Muriel Jensen - His Baby

Except for Jack’s tendency to treat him like royalty.

The coffee was good—a Zimbabwe blend his secretary, Barbara Garrett, had bought at a little coffee roaster’s on the ground floor of the Abbott Building. The personnel report was good—one more thing he wouldn’t have to worry about in the next few months. And the sun warming his back through his midtown Manhattan window was good, reminding him how nice getting home this weekend, maybe logging some time on the beach, would be.

Jack sighed, obviously pleased. “I’m glad that’s over, sir. Mr. Abbott.”

“But you have to stop thinking of coming to this office as an appearance before the throne. We’re a pretty democratic company.

“Here we all work together in the service of our customers, so to speak. You’ll relax after you’ve spent time with everyone at our annual meeting.”

Jack looked doubtful. “I was told it’s at your home on Long Island this year. Is that true?”

“Yes. We usually get together at a big hotel to meet new members of the staff, look over Abbott Mills’s new products and plan strategy for next year. Last year was great for Abbott Mills and I want everyone to know how much I appreciate the hard work. You’ll give your report to the corporate staff and I think you’ll have a good time.”

“I will?” Jack’s voice went up an octave.

“You will. You did this very well. You’ll be fine. Everyone will stay for the weekend, enjoy the grounds and the beach. It’s a painless way to get things done.”

“Yes. Mr. Abbott.”

Killian took the copy of Jack’s report and perused it. “Anything else I should know about?”

“I don’t think so, sir. The written report has a little more detail, but it all relates to the highlights I’ve already given you. The personnel picture is very good.”

Killian nodded, flipping through the pages. He stopped when he came to the profile of the new employee in women’s wear. She’d been a lucky find, so Jack had told him when he’d hired her as a buyer. She had an MBA and considerable experience in the fashion business. Jack had been enthusiastic about her people skills and her knowledge of—Oh, God!

Killian’s hands froze on the report when his eyes ran over her previous experience. Buyer for Bloomford’s department stores. Three years as marketing manager for Hyatt Furniture in Newport News, Virginia.

Hyatt Furniture!

Three years modeling for…André McGinty!

Dread rising in him, he reread the vital identifying information.

Name: Cordelia Hyatt.

Killian surged to his feet and said a few words Jack had probably not heard among the English gentry, judging by his sudden blanching. Killian slapped the report on his desk and turned to confront Jack, unable to believe the man had done this to him. He was not surprised to find that Jack, too, had gotten to his feet.

“What, sir?” Jack asked in a calm voice. “What is it? Whatever it is, I can fix it.”

“You damn well better, Jack,” Killian replied, temper barely held in check. “You just hired my wife!”

Jack stared at him for a confused moment. “You mean…the one you’re…divorcing?”

“Yes, the one I’m divorcing!” Killian shouted. Then, remembering that he never shouted, he drew a breath and counted ten beats of his heart. That didn’t take long; it was thumping. “How many wives do I have?” he asked reasonably. “Cordelia Hyatt is my wife.”

“Forgive me, sir, but I didn’t know that.” Jack spoke quietly, though he appeared distressed. “When I was first hired, I’d heard rumors of your divorce after only three months, but I didn’t know…I mean…I’d heard your wife was in Scotland. Brokenhearted, everyone said.”

Brokenhearted. Killian glared at him. She had not been brokenhearted. She was just used to having things her way and she’d wanted him very badly. Losing him had simply been a disappointment. One she should have anticipated when she slept with Brian Girard, marketing manager of the November Corporation and son of Corbin Girard, its CEO.

The Girards and the Abbotts had been in serious competition for the upscale ready-to-wear market for years, and Killian’s father and Corbin Girard had hated each other. Killian and Brian had always felt obliged to suspect each other because of that situation. That the press and society put them in opposite corners of the business ring contributed to their contentiousness.

The Girards had been threatening a takeover of Abbott Mills for several years now, and though Killian felt confident that the corporation was too secure for that to happen, the weight of responsibility for a business that had been in his family for over two hundred years made him worry anyway.

Jack squared his shoulders under Killian’s stare. “That’s what they said,” he insisted. “How was I to suspect she’d be back wanting employment? And you must admit that this trend among American women to retain their maiden name contributes to this kind of confusion.”

Killian had to grant him that. He went to the bar behind his desk, ignored the coffeepot and poured himself a shot of bourbon. “She did take my name,” he said, gulping it down. It burned a trail down to his stomach but failed to provide the warming comfort he waited for. He had to acknowledge that it probably wasn’t coming. And he had a meeting with his advertising rep in half an hour; he couldn’t have a second drink. “I’m sure she took advantage of the fact that you were new to the company and wouldn’t recognize her if she used her maiden name.”

Jack asked quietly, “What do you want me to do, sir?”

There was only one answer to that question. “I want you to terminate her.”

Jack stared at him a moment, then cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Mr. Abbott, but you sounded a little like Tony Soprano there. Please define terminate.”

Killian looked into the man’s eyes, wondering if he really doubted what he meant or if he was trying to inject a little humor into a tense situation. “Don’t kill her, Jack,” he replied gravely. “Just fire her.”

“On what grounds, sir? I understand she’s already struck a rapport with her staff and everyone they work with. She’s booked at all the shows for the fall season. Trilby says there’s a renewed dedication among the—”

Killian stopped him with a shake of his head. Trilby Brown was Jack’s assistant and had been with Abbott Mills for seven of her twenty-seven years. She and Cordie had mutual friends and had known each other before Killian had met Cordie. “Trilby knows she was my wife,” he accused. “And she didn’t tell you?”

Jack shook his head and firmed his jaw. “She didn’t, sir. In her defense I can only guess she thought you knew and approved of the hire.”

Killian gave him a pitying look. “Tell me you don’t really believe that.”

Jack sighed. “I’m not sure, sir. There seems to be a cunning charm among American women that’s outside my sheltered experience.”

“Yeah.” Killian put an arm around Jack’s shoulders and led him toward the door. “Mine, too. On second thought, it isn’t fair to ask you to handle this. I’ll take care of it myself.”

“But, it’s my responsi—”

“No.” Killian cut him off firmly. “Cordie is my responsibility. I’ll handle her.”

Now Jack gave him a pitying look.

CORDELIA MAGNOLIA HYATT Abbott wielded the nozzle of a clothing steamer in the back room of the women’s wear department of the Abbott chain’s flagship store on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, just a few blocks from the Abbott Building. She was surrounded by tops and pants in tangerine, limeade, sunshine and summer blue. The playful garments in cotton-candy colors had been shipped tightly packed and now required touching up before they could be put out on the sales floor.