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CHAPTERFOURTEEN
Deacon didn’t know what he expected when he walked into Michael’s office for the first time. Maybe he expected to feel some kind of visceral connection. Instead all he felt was anger. Anger over the paintings of Paris that covered the walls, and anger that Michael had died before Deacon could prove that he cared nothing about his biological father.
So it felt good to release some of that anger on the presumptuous woman who sat behind the desk. His plan had been to wait Anastasia Bradley out and see if she led him to the person who was trying to sabotage the company. But the sight of her reclining in the leather chair with one purple high heel on the desk while she leafed through a magazine didn’t sit well with him. And he discovered that he’d lost his patience with Ms. Bradley.
He cleared his throat, and she glanced up from Harper’s Bazaar magazine. The distaste that crossed her face mirrored his own feelings. “Did you need something, Mr. Beaumont?”
“Actually”—he strolled into the room—“there are a few things I need, Ms. Bradley.” He held up a finger. “One, I need your resignation.” He held up another finger. “Two, I need you out of this office.” Another finger went up. “And three, I need the name of the asshole who is trying to rear-end French Kiss.” While she stared at him like a largemouth bass, he stepped closer. “The first you have two hours to deliver. The second you’ll need to do within the hour. And the last you’ll need to give me now. Unless you’d rather I called the FBI.”
He didn’t want to bring in the federal government. Government and big business didn’t mix. But it wasn’t an idle threat. If push came to shove, he would have no problem calling the feds. He just wasn’t about to call them until he had a handle on what was going on in French Kiss. It didn’t look like Anastasia was going to help him out with that.
Shock was quickly followed by anger, and her true colors came out with a vengeance. “You have nothing on me,” she hissed as she rose to her feet. “So go ahead and call the FBI.”
“Nothing?” He lifted an eyebrow. “What about breaking and entering? I saw you in Ms. Harrington’s office. Now who were you talking to?”
A slight flush colored her cheeks, but other than that, she was one tough cookie. “If you’re referring to the other morning, that was strictly business. I stopped by to leave Olivia the new catalog mock-ups. When she wasn’t there, I left them on her desk.”
“In a locked office.”
She smiled slyly and shrugged. “I guess her airheaded assistant forgot to lock up.”
Deacon crossed his arms to keep from reaching out and shaking the truth from her. “And the phone call I overheard?”
“What phone call? I don’t remember a phone call. And unless you have a recording, it’s your word against mine, Mr. Beaumont.”
He studied her for a long moment. “On second thought, I think I want you gone from French Kiss now.” He picked up the phone and dialed. “Kelly, could you have security send someone up to escort Ms. Bradley off the premises? Thank you.” He hung up the phone. “You’re right, Ms. Bradley, I don’t have proof. But unfortunately for you, in order to ruin a person’s reputation, you don’t need proof. You just need a rumor. And I intend to start that rumor.”
Her eyes narrowed. “As if anyone would believe an ignorant hillbilly.”
“An ignorant hillbilly with the power to fire your ass.”
She sent him another scalding look before she jerked open the top desk drawer and started pulling things out. He grabbed one of the empty boxes by the door.
“Here, let me help you with that.”
“I don’t need any help!” she snapped as she grabbed the box from him. He watched her remove everything from the drawers, but stopped her when she reached for the laptop on the desk.
“Unless you have proof that it’s your personal laptop, it stays.”
She pressed her lips in a thin line. “You won’t save French Kiss, you know. You can come up with all the collections you want, and it’s still going to end up sold to the highest bidder.”
“Why, Ms. Bradley, you sound almost gleeful about that.” He cocked his head. “It makes a person wonder if you’re not in cahoots with one of the companies that have made an offer. Avery Industries, perhaps?”
The flicker in her eyes was all the answer he needed. Not that he could prove it, but it was nice to know. The guard showed up, then stepped back as Anastasia strode out the door with her box.
“I don’t need an escort,” she growled. “I know my way out.”
When the witch was gone, Deacon was left with the ghost. A ghost that had haunted him for years and refused to let up. Unlike Olivia’s office, Michael’s had a masculine feel. The shelving and desk were dark wood, the furniture brown leather and overstuffed. The only splashes of color were the paintings—paintings almost identical to his mother’s pictures that he’d found in the garage. There was the same bridge over the Seine. The same angle of the Eiffel Tower. The same quaint café. And the same small lingerie shop.
Deacon had always thought Michael had left his mother after finding out she was pregnant. But looking at the paintings, he started to have his doubts. Why would a man want to be reminded of a woman he didn’t love? It made no sense. But if it had been his mother who broke it off, why would Michael surround himself with painful memories?
“So you fired her?” Kelly peeked her head in, and when Deacon nodded, she walked in and closed the door behind her. “I could kiss you for getting rid of that bitch.” Before he could open his mouth, she held up a hand. “Not sexually. Just as an appreciative employee.” She sent him a heavy-lidded look and toyed with her necklace. “Unless you want more than appreciation.”
“Kelly,” he warned.
Her shoulders slumped. “Fine. You can’t blame a girl for trying.” She looked around. “Isn’t this a great office? Don’t you just love Paris?”
“Not really,” he said dryly.
