count on me.”

“Good.” Grant turned back to his computer in a gesture that was noticeably dismissive. Quinn cast her eyes down and started to leave the room before a sudden thought occurred to her. It was a gamble, but hey, she had to start somewhere, right? She turned around to face him again, hoping she wasn’t about to overstep any bounds.

“I noticed yesterday that you didn’t get anything to eat for lunch, and I’m sure that you probably bring food or whatever, but just so you know I have plenty of fresh al dente penne pasta with my homemade vodka sauce. So if you want any, let me know.”

He shot a disconcerted look at her, unsure of how to respond. She was offering him lunch?

“I have something to eat,” he responded, his tone of voice a bit more grouchy than he meant it to be, which he realized when he noticed the brief look of disappointment in her eyes. It was just so strange to offer food to someone who was basically still a stranger. Besides, the woman clearly was oblivious to his usual “leave me alone” signals; she just kept talking, when all he wanted to do was get back to being by himself.

“Okay, well, I’ll save some in case you change your mind.” Quinn nodded to him as she left the office and shut the door, feeling more than a little stupid. Well, it hadn’t hurt to ask, she reminded herself as she took a seat at her desk, thrumming her fingers on its surface as she stared at the paper he’d given her. After all, if she was eventually going to somehow get a job as a chef at the hotel, she had to get the word out that she could cook. Being the general manager and within such close proximity, he was the best candidate. But it appeared that all she had done was make him a little uncomfortable and maybe even annoyed, which either meant he just really didn’t like talking to people or he really didn’t like talking to
her
. Pursing her lips, she considered that for a moment, sincerely hoping it wasn’t the latter.

She didn’t think she had ever really run across someone who truly disliked her before. But, then again, there was a first time for everything.

It was right
around lunchtime when he got the phone call from the hotel’s lawyer, Sam Rubenstein, requesting an impromptu meeting to discuss his father’s request for an increase in his monthly allowance. Normally it would have been something Grant would have simply handled over the phone, but apparently there were critical “documents” that he had to see in person, which could possibly influence his decision on whether or not to agree to granting his father that increase in cash. While in the past Marshall would have dealt with something of this degree, considering that Win was his brother and in a way more his responsibility than Grant’s, Grant knew that Marshall had a soft side that could be played if the right words were spoken or the right tale weaved.