Sandra Brown: Play Dirty

What was being said downstairs in the library? Not knowing was driving her mad, but Foster had insisted on meeting with Burkett alone.

“Let me test the waters,” he’d said. “Once I get a sense of him, I’ll ask you to join us.”

“And if your sense of him isn’t good, if you don’t think he’s suitable, then what?”

“Then I’ll send him on his way, and you will have been spared an awkward and unproductive interview.”

His plan made sense, she supposed. But it wasn’t in her nature to delegate decision making. Certainly not on something this important. Not even to her husband.

Of course, if she and Foster weren’t in complete accord about Griff Burkett’s suitability, he would be rejected. Nevertheless, she hated to miss seeing his initial reaction to their proposal and gauging that reaction for herself. How he reacted would tell a lot about him.

She looked across at the closed door and, for a moment, considered going downstairs and presenting herself. But that would violate Foster’s careful planning. He wouldn’t welcome the interruption to his schedule.

The pacing was only making her more agitated. She returned to her desk chair, reclined in it, closed her eyes, and utilized relaxation techniques she had taught herself while still a university student. After going days without a break from her studies, when her head was so packed full of information it couldn’t tolerate any more, she would force herself to lie down, close her eyes, do her deep breathing exercises, and rest, if not sleep. Practicing the technique helped. If nothing else, it slowed her down, made her admit to the limitations of mind and body.

Difficult as it was for her to accept, right now there was nothing she could do but wait.

As her agitation gradually abated, her thoughts drifted back to the events and circumstances that had brought her to this point in her life, to this day and hour, to hiring a total stranger to make a baby with her.

It had begun with the color of the uniforms…

Headlines on the business pages had blared the news when Foster Speakman, last in line of the prominent Dallas family who’d been made wealthy by oil and gas, bought the distressed SunSouth Airlines.

For years the mismanaged airline had been teetering on the brink of total collapse. It had suffered a lengthy pilots’ strike, followed by a blistering media exposé on its slipshod maintenance practices; then a disastrous crash took fifty-seven lives. Declaring bankruptcy had been the airline’s final hope of recovery, but unfortunately that last gasp hadn’t saved it.

Everyone thought the Speakman heir was insane when he spent a huge chunk of his fortune to buy the airline. For days the story dominated local business news: COSTLY HOBBY FOR MILLIONAIRE? SUNSOUTH’S SALVATION, SPEAKMAN’S RUIN? The acquisition was even mentioned with mild derision on national broadcasts. It was implied that yet another rich Texan had gone and done something crazy.

Foster Speakman further surprised everyone by immediately grounding the airplanes, laying off thousands of employees with a promise to rehire them once he’d had time to conduct a thorough analysis of the airline’s situation. He closed the doors to all media, telling frustrated reporters that they would be notified when he had something newsworthy to tell them.

In the ensuing months, Foster sequestered himself with financial and operational experts and advisers. Upper-echelon executives of the old regime were given the option to retire early with fair retirement packages. Those who didn’t opt to do so were fired outright.

The firings weren’t vindictive, only sound business acumen. Foster had a vision, but he also realized that, in order to bring it about, he would need people around him with knowledge equal to or greater than his. With his enthusiasm, charisma, and seemingly bottomless bank account, he lured the best in the industry away from cushy positions with other airlines.

Almost three months after taking over, Foster called all the new department heads together for the first of many roundtable discussions. Laura was there, representing the flight attendants. It was at that meeting she saw the man in charge for the first time.

She knew what he looked like from all the media coverage he had received, but photographs and television images had failed to capture his crackling vitality. Energy radiated from him like an electric aura.

He was lean, handsome, confident, personable. He strode into the conference room dressed in a perfectly tailored pin-striped suit, soft gray shirt, conservative tie. But soon after the meeting was called to order, he removed his double-breasted jacket, draped it over the back of his chair, loosened his tie, and literally rolled up his sleeves. By doing so, he indicated that he intended to do what needed to be done, that he didn’t consider himself above applying elbow grease, and that he expected the same work ethic from everyone in that room.

The date had been set for the airline to resume operation. It was circled in red on the large calendar placed on an easel where all could see. “Target date,” Foster announced happily. “Following our review of the budget, each of you will get a chance to tell me why I’m out of my mind and that there’s no way in hell we’ll make that deadline.”

Everyone chuckled as expected. The meeting commenced.

The new CFO-hired because he was a notorious penny-pincher who had won his reputation by saving an American auto manufacturer from going under-was asked to talk them through the proposed budget item by item.

In his monotonous drone, he went on uninterrupted for a full ten minutes, then said, “Flight attendant program, the allotment remains the same. Next is food and beverage. Now here-”

“Excuse me.”

The CFO raised his head and, looking over his reading glasses, surveyed the table to find the voice that had interrupted him. Laura raised her hand to identify herself. “Before moving on, this figure begs discussion.”

He lowered one bushy eyebrow into a near scowl. “What isn’t clear?”

“It’s perfectly clear,” she replied. “What needs discussion is how sorely underbudgeted this department is.”

“Everyone at this table thinks his department is underbudgeted.” He squinted at her, referred to the agenda for the meeting, and then squinted at her again. “Who are you, anyway?”

Before she had a chance to answer, Foster Speakman spoke from the head of the table. “Ladies and gentlemen, for those of you who haven’t met her, this is Ms. Laura Taylor.”

Her lips parted wordlessly. It came as a shock to her that Foster Speakman knew she existed.

The CFO removed his reading glasses and, after giving Laura a glance of consternation, asked Foster, “Where’s Hazel Cooper?”

He said, “Ms. Taylor, will you do the honors?”

She rose to the challenge, saying evenly, “Ms. Cooper tendered her resignation day before yesterday.”

“She did, that’s right,” came a voice on the other side of the table. The man was director of Human Resources. “I sent a blanket e-mail. Didn’t y’all get it?” His gaze swept around the table, but there was a unanimous shaking of heads. “Oh, well, Hazel took early retirement. Said as long as there was a major shake-up, she might just as well make the move now, ’cause she planned on retiring next year anyway. I asked Ms. Taylor to sit in for her until another director for the department can be hired.”

The CFO coughed behind his hand. “All well and good then. Once a new director is in place, I’ll take up the budget for that department with him.”

“Or her,” Foster said.

The CFO turned red-faced. “Of course, I was speaking generically.”

“As long as we’re here, let’s discuss the budget for this department,” Foster said.