Roark turned his coffee cup over at the same time Vance did and they both waited for the waitress to fill the cups and take their orders before speaking again. “So tell me.”
Vance cupped the heavy porcelain mug between his palms and studied the black surface of his coffee for a long minute while he gathered his thoughts. He wasn’t a man who usually paid attention to gossip or rumor. He had no patience for those who did, either. But when it concerned Waverly’s, he couldn’t take a chance.
“Have you heard any talk about Ann?”
“Ann Richardson?” Roark asked. “Our CEO?”
“Yes, that Ann,” Vance muttered. Seriously, how many Anns did they know?
Roark pulled his sunglasses off and set them onto the table. He took a quick look around, at the people passing on the tree-lined sidewalk, at the other customers sitting at tables. “What kind of talk?”
“Specifically? About her and Dalton Rothschild. You know, the head of Rothschild auction house? Our main competitor?”
Roark just stared at him for a beat or two, then shook his head. “No way.”
“I don’t want to believe it, either,” Vance admitted.
The CEO of Waverly’s, Ann Richardson was brilliant at her job. Smart, capable, she had worked her way up to the top position in the firm, becoming the youngest person ever—male or female—to head an auction house of its size and scope.
Roark sat back in his chair and shook his head firmly. “What have you heard?”
“Tracy called me last night to give me a heads-up about a column that’s appearing in today’s Post.”
“Tracy.” Roark frowned, then nodded. “Tracy Bennett. The reporter you dated last year.”
“Yeah. She says the ‘story’ breaks today.”
“What story?”
“That Ann had an affair with Dalton.”
“Ann’s too smart to fall for Dalton’s line of BS.” Roark dismissed the idea out of hand.
Vance would like to. But in his experience, people made stupid decisions all the time. They usually blamed “love” for those bad choices, but the truth was, love was just the excuse to do whatever the hell they wanted to do. Love was a fable sold by greeting card companies and bridal fairs.
“I agree,” he said. “But if there is something between them—”
Roark whistled. “What can we do about any of it?”
“Not much. I’ll talk to Ann to let her know about this article that’s coming out.”
“And?”
“And,” Vance said, gaze fixed on his brother, “I want you to keep your eyes and ears open. I trust Ann, but I damn sure don’t trust Dalton. Dalton’s always wanted Waverly’s out of the way. If he can’t buy us out, he’ll try a takeover—or try to bury us.” Vance took a sip of his coffee and narrowed his gaze on Roark. “We’re not going to let that happen.”
“Good morning, Mr. Waverly. I’ve got your coffee and the week’s agenda ready for you. Oh! And the invitation to Senator Crane’s garden party arrived by messenger late yesterday after you’d left.”
Vance stopped in the doorway to his office and stared at his new assistant. Charlotte Potter was petite and curvy, with long, wavy blond hair restrained by a ponytail at the base of her neck. She had vivid blue eyes, full lips on a mouth that was rarely quiet and she seemed to be in constant motion.
He’d hired her as a favor to a retiring board member who had developed a fondness for her when she’d been his assistant. But Charlotte had only been with Vance a week now and he knew it wasn’t going to work out.
She was too young, too pretty and too … She turned away to bend down and open the bottom drawer of the wood-grain file cabinet and he shook his head. Vance’s gaze locked on the curve of her behind in the sleek black slacks she wore. Charlotte was too everything.
When she stood up, producing a thick, linen envelope for him, he told himself that he should simply pawn her services off on someone else in the company. He couldn’t exactly fire her for being a distraction, but he sure as hell resented it.
Politically incorrect or not, Vance preferred his assistants to be either matronly or male.
His former assistant, Claire, had retired at sixty-five. She was cool, unflappable and notoriously anal about her workspace. There had never been so much as a pen out of place on her desk. Vance had felt confident that Claire was on top of everything.
Charlotte, on the other hand … He scowled at the ficus tree in the corner, the ferns on the shelf closest to the window and the deep-purple African violets on the corner of her desk. There were framed photos taking up space on her desk as well, though he hadn’t looked at them too closely; he hadn’t taken the time to do much more than notice the clutter.
Her pens were kept in a mug shaped like a New York Jets football helmet and there was a dish of M&M’s beside her phone. Clearly, he never should have done that favor. No good deed goes unpunished, his father had often said. Turned out, the old man was right.
Vance didn’t want distractions in the office under the best of circumstances. And now, with possible trouble looming with Rothschild, he wanted it even less—and if that made him a damn chauvinist, so be it.
As one of the last Waverlys associated with the auction house, Vance liked keeping his business hours devoted to business. And a pretty woman was not conducive to concentration.
“Thanks, Charlotte,” he said, heading for his office. “Hold my calls until after the board meeting.”
“I will. Oh, and call me Charlie,” she said brightly.
Vance stopped, looked back over his shoulder at her and was nearly blinded by her brilliant smile. She went back to her desk and began flipping through the stack of mail. The long sweep of her hair fell over one shoulder and lay across her breast. Something inside him fisted uncomfortably. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but the woman was impossible to ignore.
Scowling to himself, he leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb and sipped at the coffee she’d given him. Watching her, he realized she was humming again as she had all last week. Off-key humming. Tone-deaf off-key.
He shook his head wearily. He had calls to make to Waverly’s London office, to check on upcoming auctions there. A corner of his mind was still working over the rumors about Ann and what that could mean to the auction house. And he was in no mood for the board meeting scheduled for that afternoon.
Charlotte straightened up, turned around and gasped, slapping one hand to her chest as if to hold her heart in place. Then she laughed shortly and shook her head. “You scared me for a second. I thought you had gone to your office.”
He should have. Instead, he’d been “distracted.” Not good. Frowning at his own wayward thoughts, he asked, “Did you have a chance to type up the agenda for today’s
