Stephanie Doyle - One Final Step

“Did you hear me?”

Michael lifted his gaze.

“I said what you’re asking for won’t be easy. Your reputation has been very firmly established in the American media as a playboy. Someone who builds fast cars and dates…”

“Fast women?”

“I was going to say well-known actresses. I would never speculate on a woman’s sexual proclivities because she happens to be pretty.”

No, Michael thought. You wouldn’t.

“You’re known for your flair and style,” she continued. “Not for your substance, Mr. Langdon. I’m sorry to be so blunt.”

“No, please. It’s why I brought you here. I need you to fix me. I need you to help me show my substance to the world—otherwise when I talk about this design to the media they won’t listen. I need them to listen. My competitors, other industry leaders, and I suspect maybe even the government, will all want to know the potential of what I have to offer.”

“You’re talking about an electric car. It’s not the first of its kind. You’re going to have to give me more than that if you want to convince me.”

“More than that? It’s not enough that I’m willing to pay you?”

Again the eyebrow rose nearly into the center of her forehead. How did she do that and why did it make him feel half his size?

“I don’t need money, Mr. Langdon. The work I do currently for Ben pays my bills sufficiently. You’re asking me to remake you. To create a new story for you. Something I haven’t done in a long time, but the last time I did do it, that man became president. If you want to convince me to take you on, I’m going to have to believe in what you’re doing. More importantly, I’m going to have to believe in you.”

Yes, he thought. He wanted that. He wanted this woman to believe in him, although for the life of him he couldn’t figure out why that was important.

“Okay, first of all, I’m not talking about just an electric car. My design will not only be affordable but will have a much higher sustained energy output, and can be built with the factories we have now. I’m talking about a fully integrated computer that can make real-time driving decisions. I’m talking about no more accidents.” He paused for a breath, feeling the excitement he always did when he started talking about his baby.

“Go on.”

“I’m talking about a car that can drive itself. And I can do it cheaper than anyone else. Which means bringing a product to the masses within the next two to five years. Other companies trying to accomplish the same thing are projecting seven to ten years. I’m talking about the future, only making that future happen today.”

He waited while she considered him for a time. “You are certainly very passionate about this, Mr. Langdon.”

“I’m very passionate about a great many things, Ms. Kane.”

She didn’t like that. He could see it right away in her face. He hadn’t intended the sexual innuendo, but it was there, and instantly her body reacted by tightening subtly.

“My project and helping the environment—”

“Partying, women, scandals.”

He wasn’t going to defend nor explain his behavior. “Look, are you going to take the job or not?”

“We still have more to discuss. First, what do you envision I will do for you?”

Impatiently Michael leaned back in his chair. It had been a while since he’d been in a position other than complete and total power. Finding himself on the other side of the coin was surprisingly…uncomfortable. Yet he needed this woman, so she controlled the shots.

He didn’t like it and part of him wanted to escort her contained and cool self to the door. However, the idea of watching her leave didn’t sit well with him, either. Which was ridiculous. Of course she had to leave.

“I guess you would do what you do best. Rebuild my image, create a persona the media will respond to, send the message to the world about who I am and what I’m about. Give me direction on how I go about interacting with the public and the media. Isn’t that what you did for…him?”

Michael shouldn’t have added the emphasis on the last word. It had been a jab at her for making him feel weaker than he was. She was already reaching for the briefcase she’d set down next to her chair.

“Sorry,” he said before she could stand. “I don’t play games. Not in business. You’re one of the most talented political handlers in the world. That’s why I want you. To remake my image. To get me elected—if not by the people then by my peers, the people who judge me.”

“I was a political handler. Now I write position papers for political action committees that contract with the Tyler Group. You don’t need a thesis from me. You need someone who would work closely with you to reshape your image. That means event planning, cultivating certain media contacts and any number of other tasks.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “That can’t be you?”

She looked around his office. He knew she saw money in the furniture, in the artwork. Detroit wasn’t necessarily a city known for elegance and riches, but it was his home—always had been, even when he lived overseas. When he’d decided to start his own company there wasn’t even a question about doing so here, but that didn’t mean he was coming back to the Detroit he knew as a kid. His new Detroit was filled with all the things his money could buy.

“You said it wasn’t about the money, but I’ll pay anything Ben demands,” he said. But she already knew that money was not an issue.

No response. It agitated him.

“I’ll do everything you say,” he offered. “Within reason, of course.”

Still he could see her mulling it over in that big brain of hers.

“Not for nothing, but I would think you get sick of writing papers all day. Don’t you want to get back to doing what you love? You’re a kingmaker, for crying out loud. Not a research-policy wonk.”

That played. Her eyes lit up. “Can you give me until tomorrow to consider your offer?”

This time she was asking his permission. This he preferred. “Of course. Can I ask what your reservations are?”

“Truthfully?”

“I think I was very truthful with you just now.”

“You’re a man who spends his life in the spotlight. You have been since you won your first Formula One race. The spotlight is not something I’m…comfortable with. If I accept your offer—and that is a decidedly big ‘if’—you have to understand that all my guidance and direction will be behind the scenes.”

“I don’t care about what happened with you and him,” he offered.

“I don’t discuss what happened. Ever. I’m simply giving you my working parameters.”

“But you’ll stay here. In Detroit. With me.”

She seemed to consider that deeply, as if she just realized what her commitment would mean. “Yes. But the only people who would know about my involvement are myself, Ben and anyone you consider essential. I draw these lines not only for my protection but for yours. Your image might not be helped if people knew I was working with you.”

“For me,” he corrected. “You would be working for me. I want to make sure you understand that. I’ll do whatever you say that makes sense. But I’m not some puppet blindly taking orders.”

She tilted her head slightly to the right as if scrutinizing him. As though she was Dr. Frankenstein and was coldly, clinically wondering if he had any potential as a monster.

“I’ll call you first thing in the morning.”

“I look forward to it.” He stood and stretched out his hand. She accepted it as she stood. Her grasp was firm and strong and brief.

Too brief. He didn’t know if it was him, or whether letting go so fast was something she’d trained herself to do. He only knew he missed her touch when it was gone.