chapter TWO
Five years later
“I HAVE mixed feelings about this, Whitfield,” said the soon-to-be former owner of the Renaissance Hotel, as he signed his name on the last of the purchasing paperwork. He slid the deed across the desk separating them and sighed. “This place has been my life for a long, long time.”
“Yes,” Stephen said as he added his own signature to the deed. “But it’s a good decision. You’ve earned a decent retirement.”
“Then why do I feel like I’m abandoning my family?”
“Trust me,” Stephen assured the old man. “I will take care of your people.”
Unlike the other hoteliers with whom he’d negotiated, Bill Masters’ primary concern when it came to selling his aging property had been his employees. He didn’t care about Stephen’s money, the new business model he’d brought to the table, or any of the changes he intended to make. Masters only wanted his tribe of employees to be protected. It was an admirable sentiment, but it had made the transaction unnecessarily complicated.
“That’s the only reason I sold to you,” Masters reminded Stephen. “Because you agreed to keep them all on.”
“Yes, I know.” Stephen bit back an exasperated sigh.
Were it not for the Renaissance’s prime New York location, overlooking Central Park, and its potential for profitability, Stephen would have abandoned the deal weeks ago. “As long as the employees perform their jobs efficiently, they have no reason to be concerned.”
“But you’ll be patient with them as they adjust to the new ownership?” Masters insisted.
“Of course,” he said. It had never been his style to eviscerate a failing hotel and its staff just because he’d decided to finance its recovery. And, after purchasing and renovating eight different hotels in the last five years, he’d have thought his reputation would be enough to reassure the old man. Apparently, he’d been wrong. “It costs money to interview, hire and train new employees. Why would I incur the expense if it’s not necessary?”
“It can’t be just about the money,” Masters reminded him, before lifting a large stack of manila folders to the desktop. “It has to be about the people. Their lives and their families and their dreams for the future. You’ll be part of that now, and you’ll need to look out for them.”
“Yes,” he repeated. “I’m aware of that.” He’d navigated the rocky shores of staff relationships for too many years to not be aware of the impact his decisions had on the minutiae of their lives. He certainly didn’t need some old man lecturing him on how to manage his employees successfully.
“These are the staff’s updated personnel files,” Masters said. “I thought we might go through so you can match a few faces with their names when you meet them.”
As if he needed the directive. “Have you informed them about the transfer of ownership yet?”
The white-haired man cleared his throat and avoided Stephen’s eyes, a dull red flush rising to color his neck. “I didn’t think it wise to rush things.”
Stephen arched a single brow. It wasn’t like he was adopting the Renaissance employees, whether Masters wanted it to be that way or not. He was simply taking over as their boss. It was business. “It would have been better to disclose things earlier,” he said grimly, barely concealing his annoyance. “They’d have had time to adjust to the idea before I took over.”
Masters’ mouth firmed into a stubborn line. “Yes, but if they’d known I was trying to sell they would have suffered unnecessary anxiety about their job security.” He lifted his chin, an aging patriarch protecting his children from harm. “I wanted the details ironed out first.”
Stephen kept his grimace in check, wondering how much nannying he’d have to do before his staff adjusted to the new professional boundaries he planned to institute. He’d agreed to keep them on, not to hold their hands and coddle them while they worked through their insecurities. “When’s the meeting?”
“Three p.m. in the Da Vinci Room.”
Stephen reached for the stack of manila personnel files and opened the top folder. “Doesn’t give me much time to prepare,” he said, glancing down at the small picture and overview of his housekeeping manager.
“Yes, but I’ll help,” Masters offered as he rose and then circled the desk to peer over Stephen’s shoulder.
Traditionally, Stephen preferred to orient himself to the staff on his own. But he suspected the gossipy Masters wanted the opportunity to confide additional details about the staff he was handing over. And, since Stephen had discovered early on that knowing his employees’ names and snippets of personal detail from their lives smoothed the transition of ownership more than anything else he could do, he resigned himself to accommodating Master as he sang his swan song.
Besides, at the end of the day, it was all about efficiency.
Efficiency, profits, and besting the competition.
A lifetime spent within the cutthroat Whitfield empire might not have provided much in the way of familial support and approval, but it had taught him how to run a hotel. Somehow he knew that if he resisted Masters, the transition would be delayed.
So he flipped through the pages of housekeeping employees while Masters offered commentary on each, noting who’d been in service the longest, who were the newest hires, who had children in college, spouses struggling with cancer, or had just given birth to new babies. And then they moved on to the pastry shop, restaurant and dining staff. Halfway through, Stephen’s entire body froze as stunned recognition winnowed through him.
“Colette Huntington. Now there’s a pastry chef you won’t regret having on staff,” said Masters, sounding like a proud patriarch touting the accomplishment of a favored daughter. “You give that girl a bit of butter, cream and flour, and she can work magic. No lie. I credit her desserts with half our return business.”
“Yes,” he murmured, while struggling to keep his reaction in check. “Good chefs will do that.”
“Colette’s not just a good chef. She’s smart, hardworking, and the staff adores her.”
Deep down, Stephen supposed he’d always suspected he’d run into her again. There were only so many hotels, so many decent pastry chefs, in the world. They were bound to intersect at some point. But he was careful to register none of his shock, cocking a head toward her file as if she were just another random name in the pile. “How long has she been with the Renaissance?”
“Going on four years now. She trained at Cordon Bleu, but had a devil of a time finding a job overseas.”
Is that what she told you? A rush of annoyance, tinged with an odd twinge of smarting pride, cinched low in his gut. “You hired her without experience?”
“I saw her potential and took a risk. Turned out to be one of the best decisions I made.” He leaned to squint fondly at her photo and shook his head. “Even though things didn’t work out for her in London, poor girl, her heartbreak was definitely our gain.”
Heartbreak?
“You’ll like her,” Masters continued as he straightened. “Everyone does. And the best part is she doesn’t engage in the typical drama of a service industry. She’s private, reliable, and loyal to a fault.”
Hearing her described in such glowing terms, terms he might have once used himself, dredged up memories he’d discarded years ago. Memories he’d buried beneath layers of regret, resentment, and wounded pride. Memories he had no interest in revisiting. He didn’t want to think about her. She didn’t deserve another minute of his mental energies. She’d made a fool of him, made him feel when he’d vowed to avoid emotional connections. And then she’d left him.
Even so, Stephen couldn’t restrain the beat of curiosity that made his muscles tense and quickened his pulse. He leaned forward to scan her file, and his focus caught on the grainy colored photo at its upper left corner. She didn’t look much different than she had in London, despite the poor quality of the copy. She still had the same hazel eyes, honey-blond hair and fresh, freckled face. His fingers itched to trace the soft lines of her image, as if to recall the texture of her skin and hair, and he knotted his hand into a fist, irritated with his reaction. “She’s married, I take it?”
Masters’ face pleated in a grin. “Why? You interested?”
“Of course not,” he answered while he forced his hand to relax atop his thigh. He was over her. Had been for a long time. “It just helps to know who might be dating within the ranks.”
“Oh, Colette’s not like that. She never mixes business and pleasure.”
Except she had. With him. “Tell me about this Henri person,” Stephen said, flipping to the next file in an attempt to put Colette out of his mind. He had no interest in ferreting out her secrets anymore. She was merely one of the employees he’d acquired in a business transaction. End of story.
She no longer had the power to affect him. To make him soft and maudlin and weak.
No one did.
“Henri’s a comanager with Colette. French. Dramatic and a little emotional at times, but very, very good. He and Colette oversee all the dessert production for the Renaissance, and manage Doux Rêves during its operating hours,” said Masters. “You have to be careful with Henri, though,” he warned. “He likes to believe everything is his idea. Colette’s the only one who can make him feel like he’s in charge while implementing ideas he didn’t generate.”
“Is that so?” Stephen asked in a cool voice.
“Yes. Colette’s a genius at navigating his moods, so if you need to make changes to Doux Rêves or the dessert menus, she’s the one I’d talk to first. Get her on your side, and Henri will follow without complaint. Force any changes on Henri without Colette easing the way ahead of you, and you could have a nightmare on your hands.” Masters clucked his tongue while shaking his big, gray head. “And, let me tell you, a French chef in a bad mood is impossible to work with.”
“I know how to handle bad moods,” Stephen said dryly. Decades of battle with a family who hated him had honed his negotiating skills to a razor-sharp edge. He had no trouble determining an opponent’s greatest weakness and then exploiting it if it meant the bottom line benefited. And, since any hotel’s success hinged on a seamless integration of comfort, service and quality food, he’d gain Colette’s support whether she wished to grant it or not.
He wouldn’t allow their shared history to compromise his investment. She’d be on board by week’s end or there’d be hell to pay.
“Thank you so much for coming out on your day off,” Colette said as she slipped on wedge sandals, adjusted the skirt of her emerald sleeveless dress, and then slung her purse over her shoulder. “My boss doesn’t call meetings very often, but when he does, I have to attend.”
“I understand, and it’s no problem.” Janet, a sweet woman in her sixties who’d nannied Emma from birth, scanned the kitchen for her young charge. “Where is the little scamp, anyway?”
“Changing her clothes.” Colette’s mouth hitched in a half-smile as they exchanged a commiserating glance. “Again.”
“Janet!” squealed four-year-old Emma as she galloped into the kitchen to give her nanny a hug. “You’re here!”
“I sure am, honey.” Janet pressed Emma back and scanned her newest wardrobe change. “My, aren’t you looking pretty this afternoon?” she observed, beaming at Emma’s colorful combination of glittery princess attire and pink tennis shoes.
Emma grinned back, reaching to adjust her plastic tiara.
“An’ I’m wearing a crown, too.”
“I see. Are you Snow White today?” Janet teased as she reached to ruffle Emma’s golden girls. “Or the Little Mermaid?”
“I’m Cinderella, silly!” Emma cocked her head and then lifted her tulle skirt out from her sides. “See? My dress is blue!”
“Land’s sake alive, you’re right,” confessed Janet in feigned chagrin as she bent to squint at Emma’s dress. “It’s a good thing I’ve got such a smart girl to remind me of my colors!”
Colette’s heart pinched as she watched her daughter giggle and then spin an artless Cinderella twirl. Emma was growing up so fast that missing even one additional minute of her precious childhood made Colette wish anew for a fairy godmother of her own. Not that she’d entertain thoughts of fairytale endings ever again. Not when duty and employment and reality called.
“Come here, sweetheart,” Colette said as she squatted down and hauled Emma into a hug. “Momma has a meeting at work, but I’ll be done before you know it, and then we’ll go to the park, okay?”
“'Kay,” said Emma as she squirmed free and skipped back to Janet’s side. “Love you!”
Thirty five minutes and two frenetic subway transfers later, Emma checked her watch as she pressed against the interminably slow revolving door of the Renaissance Hotel. The meeting had started four minutes ago and she hated being late.
When she neared the open convention room doors, she could hear Bill Masters’ sonorous voice filling the room with its typical warmth and enthusiasm. Spotting her best friend Henri, she ducked into the chair he’d saved her in one of the back rows. “Hey,” she whispered. “Did I miss anything?”
“Oui,” he whispered back, his eyes wide and his face pale. “Very big news you miss. Énorme.”
A frisson of alarm sent ice down her spine. “What is it?”
He shushed her with a wave of his narrow hand.
“Tell me!”
Henri tipped his head toward hers and hissed, “Bill, he has sold the hotel.”
She blanched, the thought of being laid off settling hard in her belly. She couldn’t afford to lose her seniority, her position as manager, and start all over again. “What? Why?”
Henri pressed his lips together, confusion and worry evident in his brown eyes as he gestured toward the stage with his gelled ruff of platinum hair. “The new boss, he’s bought the Renaissance already. He takes charge tomorrow.”
Colette shifted her attention to the stage, tuning in to the tail-end of Bill’s introduction. The man who’d been like a father to them all these past few years said something about their jobs being secure and how he’d chosen his replacement based on what was best for the Renaissance family.
“But why didn’t Bill tell us anything about this?” she whispered, while the other employees surged to their feet and their questions began to crescendo. “Why keep it a secret until now?”
“Quiet down. Quiet down, folks,” said Bill, leaning over the microphone with his palms extended. “Things will be fine. I promise.” He dipped his attention to the front row and beckoned someone forward. “Why don’t you come up here and introduce yourself?” he asked. “Set everyone’s worries at ease.”
The murmurs increased in volume as Colette stood as well. The employees in front of her craned their necks and rose up on tiptoes, blocking her view. Dipping to peer through a crosshatch of arms, necks and heads, she caught disjointed glimpses of their new boss as he made his way across the small stage: jet-black hair, broad shoulders, a dark hint of stubble along a chiseled plane of whiskered cheek and bone—
Her stomach reacted first, quivering with an alertness she hadn’t felt for years.
No.
A dual rush of ice and fire pebbled her skin. Oh, God. She knew that profile. She knew that full, sardonic curve of lip and sharp blade of nose. She knew. Oh, God, she knew. Recognition slammed hard against her chest as Stephen Whitfield, the only man she’d ever loved, the father of her child and the millionaire who’d stolen her breath as easily as he’d claimed her virginity, stepped up to the microphone and addressed his shocked audience.
“Thank you, Masters, for your comprehensive overview of the coming transition, and thank you, Renaissance employees, for agreeing to meet with me today.” He smiled, a stunning flash of white teeth, while his newest batch of employees quieted to a stunned silence. At six foot four, and dressed in an immaculate navy silk suit, Stephen oozed confident command and tempered sexuality from every pore. It was no wonder they all gaped at him like he was a pagan hunter brought in from the wild.
“Please,” he said, as effortlessly comfortable before a crowd as he’d always been. “Be seated.” This had to be some sort of a dream. He couldn’t be here. He was supposed to be in London.
London.
Stephen scanned the audience with his encouraging smile while Colette, unable to move, remained frozen in place until his gaze caught hers and held. For a breathless moment in time the world halted on its axis, the abrupt shift from present to past jarring her heartbeat into stillness.
“I realize this may come as a bit of a shock,” he said without breaking eye contact. “But I want to reassure you all that for now, at least, your positions are secure.” His voice, that same deep voice that had haunted her dreams since she’d fled London, left no room for doubt in her quailing heart.
He was real. Very, very real.
“Your job descriptions might change a bit,” he continued, “but Masters has assured me that you are each valuable employees who will be willing to meet me halfway. Unless you prove otherwise, you can expect to remain on the payroll indefinitely.”
Stephen was in New York. Here. The world launched back into its dizzy, perilous spin, sending rivulets of shock through her veins.
“In return for this job security, however, I will expect flexibility and loyalty from each of you.” Demanding and fierce, his brutal slash of mouth, high cheekbones and icy blue eyes bore mute testimony to his insistence on making his own rules and exacting obedience from all within his realm. Thick hair the color of onyx and an angular jaw that appeared to be hewn from granite intensified his aura of power. Only his eyelashes, curling and long enough to tangle at the edges, lent any hint of softness to his commanding expression. “You best know now that I will not tolerate dissention within the ranks.”
Dissention within the ranks? Her reawakening pulse ricocheted through every disbelieving cell, while his grim expression, intense and hard where before it had been warm, made icy fear clutch within her chest.
“I am willing to listen to your concerns and consider your input, but I advise you to prepare yourselves for change. The Renaissance must be brought back into profitability if it is to survive the next decade. We will have to work together to make updates in a timely fashion. If we do not, Masters’ legacy will fail.”
A corner of her brain registered that Henri had tugged on her arm, trying to reclaim her attention. But she remained ensnared in the web of Stephen’s gaze, unable to move while he continued.
“Toward that end, I will maintain an open door policy so that we can build a working relationship as we move forward together.”
She needed to escape. Now. Except with Emma in tow where would she go? Her stomach seized in denial, her throat closed up, and a tremor claimed her hands.
His eyes narrowed to slits of glinting blue. “Do you have a question?” he asked her, an edge of ice underlying the velvet smoothness of his tone.
A murmur of curiosity rippled through the seated staff and they turned as one to stare at Colette. Suddenly aware that she was still standing, she dropped like a guillotine into her chair, her limbs too numb to check her descent.
“Colette?” whispered Henri as he gripped her forearm. His warm brown eyes darkened with concern. “What is it? You are pale as un fantôme.“
“I’m fine,” she managed to say. Her pulse careened as her thoughts raced frantically. Did Stephen know about Emma yet? Did he suspect the truth? Bill was such a gossip, he’d probably told Stephen about her status as a single mother. What if Stephen tried to take Emma away? Feeling trapped, she closed her eyes and hauled in a steadying breath. Panicking wouldn’t help anything. She had to be calm. She had to think.
Maybe she was overreacting. Stephen wasn’t the type to be interested in his staff’s lives outside of work. He might not have even recognized her across the crowded conference room. She wore her hair up now. Motherhood, sleepless nights and worry had stripped her of her youthful blush. And it had been five years since he’d seen her.
Besides, even if he had learned about Emma, he had no reason to suspect she was his daughter. They’d used protection every time without fail. He’d seen to that. He’d made it very, very clear that he never intended to have children.
She didn’t need to worry, she told herself while struggling to calm her thudding pulse.
He wouldn’t want her again. And he certainly wouldn’t want Emma.
Wasn’t that why she’d left in the first place?
The rest of the meeting passed in a blur. Stephen’s speech, outlining the schedule of pending renovations and his vision for the future of the Renaissance, barely penetrated the turmoil of her thoughts. But when he announced the schedule for supervisor meetings the following day, her panic kicked back into gear.
“I’ll meet with the lobby supervisors at eight a.m.” he said, “followed by housekeeping at nine, Doux Rêves and dessert management at ten, guest services at eleven, maintenance at noon, and La Tour d’Or management at one. If you cannot attend for any reason, please notify me as soon as possible so that I can make alternative arrangements.” He closed his binder and scanned his seated employees a final time before thanking Bill and adjourning the meeting.
Everyone stood to leave, their low murmurs rising like the hum of bees moving to a new hive. Colette joined them, grappling with her reaction to his announcement regarding personal meetings. Blending in with an anonymous crowd of employees was doable. But maintaining her poise in a face-to-face interview would prove far more difficult, especially when she didn’t know how much he knew.
“Do you think he’d want to renovate me?” whispered one of the new girls from the front desk as they congregated in the aisle.
“If you’re lucky,” giggled her friend as she fanned her face and stole another covert look over her shoulder. “Did you see his eyes?”
“Eyes?” commiserated yet another. “I was too busy fantasizing about those shoulders, that hair, and those big, strong hands.” Two of the students shared a joint sigh of agreement while the third girl continued, “Can you imagine how a specimen like that would perform in bed?”
“Tiffany!” they scolded with shocked gasps of titillation. “What if he hears you? He’s our new boss!”
The pretty coed didn’t even blush. “So? I’d be happy to trade in my position for one that’s a little more … unprofessional with a man who looks like that. Wouldn’t you?”
Colette ducked her head, feeling her own face heat. She’d thought the same thing when she wasn’t much older than these girls. And she’d paid the price for her foolishness.
If she were a better person, she’d warn the girls away from him before they got hurt.
But they wouldn’t listen. Why would they? She certainly hadn’t.
She’d nearly reached the exit when the gossip around her decreased in volume. An air of expectancy rushed to fill the silence and the fine hairs on Colette’s arms rose.
“Miss Huntington,” Stephen called. The edge of command carried the same immutable force of will as it had five years ago. “A moment, please.”
Stumbling forward as if she hadn’t heard, she continued toward the door without glancing back.
The shock of Stephen’s warm fingers at her elbow, recognizable even after all this time, sent a shiver of awareness coursing through her veins. Awareness she couldn’t afford to feel, yet felt all the same.
“Miss Huntington,” he repeated, more sharply this time.
Fear, hot and sharp and irrational, leaked from her lungs into her muscles and nerves and skin. Fighting the fear, she lifted her chin and turned to face him as if his touch impacted her not at all. “I’m sorry?”
His eyes narrowed, whether in amusement or anger she couldn’t tell. “I wish to speak with you.”
Feigning surprise, she lifted both brows. “Now?”
A wintry smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes revealed a flash of white teeth. “Yes.”
She felt the weight of her coworkers’ regard, sensed the murmur of gossip they’d leave in their wake. “Why?”
“Perhaps we should adjourn to my new office to discuss it.”
Panic raced down her spine, but she forced a bland note of polite courtesy to her voice. “I’d be happy to oblige you any other day, Mr. Whitfield. Today, however, I have a prior commitment.”
Her curious colleagues stalled in their mass exodus, their ears and eyes trained on the merest hint of scandal involving their new boss. Stephen raised his gaze to his nosy employees, his expression exuding an unmistakable authority. “Is there a problem?” he intoned, and the subtext of his words couldn’t have been more clear.
Dismissed with nothing more than a polite question, her coworkers jumped as if they’d been jolted with a cattle prod. Within seconds the double doors of the conference room had clicked closed and Stephen and she were plunged into muffled silence. The pulse rushing in her ears formed the only sound, her serrated breath its only counterpoint.