Every Breath You Take by Judith McNaught
A wide squared-off archway with travertine columns separated the reception area from Sophie’s and Claire’s offices, which faced each other across a pathway leading to Mitchell Wyatt’s office and the conference room. His office door was closed, but Sophie opened it and walked across the room to his desk. Claire had already seen his office when he interviewed her for the position two weeks before, and had been a little surprised that it wasn’t fancier. The room itself was just large enough to be spacious, and it was furnished in the same understated, minimalist style as the reception area. His office, however, occupied the corner of the building, which gave him an uninterrupted, breathtaking view of Manhattan in two directions, and she surmised that, to him, the view was always paramount.
His desk was clear except for a large crystal “fist” on a short pedestal at one corner and a sheaf of papers lying in the middle of the desk. Sophie picked up the papers, leafed through them, and laid them back down; then she turned to the credenza behind it, where a laptop computer was open, its bright screen lit up with the same Outlook program that Claire had used for her boss’s e-mails, business contacts, and calendar. Next to the computer was a wooden tray with more documents in it, which Sophie flipped through and then put back. “There’s nothing here to give you,” she said wryly. “Let’s go back to my desk, and I’ll tell you the names of the people who call him most frequently and I’ll give you a little background, so you’ll know who you’re talking to when they call.”
Claire nodded and followed her out, but halfway across his office, the cell phone lying on his desk began to ring. “Should I answer that for him?” Claire asked.
“No,” Sophie said. “He handles calls that he receives on his cell phone.” When Sophie closed the office door on the ringing phone, Claire said, “Does he prefer to keep his door closed at all times?”
“No. As a rule, I close it if he had it closed before, and I leave it open if it was open before.” As she walked back into her office with Claire behind her, the telephone on her desk gave out a low, distinctive double ring. “That’s Mr. Wyatt’s private line. He answers it himself if he’s in his office, but if he isn’t, we always answer it,” she explained as picked up the receiver and pressed a flashing white button at the end of a row.
“Mr. Wyatt’s office,” she said; then she listened a moment and replied in a friendly tone, “Yes, he’s here, Mr. Farrell, but he’s in the midst of a three-way teleconference. He should be finished very soon though, and—” The man on the phone evidently interrupted her, because she stopped talking, listened for a second, and then she said, “Yes, of course. I’ll bring him a note right now.” She put the call on hold, picked up her pen, and Claire watched her jot two sentences on a small pad that read, “Matt Farrell is on the phone—It’s urgent. He needs to talk to you now.” She underlined the words “urgent” and “now” twice; then she straightened, and with an unperturbed smile, she gestured for Claire to follow her. “You might as well have a glimpse of the faces that belong to the shouting voices you heard earlier.”
She swung open the conference room door, Claire took one step into the room—and halted in stunned awe. Unlike the restrained décor and moderate proportions of the other rooms, the vast conference room was paneled in dark wood, gorgeously furnished, and completely equipped with a dazzling array of state-of-the-art audiovisual and teleconferencing equipment. Stretching almost the entire length of the room was a conference table inlaid with parquet wood and surrounded by at least eighteen overstuffed chrome swivel chairs upholstered in butterscotch leather. At the top of the long wall to the right of the conference table was a row of identical clocks indicating the time in different cities, and below the clocks were four giant, built-in television screens. At the moment, two of the screens were dark, but each of the other two was lit up with the image of a different man. Both men had gray hair and angry faces, and they were both shouting, apparently in their two different languages, at the same time—or at least they looked as if they were shouting. The sound system in the conference room had been turned down to a pleasant level, so Claire wasn’t certain if they were actually shouting, nor did she know whether the two belligerent men were addressing each other or Mitchell Wyatt. The draperies were drawn over the windows, and the spotlights in the ceiling were dimmed, giving the room a mellow glow, but providing ample light for Claire to see Mitchell Wyatt, who was seated at the center of the conference table, leaning back in his chair, looking at the screens and listening to the angry men with an expression of strained forbearance.
From the corner of his eye, Mitchell saw Sophie walking toward him, carrying a note, and he decided it was time to put an end to his ordeal. Reaching toward a panel of buttons and switches near his elbow, he flipped Stavros’s audio connection off; then he angled his chair slightly so that the Russian would see that he’d turned his shoulder to Stavros and was speaking only to him. “I’ve turned off Stavros’s audio connection, so that you and I can speak privately,” Mitchell said in a companionable tone. “I’ve known Stavros for many years, and when he is this angry, he stops listening to explanations and begins concentrating on retaliation, Alexi. He is not going to let you change the terms of your agreement. However, if you want to back out of the agreement entirely, I’m quite certain I can persuade Stavros to let you do it—”
The Russian’s face betrayed alarm, not relief, and his distress visibly intensified as Mitchell finished: “There are two other Russian trucking companies that he was thinking of buying when you contacted him and offered to sell him yours. I’ll talk to him tomorrow after he’s had a night’s sleep, and point out the obvious merits of buying one or both of your competitors—”
“—And after he takes them over, he will lower his shipping prices until he’s put me out of business,” the Russian said furiously. “My business will be worthless then. I will end up with nothing!”
Since Stavros had a reputation for doing exactly that from time to time, Mitchell didn’t reply. “If you’ve decided you want to keep your business, and that’s why you want to back out of your agreement to sell it to him, he will understand and overlook that when he calms down. If, however, you’ve decided to sell it to someone else instead, then you will be making a powerful enemy.”
“He should worry about making an enemy out of me!”
“He probably should,” Mitchell agreed with some amusement, “but he won’t. However, let us not end our own discussion with threats. You and Stavros can threaten each other later.”
“Can you persuade him to pay me more?”
“No. Stavros never goes back on his word, and he never lets anyone else go back on theirs. I can’t persuade him to let you change the terms of your agreement with him, but I think I can persuade him to let you void your agreement entirely.”
“But—”
“Sleep on it,” Mitchell interrupted politely. Reaching for the console, he flipped a switch to break the satellite connection with the Russian, and the left-hand screen went blank. He flipped another switch and Stavros’s voice became audible. “We’re alone,” Mitchell said, diverting his gaze to the words Sophie had written on the note.
Stavros’s voice exploded in furious, heavily accented English, “Did you tell that whoreson what I said—did you tell him that if he tries to break our agreement, I’ll have his genitals hacked off and served to his mother on a saucer?”
“A saucer?” Mitchell repeated with amusement, returning his attention to the screen. “Based on his behavior so far, you’re going to need a platter.”
“He’s found another buyer for his company—”
“No, he hasn’t, but that’s what he wants you to think. He’s simply trying to raise his price. If you stop threatening him and instead break off all communications with him for a couple days, he’ll come around. He’s a minnow who knows he’s being pursued by a shark, but instead of frightening him, it’s increasing his sense of self-importance. He wants to sell and you made him a very fair offer. Swim away and
“Ah, yes, I see her there near the doorway. Good morning, Sophia,” Stavros said courteously.
“Good morning, Mr. Konstantatos,” she replied.
“Mitchell,” Stavros added as Mitchell reached out to terminate the connection, “give Matt my warmest regards.”
“I will,” Mitchell said. With Sophie’s note in his hand, he strode out of the conference room and into his office via a private door between the two.
Sophie used the outer door of the conference room and led Claire back into her office, where they sat down at Sophie’s desk. “As soon as he’s off the phone with Matt Farrell, he’ll want to see you,” Sophie said. “The way things have gone this morning, he has probably forgotten that today’s your first day here.” As she spoke, she glanced at the glowing light on her phone that indicated that he was still talking to Matt Farrell; then she smiled apologetically at Claire and said,
“While we’re waiting for him to finish his call, let’s get started on your ‘who’s who’ list.”
Claire nodded, picked up the pen and paper she had used earlier, and jotted down names and facts as Sophie mentioned them. “Earlier, I said that Mr. Wyatt frequently buys up companies on his own, merges them, and then sells them. However, he doesn’t always act alone. Depending upon the amount of money and the risk involved, he occasionally partners up with Stavros Konstantatos, Matt Farrell, or Zack Benedict.”
Claire lost control of the pen in her hand and looked up in surprise. “Zack Benedict—the Zack Benedict? The movie star Zack Benedict?”
“That’s the one,” Sophie said lightly. “Matt Farrell and Zack Benedict are Mr. Wyatt’s close friends as well as occasional business partners. Whenever they call, he is always available, which is why I interrupted him when Matt Farrell asked me to.” Claire was understandably dazzled by the Zack Benedict connection, and Sophie added mischievously, “Mr. Wyatt is having dinner tonight with Zack Benedict and his wife, Julie, after they all attend Kira Dunhill’s opening night.” She waited a moment for Claire to write down the names, and she added, “Stavros’s son, Alex, is also a close friend of Mr. Wyatt’s, and he calls here occasionally. Oh—and you’ll hear the name ‘Calli’ mentioned very soon. Calli is Mr. Wyatt’s driver, but he’s also a childhood friend of his. His real name is Giovanni Callioroso, and he’s more ‘family’ than ‘employee.’ He is also a bit of a flirt at times, but it doesn’t mean anything. Oh—and he understands English perfectly—so don’t let him fool you. The first week I worked here, he deliberately put me through all sorts of antics while I tried to help him understand what I was saying—as a joke. Mr. Wyatt has an elderly aunt, Olivia Hebert,” Sophie continued, glancing again at the light on the telephone, which was still lit up. “He always takes her calls no matter how busy he is.” She gave Claire a few more names and decided that was enough boring detail to heap on a new employee.
“What about Mr. Wyatt’s likes and dislikes?” Claire prompted. “Is there anything I should avoid doing because it makes him angry?”
“You have nothing to worry about,” Sophie assured her. “He will expect your best, and in return, he will treat you with respect. Furthermore, he won’t forget your birthday or patronize you or send you out to buy gifts for his girlfriends. He is one of the most even-tempered men alive. He doesn’t even curse. Oh, good—” she added, glancing at her telephone again, “he just hung up. Come with me and we’ll let him welcome you properly.”
Barely able to say good-bye to Matt, Mitchell slammed the phone into its cradle. “Son of a bitch!” he said savagely. “SON OF A BITCH!” Picking up the Steuben crystal fist that Stavros had commissioned as a gift for him, Mitchell squeezed it in his hand hard enough to pulverize it, had it been made of mere stone. He was so furious that his mind refused to grasp everything he’d just been told, and he had to keep repeating it to himself. … Kate Donovan had a son who’d been kidnapped, and Gray Elliott had DNA proof that Mitchell was the little boy’s father … Mitchell was the father of Kate Donovan’s son, and she’d never had the decency to let him know he had a child … She’d intended to raise his son exactly as Mitchell himself had been raised—without any knowledge of his biological father … Kidnappers had grabbed Mitchell’s son that morning in a public park and were holding him for ransom!
As that last piece of knowledge fully sank in, his seething anger escalated to rage, and he hurled the Steuben fist across the room with all the force of his fury behind it, at exactly the same moment Sophie swung the door open and started into his office with Claire. Claire ducked and stifled a scream, but Sophie froze in astonishment as the ten-pound crystal missile streaked past her, struck the wall, crashed onto the slate floor, and exploded in a loud blast of shattering glass.
Claire hastily retreated several steps into the safety of Sophie’s adjoining office, but after a moment of horrified paralysis, Sophie got her expression under control and started forward toward his desk. Outwardly composed, she began picking her way gingerly across the crystalline fallout strewn over the stone floor, but she was inwardly shaken by his inexplicable display of violent wrath and helplessly unnerved by the sound of glass crunching beneath her feet. She was dying to ask what had caused him to make this mess, but his forbidding expression made her fear that any pointed reference to the situation might easily cause another eruption of temper from him. Trying to be calm, tactful, and helpful, Sophie inquired cautiously, “Is something wrong, Mr. Wyatt?”
“Do I look like something is right?” he retorted as he surged to his feet, yanked his briefcase off the credenza behind him, and began shoving papers from the top of his desk into it.
Embarrassed by her idiotic choice of words, Sophie refrained from comment and instead bent down to pick up a dismembered crystal thumb lying at the edge of the thick wool carpet that his desk sat on.
Intending to rattle off a list of instructions, Mitchell glanced in her direction, saw what she was doing, and paused just long enough to say with curt courtesy, “Don’t touch that, you’ll cut yourself. Call maintenance later and have them clean up the glass. I’m leaving for Chicago,” he continued, switching swiftly to the matters at hand. “Call Calli and tell him to pick me up downstairs, and then call my pilots and tell them to have the plane fueled up and ready to taxi as soon as I get to the hangar. Next, call Pearson and Levinson’s office in Chicago and tell them to have Bill Pearson or Dave Levinson phone me within twenty minutes, no matter where they are or what they’re doing.”
He paused for a breath, and Sophie interjected quickly, “Your plane’s having maintenance work done. It can’t fly until tomorrow at the earliest.”
“Then get me two tickets on the next flight to Chicago.”
“If I can’t get first class, is coach all right?”
“Get whatever you can; just get me on the next flight,” Mitchell said shortly. “If that isn’t possible, try to charter a plane. When you’ve handled all that, call my housekeeper and tell her to pack suitcases for Calli and me, and then make sure they’re put on a plane to Chicago later today. Have a courier pick them up at the airport and deliver them to us.”
“Do you want to stay at—”
Mitchell yanked open the bottom drawer of his desk to pull out more files, and interrupted her in mid-question, but he managed to temper his tone. “First, take care of the phone calls I just asked you to make, and then call me in the car with any other questions you need answered.”
As she nodded and hurried away, he put the remaining files into his briefcase; then he opened the center desk drawer and pulled out the slim folding case containing his PDA, his passport, and the other items he automatically took with him on trips. He tossed that case on top of the files, slammed the briefcase closed, an
The president’s secretary answered his private line and explained that he was in a board meeting, but she agreed to interrupt him when Mitchell advised her that it was “a matter of extreme urgency.”
Sophie was at her desk on her telephone, and Claire was at her elbow, when Mitchell strode through Sophie’s office and paused there for an update. Sophie understood what he wanted and put her palm over the phone’s mouthpiece. “Our travel agent is checking flights and availability while I wait,” she explained quickly. “Pearson and Levinson are both in court and can’t be reached by phone, but Pearson’s secretary is having a message delivered to him in the courtroom. There are flights leaving for Chicago from LaGuardia, Newark, and JFK today, but the nonstop flights will get you to O’Hare the earliest. Calli is bringing the car around—”
She broke off as the travel agent came back on the line, and since Mitchell already had the information he needed, he turned on his heel and started to leave. Sophie, however, had an additional worrisome matter to mention to him before he left, and since she needed to listen to the travel agent and make decisions, she shoved a desk calendar toward Claire, tapped her finger imperatively on Mitchell’s schedule for that evening, and then nodded urgently toward Mitchell’s departing back.
Her meaning was clear, and Claire rose bravely to the task. Relying on Sophie’s explanation that Mr. Wyatt’s behavior in his office was an aberration, and that Sophie’s earlier, glowing description of him was completely accurate in every detail, Claire picked up the desk calendar and raised her voice. “Mr. Wyatt—” she called after him.