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CHAPTERELEVEN
For once in her life, Olivia woke up on time and stayed focused. She showered, dried her hair and pulled it into a French twist, applied her makeup, and then dressed in her most powerful gray suit without once getting distracted by something outside her window, a pimple on her nose, or a random thought. All her thoughts centered around one thing. She was going to lose French Kiss and there was nothing she could do about it.
After a sleepless night, she had finally accepted this truth. And today she intended to walk into the board meeting and lay everything out on the table: Someone was taking money from the company. She had no new line. And she had been totally wrong to think she could fill her stepfather’s shoes.
Once that happened, there was little doubt that the board members would vote to sell the company to the highest bidder. With no other plan, she would vote with them. That was if Deacon had signed the contract. Of course, why wouldn’t he? He now knew the full extent of French Kiss’s trouble and would have to be an idiot not to have signed. Which meant that she now owned controlling shares. It was too bad that owning those shares still left her with little control.
“You look like hell. With your blond hair, gray is zee worst possible color you could wear.”
The rude comments greeted Olivia as soon as she stepped into the living room. Babette sat at the breakfast bar eating what looked to be a scone. But since Olivia had yet to go to the store, she didn’t know where Babette had gotten it. She only hoped that she had gotten coffee at the same place.
She nodded at her cup. “Coffee?”
Babette shook her head. “All you had was tea. And seeing as how you were trying to starve me, I was forced to whip some-zing up.” She held up the scone. “They are not croissants, but they aren’t bad.”
Olivia didn’t feel like eating. She felt like throwing up. “Thank you, but I need to get to the office.”
“You Americans. Always in such a hurry.” She dunked the tea bag in her cup. “Well, you’ll have to wait, because as you can see, I’m not ready.”
“That’s okay because you’re not coming. My plan failed. Therefore, there’s no need for you to come to the office with me. In fact, you should be back to your beloved Par-ree by this weekend.” If Olivia hadn’t felt so crappy, she might’ve enjoyed Babette’s shocked look.
“You are sending me home?”
“Yes, but I’ll pay you for your time.”
For once Babette had nothing to say. She just sat there at the breakfast bar with her hand frozen in mid-dunk. Since Olivia didn’t have anything to say either, she turned to leave, her glance sweeping over the balcony. Jonathan Livingston’s beady eyes looked back. But having a pesky bird poop on her balcony no longer mattered. In order to pay off the Beaumonts, she would have to sell her house…and soon. Which meant that Jonathan would become someone else’s problem.
As would Mr. and Mrs. Huckabee’s dangling parts.
Although when she stepped out of the garage and looked up at their balcony, Mr. Huckabee’s parts weren’t dangling. Instead they were covered by a rhinestone thong that sparkled like a mirrored disco ball in the morning sun.
“Hel-loo, Britney!” He lifted a hand and waved.
After the tension-filled night, Olivia couldn’t help laughing. “Hello, Mr. Huckabee. Are those comfortable?”
“Not at all. But Doris thinks they’re hot.”
Olivia bit back a grin. “They are that.” A movement to the side of her garage caught her attention, and she watched in surprise as the lemon juicer salesman came around from the side of her house.
“Excuse me?” she said. “Can I help you?”
He glanced up, startled, then quickly hurried off with his roller bag clicking on the sidewalk behind him. Confused, she walked through her gate and discovered bright blooms of every color and variety filling the flower bed that ran the length of her small backyard.
It made no sense. Why would some guy she didn’t even know plant flowers? And if he’d done it in her backyard, he had probably left the geraniums by her front door. And taken out her trash. She really needed to buy a lemon juicer from him.
Feeling even more depressed, she turned and walked up the street to catch the trolley. When she stepped into French Kiss’s lobby, she struggled to keep the tears from her eyes.
Most people thought she had grown up in a mansion in Pacific Heights. But it was inside these purple-and-silver walls that she had truly grown up. Before school she had sat in the design department and tried to copy the designers’ amazing pictures. In the afternoons she had used scraps of satin and lace to make her own creations for her Barbie dolls. In the evenings she’d raced through the deserted halls or sat at Michael’s desk and done her homework before they headed home to dinner. On the drive he would ask her about what designs she liked best—what colors—what fabrics.
At the time she’d thought he valued her opinion, but now she realized it had been because he didn’t know what else to talk about. French Kiss and business had been his life. And consequently they had become hers. What was she going to do when that life ended?
Kelly wasn’t at her desk, which meant there was no one to send for coffee. Olivia thought about going to the break room, but then glanced at her watch and realized that she didn’t have the time. Since she wouldn’t need her briefcase, she decided to leave it in her office. Surprisingly, the door was unlocked. Or not so surprisingly, since Deacon had been the last one there. Even now she blushed at the memory of sharing the raincoat story with him. He probably thought she was a pathetic nut.
She set her briefcase on the desk and glanced at the contract. Even though she knew what she’d find, she couldn’t help walking over and picking it up. As she’d expected, on the last page were three signatures in the left-hand corner. Grayson’s was flowing and artistic. Nash’s scribbled and illegible. And Deacon’s neat and concise.
Deacon Valentino Beaumont was now a millionaire while Olivia Juliana Harrington was penniless. Somewhere the gods of fate were laughing. Deciding that she needed coffee more than she needed to be on time, she headed to the break room.
By the time she got a cup of coffee and arrived at the boardroom, she wasn’t surprised to find the majority of the chairs filled. No one would want to miss this. Especially Anastasia, who sat as close to the front as she could get. As she walked past, Olivia had a hard time not punching the woman right in the face. How dare she break into Olivia’s office? How dare she consort with someone else to steal money? And how dare she sit there smiling as if she hadn’t had a hand in French Kiss’s demise?
