Jane stirred, stretched like a kitten, and enjoyed the luxury of satin caressing her bare skin. She rolled onto her side and gathered the pillows into a soft mound so that she could bury her face. Then she pulled her knees up to her chest, settled into the cozy quiet of the womb, and sighed with content. Wherever she was, she planned on staying for the full term.
Where was she? The question perplexed her for a moment because this certainly wasn’t her bed and she generally slept in at least a T-shirt. Now she was naked, rolled up in a ball, and floating in what seemed to be a pond of rosewater. Was it possible that she had died and gone to heaven?
Probably not, because she could hear traffic noises—revving engines, high-pitched horns, and rumbling trucks. All strange sounds, recognizable even though they weren’t the sounds she was used to hearing. She blinked an eye open and saw a cream-colored cascade of bedspread, beautiful but certainly not hers. She was in someone else’s bed!
She sat bolt upright, her eyes suddenly wide-open. The room was huge, with towering walls that disappeared into the darkness. There was only one streak of light that pushed between the drapes, falling across an intricate pattern of an Oriental rug. It was just enough to illuminate the corner of the footboard so that she could make out the carved fleur-de-lis and the gold detailing on the off-white panel. Paris, she remembered. She had fallen asleep in Paris.
Jane bounded out of bed and ran to the window, poking her face into the split of the drapes. Through a huge French door, and over the rail of an iron balcony, she saw a wide boulevard with a center divide. Traffic whizzed in both directions, oblivious of the clusters of pedestrians who risked their lives in timing the space between cars. Across the street was a row of white granite town houses with storefronts at street level. Cartier, Chanel, and Ferragamo were among the discreet signs.
“Paris,” she said with a sigh. She teased the drapes open a bit so that she could get a better look. “Damn,” she said, suddenly wheeling away from the window. The streets were full. What time was it? What time was her flight? She saw the clock on her night table— 9:15. The sun was out, so it must still be morning. And what had Robert Leavitt said about the first flight back to the States being in the afternoon? She caught her breath. She hadn’t overslept. But what were the arrangements? Did she have a ticket? Was she being picked up, or was she supposed to make her own way to the airport?
She remembered her parting scene with William Andrews in the aisle of his private jet. Oh, Jesus, what had gotten into her? Why hadn’t she just stepped out of his way and kept her mouth shut? What had she called him? She was grateful that she couldn’t remember. She knew it was something spiteful and insulting, but it was easier to remember that she had been just a bit intemperate. In the car she had suggested to Robert Leavitt that her days with Andrews Global Network were probably numbered and that the number more than likely was one. Maybe she had already been terminated, in which case there might not be a ticket or a limo to the airport.
But if they had dumped her, they had certainly let her fall into luxury. The room might have been a ballroom with its fabric-covered walls, crown moldings, and intricately worked plaster cornices. The ceiling, visible as soon as she turned on the three-tiered crystal chandelier, was a blue sky with puffy clouds supporting cherubs who flew out of the corners. Two decorated armoires flanked the double doors to the next room.
She eased open the double doors and blinked into the glare of sunlight coming through another set of French doors. The sitting room was sumptuous, a backdrop against which Empress Josephine might have received admirers. The walls were a brocaded fabric framed in gilded moldings. Paintings—a Loire landscape and two portraits of long-dead gentlemen—were hung. A chandelier, like the one in the bedroom but much larger, hung over two French Victorian sofas that faced each other over an inlaid table. There was a mantel at the far end serving as backdrop to an arrangement of Empire chairs. Jane wandered in, her jaw dropping just a bit, and spun around slowly to take it all in. “Not your typical Holiday Inn,” she said to herself. “Where in God’s name am I?” The answer came instantly: in front of an open window without a stitch of clothing on.
Her clothes, Jane remembered, were in one of the armoires. She slunk back into the privacy of the bedroom, took the clothes off the shelf, and laid them out on the bed, her suit and blouse, panty hose, half-slip, bra, and panties. Then she went into the bathroom, hoping to find enough shampoo and scented soap for a decent shower, and maybe a hot radiator or towel bar that would let her dry her underwear. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be able to rinse them out in the sink.
The telephone rang, a symphony of jingles coming from the suite’s four telephones, including one hanging next to the bathtub. Jane picked it up and answered in English. The response was also in English, flavored with a French accent. “Mademoiselle, there’s a gentleman here with a package for you. Some things for your trip.”
My tickets, she thought. “Oh thank, you. Could you have someone bring it up and slide it under the door.”
The operator chuckled. “I’m afraid it won’t fit under the door, Mademoiselle. There is … apparel.”
Great, Jane thought. They had bought her some traveling things. She wondered which of the executives had guessed her sizes, and figured it must have been Kim Annuzio. “Just leave it inside the door,” Jane answered. “I’m going to be in the shower.”
“Very well,” the woman’s voice said cheerily, and then she clicked off the line.
Jane looked around the bathroom, another room with high ceilings but with walls and floor of white tile. The huge tub, set on lion-paw feet, was ergonomically shaped with the back high and the foot low. It was placed away from the wall with its polished copper pipes completely exposed. A handheld showerhead was clamped to a vertical pole so that it could be slid up and down. There was no curtain. Overflow from the tub drained through a scupper in the center of the floor.
She moved the bottles of soaps and oils close to the tub, climbed in, and began experimenting with the valves and levers. When the water was delightfully hot, she routed it up to the showerhead and held the unit close to minimize the splashing. It felt so refreshing that she closed the drain and settled down so that the tub would fill around her. In just a few minutes she was slouched in water up to her chin, her hair in a lather of scented soap. She would have lingered much longer, but she still had no idea when her flight would be leaving. She stood to rinse under the shower and then stepped out onto wet tiles.
There were ivory white bath sheets hanging on the heated towel rack. Jane picked one of them up, draped it over her shoulders, and began drying her hair as she walked back into the bedroom.
“Ahem!” Someone cleared a throat. The sound had a low, masculine resonance.
She froze, realizing that the towel was bunched around her head and that she was pink and naked from the shoulders down. She lowered the towel until she was peeking over its top edge, out through the double doors, and into the sitting room. William Andrews was sitting in one of the chairs by the mantel, totally absorbed in the painting of one of the gentlemen.
“Mr. Andrews …” It was an involuntary gasp.
“Ms. Warren,” he answered, still making a point of not looking in her direction.
She wrapped the bath sheet around herself as she backed into the bathroom. Then she remembered that her clothes were out on the bed. Andrews had turned when she left the room, so he was looking right at her when she jumped back in to retrieve her underwear. She snatched up her things, dropped her panty hose, hesitated as to whether she should bend to pick them up, decided against it, and ran for cover, closing the door behind her.
“Damn!” she swore under her breath. He had ignored her and then dismissed her. Now he had come back to humiliate her. She looked at the opaque glass bathroom window and wondered if it opened and if she would fit through it. Plunging out to a swift death in an alley seemed less painful than going back to the sitting room.
There was a gentle knock on the door.
“Don’t come in!” she yelled. And when she realized how ridiculous that sounded, she called, “I’ll just be a minute,” in a much more controlled voice.
“There are a few things here that you might need,” Andrews said from behind the door.
Jane turned the handle and eased the door open. A shopping bag slipped in, hanging from his shirtsleeved arm. She snatched it away and closed the door so quickly that she nearly caught his fingers. Then she set the bag on the marble slab that framed the sink and looked in on several small store bags.
There was underwear—panties, bra, and slip, all edged with lace. They were a French brand, frivolously elegant and far more expensive than anything she would have bought for herself. Next she found a pale silk blouse with dressy cuffs and collar, and a pair of soft slacks, pleated and baggy. Farther down in the shopping bag were toothbrush, floss and toothpaste, comb and brush, and a complete assortment of designer cosmetics.
Jane rushed into the new underwear and brushed her teeth while combing her hair. Bad enough that the first time William Andrews had really noticed her she was a full frontal nude with a towel wrapped around her head. But now she had left him cooling his heels. But then she thought better of it. Why should she be so accommodating? The bastard had ignored her for a full day and then barged into her hotel suite without warning. He should be the one writhing with embarrassment for his social barbarism. He should be pacing anxiously as he rehearsed the words of a very appropriate apology. So let him wait. She put the hairbrush down and decided to follow her dentist’s detailed instructions for flossing her teeth.
When she was dressed, she spent a minute in front of the full-length mirror, tucking the blouse in just so and making another pass with the hairbrush. She turned for her final pose and was delighted with what she saw. Her permanent wave had survived the steamy shower and had fluffed up nicely. It looked attractive and even a bit risqué. The makeup base was just the right shade, adding a warm tone to her skin, which was usually too white. The eye shadow was subtle and the lipstick was bold. Someone—probably Kim—had noticed her coloring the evening before.
But what she enjoyed most was the look of the outfit, perfectly suited for a business day but equally appropriate for a casual lunch or even an elegant dinner. Generally, she didn’t pay a great deal of attention to her clothes. Her casual attire, and indeed most of her office clothes, were practical items taken from the rack at the Gap or Old Navy: tidy, trendy, comfortable, and washable. But these were fashionable, feminine, and even sexy. She was feeling almost confident when she opened the door and crossed into the sitting room. “There!” she announced. “I think this is a bit more appropriate for finally getting to meet you.”
“Appropriate, and very lovely,” he answered, standing and coming to her with his hand extended. The smile he greeted her with was wide and full of laughter. “I have several apologies to make,” he said. “For yesterday, last night, and then of course this morning. Where would you like me to begin?”
“Could we begin with a cup of coffee?” Jane replied. “My brain is used to several cups by this time, and it could shut down at any moment.”
“Sure. There’s a place down in the lobby.” He watched while she slipped into her heels, which made the outfit even more feminine. Then he opened the door and stepped back so that she could pass ahead of him.
The “place down in the lobby” turned out to be a dining room with tables adorned in white linen and glistening silver place settings. The waiter who greeted them might have been a field marshal in a Balkan monarchy. He wore fringed epaulets, brass buttons, and thick stripes of rank on his cuffs and poured claret-colored coffee from a silver pot. What a difference a day makes, Jane thought. This time yesterday she had been on her hands and knees wiping up coffee grounds with her T-shirt.
“My first apology,” Andrews began as he added hot milk, “has to do with yesterday. I kept thinking that there was only one more thing I had to do before we could sit down for your interview. But events kept cascading until we had to take off immediately if we wanted to beat the weather. And then all the issues that needed to be resolved had to be worked out during the flight. Our people are off right now making presentations that we firmed up in the middle of the night. Had I known we would never get a chance to talk, I wouldn’t have kept you waiting.”
Jane smiled. “No problem. I understand.” It did seem plausible, especially since he was taking the time to meet with her now.
“And then this morning, when we were getting off the plane, I was simply mad at myself. I bumped into you in the aisle and remembered that we were supposed to talk. I was furious that I had forgotten and left you hanging.”
Less plausible, she thought, and not very original for a lie that he had all morning to work on. But still, someone in his position didn’t even have to try for an apology.
“I was, as you put it, an ‘insensitive gorilla.’”
She blew a bubble in her coffee and lifted her eyes over the rim of the cup. He had quoted her accurately, but fortunately he seemed more amused than offended. “That’s where I owe you an apology,” Jane tried, but he held up a hand to cut her off.
“And then this morning. I knew you had no luggage, so I picked up a few things you might need.”
“Youpicked up a few things….” She was smiling skeptically.
“Yes, Ipicked up a few things. I have a reasonable knowledge of women’s apparel. I’m not a eunuch, you know.”
She knew he had been married, had two children, and had lost his wife tragically. But still she couldn’t picture the great William Andrews thumbing his way through a shelf of unmentionables.
“I had the desk clerk call, and when you said she should send them up, I thought I should bring them myself, make my apologies, and perhaps start our interview right then and there. I didn’t anticipate that…”
“I’d barge out of the shower without bothering with a robe.”
“I didn’t, but I certainly should have considered it. It’s been a long time since I lived … intimately. But I want to assure you that I did the gentlemanly thing. Instead of looking, I turned my back and made polite noises.”
Not very flattering, Jane decided. She was showing everything she had to offer and all he did was close his eyes and clear his throat. Not that she expected to be attacked, but he might at least have taken in what was there for the taking. She wasn’t a movie star or a fashion model, but she was young, firm, and nicely figured. The least he could have done was look!
“So, if you will consider my apologies and if you’ll tolerate me even if you can’t forgive me, I’d like to make amends. I have from now until a luncheon meeting with a business associate to answer your questions. You can keep your room overnight and then fly back with us tomorrow morning.”
Jane was amazed. “That’s very generous, but all I’ll need is an hour or two at the most. I don’t need to stay the whole day.”
He assured her that he was free all morning and that she could take all the time she needed. “You might enjoy an afternoon in Paris. Besides, if you fly back late tonight, you’ll land in New York in the wee hours of the morning. Believe me, it’s better this way.”
She tried another excuse about her need to be back on the job. She would have to call Roscoe and, as she explained, “clear it with my boss.” Andrews smiled at the obvious. He was her boss, and there was no higher authority whose permission she needed. She finished a second cup of coffee, and then they adjourned to a private conference room.
“How did you buy the New England Suburban Press group without filing your intention with the SEC?” He might have apologized, but this was still going to be a tough J. J. Warren–style interview. Other people had accumulated the stock, he answered. He simply bought them out. There was no proxy fight, no hostile takeover. And how would he handle the Federal Communications Commission? Andrews had stacks of economic data to show that the station and the papers were not in the same market. If he lost a regulatory challenge on one of the papers, he would simply sell it off. Wasn’t he becoming the only editorial voice in broad regions of the country? He didn’t think so, and he offered the constant criticism of a reporter named J. J. Warren as a prime example. “There are hundreds of editors and pundits on my back every day.”
He was affable but always frank and quick to the point. He argued his positions logically, and when they disagreed on an interpretation, he was happy to agree that they disagreed. He was forthcoming even on delicate matters of his private wealth, handing her a personal financial statement as soon as she raised the issue. By noon he had delivered information that it would have taken her weeks to gather from outside sources. At no time had he been evasive, patronizing, or cajoling. No one could have been more respectful of her role as a business reporter.
“Would you like to sit in on my luncheon meeting?” he offered when she was closing her laptop into its case. She said she wouldn’t think of intruding. But he argued that if she wanted to see how his business was run, this would be a great opportunity. He wanted an exclusive on a French news service. The news service wanted broad distribution. This, he thought, was the heart and soul of a communications network, and a rare chance for her to cut through the self-serving platitudes that the press and the networks usually issued. “All I ask is that you keep the names and precise agreements off the record.” It was, she knew, an opportunity that would be available to only the top echelon of business reporters, and too good to turn down. “If you’re sure I won’t be in the way,” Jane finally agreed.
The restaurant was small and informal, a comedown from the elegance of the hotel. But, as she quickly realized, it had a three-star rating and was the personal kitchen of one of the world’s most revered chefs. William introduced her as an associate with one of his newspaper chains, technically true but incomplete. She amplified, stating clearly that she was a reporter and then assuring them that the details of this particular meeting were off the record. The French executive laughed. “You Americans!” he said, more in admiration than derision. “For French reporters everything is on the record, even meetings that they never attended. They make up stories for the record.”
The men helped her order, insisted that she try a particular white Burgundy, and included her in all their small talk. The business portion of their meal was squeezed in before the dessert. William mentioned a figure of 6 million euros. The Frenchman, with his napkin to his lips, asked if that was for just the United States. William said it was for all of North America and covered translation rights for Mexico and Central America. The Frenchman waved his hand. No, he had other sources for Spanish-language coverage. News, he said, should be in all languages and should never be translated. Andrews nodded. He had heard that viewpoint before. “All right. Let’s say English-language broadcast in the U.S. and Canada.”
“For six million?” the Frenchman asked.
“Based on the number of sets, I’d say the figure would be more like four.”
A nod, and then, “Four! I suppose that’s right.”
Then the dessert came, berries in a sugary cream sauce, and the additional coffee she needed to offset the wine.
As they walked to the river, William Andrews explained that he had a few matters to take care of that would keep him busy until perhaps six. They could have cocktails before he had to join his other associates for dinner. He put her into a taxi that would take her back to her hotel.
“I must thank you for being so open and forthright,” Jane complimented. “I was worried about this interview … for obvious reasons … and didn’t know exactly how I would handle the usual platitudes and cover-ups. I needn’t have worried.”
He smiled. “I’m afraid I wasn’t completely honest.”
“Oh! When was that?”
“When I said I didn’t look. I did take a quick peek.” He closed the door and waved to the driver.
Why, you dirty old man, she said to herself. What kind of pervert would take advantage of her that way? But she found herself smiling. At least he had looked.