With This Ring (34 page)

The startling blue of his eyes fascinated her. They were totally unexpected, an incongruity. His was a face that should have had brooding dark eyes, she thought.

He tapped his pencil against the desk and continued to study her thoughtfully. Claire's stomach muscles tensed under his unwavering scrutiny, and even though she sat quietly, not saying anything, she began to feel irritated rather than anxious. What was this? Intimidation by staring? Well, she thought, stiffening her backbone, she could play that game, too. She lifted her chin and stared back, even though there was still a trace of uneasiness under her bravado.

Soft chimes broke the silence, and her eyes were drawn to the onyx clock gracing the oak credenza behind him: 11:00.

Finally he said, "Miss Kendrick, I've been investigating your work."

Before she could formulate an answer to this surprising statement, there was a sharp rap on the door, followed by the sound of someone entering the room.

"Come on in, Tim," Callahan said. "Miss Kendrick, I've asked Tim Sutherland, my staff administrator, to sit in on our meeting."

Claire turned, watching as Tim Sutherland advanced into the room, stopping directly in front of her.

"No, don't get up," he said when she started to rise. After shaking her hand, he sat in one of the burgundy chairs facing her. "Sorry I'm a bit late." He smoothed back a stray lock of light brown hair. He was a stocky man who looked to be in his middle thirties. He had dark brown eyes and a pleasant looking, square face covered with freckles. Claire remembered having seen him in the halls.

"No problem," Nick Callahan said. Picking up a thin green folder from the center of his desk, he returned his attention to Claire and said, "This is your personnel file. I've studied it thoroughly, and I believe you're the ideal person for a special assignment I have in mind."

"An assignment?" What kind of assignment would warrant the president of the company and his right-hand man talking to her about it instead of Betty O'Neill, the director of Claire's department?

"You have an impressive background," Callahan continued, ignoring her question as he flipped open the folder and ran his index finger down a sheet of paper clipped inside her file. "Valedictorian of your high school graduating class, Jesse H. Jones scholarship, summa cum laude graduate of the University of Texas, first-rate work with the Middleton Foundation, an outstanding portfolio..."

"Thank you," she murmured.

He looked up, his gaze direct and unblinking. "I read the article you wrote about Dr. Middleton, too. It was excellent." Turning to Tim Sutherland, he said, "You thought so, too, didn't you, Tim?"

Sutherland nodded. "Yes. It was very good." Sutherland didn't smile and his praise seemed almost reluctant.

Puzzled, Claire said, "Thank you, but I wrote that article years ago. How did you happen to see it, Mr. Callahan?"

"I have my sources."

Was that a glimmer of amusement in his eyes?

He closed the file and leaned back in his chair. "Miss Kendrick, I've been approached by
C.E.O.
magazine. They want to publish a profile on me."

Claire wasn't surprised that the magazine, one that had been giving
Forbes
and
Entrepreneur
a run for their money, was interested in featuring Nick Callahan. He'd made his first million before he was thirty, and Callahan, International—once a small construction company with a few dozen employees—now had over 20,000 employees worldwide. It was also a Fortune 500 company with a triple A Dun & Bradstreet rating. Claire had done some investigating herself before accepting the position with them three months ago. She'd had to. In her situation, she couldn't afford to make a mistake.

"I've told the
C.E.O.
people the only way I would consent to this story is if one of my own people wrote it." He paused for half a heartbeat. "That's where you come in."

"Me?" Claire could have kicked herself for not being able to hide her incredulity.

"Yes, you. I want you to write the story."

"Why?"

He gave her a startled look, which he quickly disguised. "Why not?" he countered.

Confused by his reaction but trying not to show it, she ticked off the reasons. "All my training and experience are in public relations. I write great press releases and copy for brochures—that kind of thing—but I have no experience doing personal interviews or in-depth features for magazines."

"Exactly what I told him," Tim Sutherland interjected.

"You did the one on Dr. Middleton," Nick Callahan said, meeting her gaze and completely ignoring Sutherland's remark.

"That was different. Dr. Middleton is an old family friend. I did the story as a favor to him."

"Well, do this story as a favor to me."

As he spoke, lightning sizzled across the dark sky and the lights in the office flickered. For a moment Claire watched the storm outside as she searched for an appropriate rejoinder. When her gaze returned to his, her uneasiness intensified. She had a strong sense there was something Nick Callahan wasn't telling her. She told herself she was being silly, but the feeling refused to go away. Taking a deep breath, Claire said carefully, "Mr. Callahan, I'm flattered to be asked, but you and I both know I'm not the best person for this assignment."

"We disagree."

Claire glanced at Tim Sutherland. His eyes, which looked as if they should be warm and friendly to match his face, were anything but. In fact, they seemed cold and assessing, and their expression chilled Claire. It was obvious to her that Nick Callahan's use of the word
we
was a fabrication.

Perhaps he thought she was right for the job, but his administrator did not. Under the best of circumstances, an assignment like this would be a tremendous challenge. With Sutherland against her, she would be operating under a heavy disadvantage. What if she wasn't able to deliver the kind of article Nick Callahan wanted? She absolutely couldn't afford a screw-up. This job was too important to her. "Aren't the people at
C.E.O.
worried that a story by one of your employees would end up being just a puff piece?" she finally offered.

"It's not meant to be an expose, it's a profile," he said.

"Still—"

"They have no choice. If they want the story, they'll take you. If not . . ." He shrugged. "No story." Then he smiled, showing very white teeth which looked even whiter against the chiseled darkness of his face. If possible, the smile—which should have put her at ease with him—made her even more uncomfortable. There was something almost predatory in its mocking charm. He darted a look at Tim Sutherland and said smoothly, "I know what I'm doing. Trust me."

Claire looked at Sutherland, too. He looked doubtful. She sighed, the sound lost in the rising wail of the wind outside. Resigned, she said, "When do I start?"

"How does tomorrow sound?" He stood. Tim Sutherland also got to his feet. They both looked down at her.

Although her insides were jumping, Claire stood without haste. When Nick Callahan extended his hand, she took it after only a moment's hesitation. His grip was firm but not crushing, and his hand felt smooth and warm. His vivid gaze held hers for a long moment, and Claire had a sudden absurd urge to turn and run.

"Do you have any objections to traveling?" He released her hand, but his electric-blue eyes remained fastened on her face.

With difficulty, Claire concentrated on the question. She thought about her mother. "Not as long as I don't have to be gone for extended periods. I have some personal obligations that would preclude a long trip."

"I'm talking about short trips—two or three days at most."

"No, that's not a problem."

"Good. For the duration of this assignment, you'll receive your daily instructions from Tim. However, as he'll be in Tulsa for the next two days, I'd like you to report to me tomorrow morning at nine. After a briefing, I'll expect you to attend a meeting with me at ten, then you'll join me for lunch." He reeled off the instructions quickly, all business. "Any questions?"

"No." What good would it do to give voice to them?

"All right. See you in the morning then."

Dismissed, she thought. She was totally confused. She knew she wasn't the best choice for this assignment. Why, in her own department alone, she could think of two others, including her supervisor, who were more qualified to write this story. But she also knew this assignment was a tremendous opportunity for her, and if she did it well, it might pave the way for more rapid promotion within the company. She'd probably been a fool to protest.

Turning, she walked rapidly out of the office. She looked neither right nor left as she entered the reception area, passed Wanda, and let herself out of the executive suite.

Riding down in the elevator, she rehashed the entire conversation in her mind. Throughout the interview, there had been undercurrents—undercurrents Claire hadn't understood. But one thing she
did
understand.

No matter what he said, Nick Callahan was hiding something from her.

To read the rest of the story,
click here
.

August—New York City

Michael Vellini stared at his father. "I wish you'd reconsider," he said slowly.

Victor returned his stare, dark eyes enigmatic behind his bifocals. "Why?"

Michael hesitated a moment, knowing his father wasn't going to like what he planned to say. "Look, Dad, going into a company and studying their books is one thing. Spying on employees to catch a crook is a completely different matter."

Victori Vellini tented his hands. "So you think I should just forget about the fact that someone's been stealing from the casino?"

"No, of course not." Agitated now, Michael paced over to the big corner window overlooking Fifth Avenue. Far below he saw dozens of yellow cabs jostling for position on the wide thoroughfare. He could almost hear the blare of their horns as they honked at pedestrians, who, in typical New Yorker fashion, ignored them.

In the distance Michael could see a gleaming jet banking in preparation for landing at LaGuardia. He sighed, turning to face his father, who had swiveled his chair around in Michael's direction. "But what I
am
saying is you should forget this cloak-and-dagger stuff. Turn the whole mess over to the cops and let them take care of it."

"No police." Victor's dark eyes, hard and unrelenting, looked like shiny black marbles in his tanned face.

Count to ten, Michael told himself, knowing that losing his temper would never work. The more Michael or anyone opposed him, the more Victor would dig in his heels.

Victor Vellini was a determined, single-minded man when it came to his businesses. Hell, when it came to anything. And he'd never lost that old-world Italian mentality handed down from his parents—a mentality that said, when we have trouble, we take care of it in our own way, with our own kind.

Michael shrugged. "Okay. No police. But there
are
agencies who specialize in this kind of thing.
Professionals.
In other words, people who know what they're doing.” His gaze met his father's, willing him to be reasonable. "Let's hire one of them."

"Michael, I don't know why you're so squeamish all of a sudden. It isn't like you haven't ever gone into one of my companies when there's been a problem."

"I know that," Michael said patiently, "but that's different. All those other times I've gone in as myself. Everyone knew, up front, that I was your son. This seems dishonest."

"Dishonest!
We're
not the ones stealing from the casino. How is it dishonest to try to catch someone who's taking what belongs to us?"

Michael met his father’s eyes squarely. "Let's put it this way. I don't want to do this."

"Are you refusing to do what I've asked?" Now Victor's voice was as hard as his eyes.

"I'm asking you to let me off the hook."

"And if I say no?"

Michael sighed in frustration. "Then maybe I'll just have to say no, too." Michael could be every bit as stubborn as his father. He'd learned from a master.

"Have you forgotten that you work for me?"

Michael suppressed a smile. "How could I forget? You remind me of it at least twice a week."

"I shouldn't have to remind you, Michael." Victor's voice sounded pained.

Michael threw up his hands. "I know, I know. I've heard it all so many times, I could repeat it in my sleep. All these years you've worked your tail off to leave something behind for your children. I should be grateful, willing to do anything my father asks. If I were a
loyal
son, I'd—"

"It's a sad day when a son shows such disrespect to his father," Victor said, interrupting Michael's exasperated speech. "In the old days, no son would ever speak to his father in such a way." Victor shook his head sadly. "My father would turn over in his grave if he could hear you."

"All we need now are violins," Michael muttered under his breath.
Don't lose your temper. Count to twenty, take a deep breath, and answer him calmly.

Michael walked around to the front of his father's desk, and sank into one of the two Italian leather chairs. He stretched his long legs out in front of him and studied his father.

Victor didn't look his sixty-nine years. Any stranger seeing him on the street would think he was in his late fifties, at most. He was tanned and fit, his thick hair still retaining its dark brown color. A man of average height, he was compactly built, with the physique of a laborer, although Victor's labors had been intellectual rather than physical.

Michael admired and respected his father for what he had accomplished. From humble beginnings he'd become a very wealthy man.

Everyone said Victor Vellini had the Midas touch, both professionally and personally. But a few short years ago his luck changed. His beloved wife—and Michael’s mother—Rosalie, had been diagnosed with breast cancer. The diagnosis came too late to save her. Six months later she was dead.