stared at Dora. “This wasn’t on my schedule. Why did they start without me?”
Dora shot her a faux sympathetic glance. “Because Alfredo Bellagio called the meeting.”
“Crap. Is he actually on site or just speakerphone?”
“On site.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I offered to take notes for you during the meeting.”
I’ll bet you did. She felt her stomach tighten with pressure. The beginning of a panic attack. She’d never had panic attacks until fifteen months ago.
“Where are they meeting?” Trina asked.
“Umm, let me see,” Dora said, slowly perusing the few papers on her desk.
Trina resisted the urge to give Dora’s hair a strong yank. She was convinced that beneath Dora’s silky black locks lay a pair of horns. “I guess I can call Marc Waterson’s assistant. She would know.”
Dora immediately lifted a piece of paper and offered it to Trina. “No need. Here’s the message Ben left for you.”
Executive room, she read and rushed into her office to pull her laptop from the case then checked her desk for any further messages that Dora the devil may have delayed delivering. Nothing.
Mentally reassuring herself that her tardiness was no big deal, she took the elevator up to the executive floor and gave a nod to the gatekeeper.
She turned the doorknob as quietly as possible and entered the conference room that held at first glance about a dozen Bellagio executives and key employees who all looked at her.
Trina gave a falsely confident smile and murmured, “Good morning.”
She despised being late, especially for business meetings. It immediately put you behind the game, and Trina had always tried to stay on top of her game.
Bellagio was predominantly dominated by men of Italian descent with years of chauvinistic conditioning. She’d known from the beginning she would be putting herself in an uphill battle to get where she wanted to go. The chemistry of the people at the company, and the fact that they took innovative, even ballsey measures to increase their market share had been irresistible. Plus, she loved the product. Great shoes. Bellagio shoes did amazing things for a woman’s legs, rear end and her self-confidence, and for her, they were free.
Taking a seat at the large table next to her PR chief, she opened her laptop and booted it up. A cute peppy blond woman resumed speaking, pointing to a Power-Point presentation with pie charts indicating public opinion polls, studies and demographic profiles.
She typed a few notes as the woman began to display proposed ads for Fall and Winter shoes. After concentrating on the ads, she suddenly noticed the ad company’s logo in the corner of the screen.
Her stomach immediately drew into a tight knot of panic. Eager to get the attention away from her tardy entrance, she’d only taken a cursory glance around the room. She looked more thoroughly, her gaze taking in each person.
Leaning forward, she looked past her PR chief, past two marketing execs to VP Marc Waterson as he cocked his head to one side and there he was.
Trina’s breath stopped in her chest. Panic roared through her. Oh, my God, please help! She had known that eventually she would see him again. She’d prepared for a hundred scenarios, even this one, but her brain locked up.
Walker Gordon rose to his feet beside perky girl wearing his confident, reassuring half smile. His shoulders were broad and his black suit fit his lean, muscular body well. He was obviously still working out, she observed sourly. He was so well-groomed he almost could have been a model, but Trina knew that the sexiest thing about Walker wasn’t his body. It was the way his mind worked.
He was a fascinating mix of conservative and risk-taker. He came across as both solid and innovative and he didn’t rely on his charm to get a deal.
“We’re excited about this ad campaign, and about the prospect of working more with Bellagio,” Walker said. “Thank you for letting us bid for your business again. We’d love to have your feedback.”
He gave a nod of respect to Alfredo Bellagio and glanced around the room. His gaze lingered on her for a long moment and she suddenly felt self-conscious. She knew what he saw. Her hair had grown past her shoulders and was in dire need of a cut and style. Despite early mornings and nonstop days that sent her crawling to bed by 10:00 p.m., she still hadn’t quite gotten rid of fifteen pounds she’d gained. Feeling his scrutiny, she wondered if he saw the dark circles she tried to hide. Had she put on concealer this morning? Everything had been a blur.
“What is the model wearing underneath her trench coat and how can I get her number?” a guy from marketing cracked, breaking the silence.
Trina felt light-headed. She wondered how long a person could go without breathing. She had to get out of here. Just for a moment. A week would be better. But she would take a moment.
Her oxygen-deprived brain quickly provided an option. She pressed a button on her cell phone, casually placed it on the cherry table and seconds later it vibrated.
She picked it up. “Looks like someone from the Atlanta Constitution,” she whispered to her supervisor, Ben. “I’d better take it. Excuse me,” she said, and darted out of the room.
Heading straight for the restroom, she locked the door behind her and covered her face with her trembling hands. “Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap. What am I going to do?”
When Walker had left for Paris and hadn’t returned for over a year, she’d told herself the fairy tale that she would never have to talk with him again.
The memory of what had happened between them the night of his nonwedding bombarded her. Exhausted from handling the press, maximizing exposure opportunities at the same time she performed damage control, she’d slipped into a bar close to her apartment for a mojito.
And that had been the beginning of when her pity had gotten her into mojito trouble, Trina thought as she stared into the ladies’ room mirror. She needed to pull herself out of Memoryville and get back to that meeting. Yanking a towel from the dispenser, she dampened it with cool water and pressed it against her forehead and throat.
She could do this. She could return to this meeting and pretend that she was okay-fine for a maximum of forty-five minutes. She could pretend. Pretending was what PR was all about.
Trina wasn’t pretending, however, that she didn’t want Bellagio to renew the advertising contract with Walker’s company. She’d strongly advocated putting the contract out for bid and the board had decided to give Walker’s group first shot. If they didn’t pan out, then Bellagio would accept other bids.
Reentering the room, she gave a businesslike nod and returned to her seat next to her supervisor.
“I like the sophistication of this campaign,” Walker said. “The models we have in mind will portray wealth and beauty. They’ll be the kind of person your customer wants to be.”
“Anyone mention the bar ads yet?” she whispered to her boss, Ben.
He glanced at her and shook his head. “No. Good point.” He turned toward Walker. “One of the things we want to achieve with this campaign is appealing to a younger demographic. I
