His Baby. Muriel JensenЧитать онлайн книгу.
staffs in England. “I wish you wouldn’t wait on me, sir. It makes me nervous.”
Killian pointed him back into his chair and sat on the edge of his desk with his own cup. “It makes me nervous when you stand every time I do. I’m not titled gentry, Jack, just your employer. And you don’t have to call me ‘sir.”’
“Yes, sir.” At Killian’s frown, Jack closed his eyes and groaned. “Even after two years at Southern Massachusetts University, studying business and psychology, I’m having trouble getting the drift of American ways.”
“Just relax.”
“Yes, sir.”
Letting that issue drop for now, Killian indicated the file from which Jack read. “Go on. Productivity and morale are up. Good.” Adding an exercise room to every Abbott Mills store and all other factories the corporation owned had been a good idea. “Injuries and absenteeism are down. I like that.”
Jack held his cup uncomfortably and searched for his place in his notes with his index finger. “Mrs. Hamilton reports that the new cleaning firm we hired for the Dartmouth store is working out very well, as is the new buyer for women’s wear, who came on board last month.”
“All good news,” Killian observed with a smile. “There now, that wasn’t so bad.”
Jack smiled with relief. Killian liked reports given in person rather than dry written reports read at board meetings, and this was Jack’s first. Tall and thickly built, the man had the posture of a marine at fifty-six. When Killian had interviewed him, wanting the right man for the job, he’d asked him why he’d left England after almost a lifetime.
Jack had replied that he’d been widowed, and his only son had died in his teens in a riding accident. “I felt old and aimless,” he’d admitted candidly, “and thought I needed new surroundings.
“I’m here to stay,” he’d said. “You’ll notice on my references that I was with the duke of Burrage for twelve years, until he lost the house to taxes. Then I spent twenty-two years in the service of Lord Dunnsford. I like to put down roots.”
Killian had hired him. He, too, favored roots.
That had been almost three months ago, and he now considered it the smartest move he’d ever made as CEO of Abbott Mills.
Except for Jack’s tendency to treat him like royalty.
The coffee was good—a Zimbabwe blend his secretary, Barbara Garrett, had bought at a little coffee roaster’s on the ground floor of the Abbott Building. The personnel report was good—one more thing he wouldn’t have to worry about in the next few months. And the sun warming his back through his midtown Manhattan window was good, reminding him how nice getting home this weekend, maybe logging some time on the beach, would be.
Jack sighed, obviously pleased. “I’m glad that’s over, sir. Mr. Abbott.”
“But you have to stop thinking of coming to this office as an appearance before the throne. We’re a pretty democratic company.
“Here we all work together in the service of our customers, so to speak. You’ll relax after you’ve spent time with everyone at our annual meeting.”
Jack looked doubtful. “I was told it’s at your home on Long Island this year. Is that true?”
“Yes. We usually get together at a big hotel to meet new members of the staff, look over Abbott Mills’s new products and plan strategy for next year. Last year was great for Abbott Mills and I want everyone to know how much I appreciate the hard work. You’ll give your report to the corporate staff and I think you’ll have a good time.”
“I will?” Jack’s voice went up an octave.
“You will. You did this very well. You’ll be fine. Everyone will stay for the weekend, enjoy the grounds and the beach. It’s a painless way to get things done.”
“Yes. Mr. Abbott.”
Killian took the copy of Jack’s report and perused it. “Anything else I should know about?”
“I don’t think so, sir. The written report has a little more detail, but it all relates to the highlights I’ve already given you. The personnel picture is very good.”
Killian nodded, flipping through the pages. He stopped when he came to the profile of the new employee in women’s wear. She’d been a lucky find, so Jack had told him when he’d hired her as a buyer. She had an MBA and considerable experience in the fashion business. Jack had been enthusiastic about her people skills and her knowledge of—Oh, God!
Killian’s hands froze on the report when his eyes ran over her previous experience. Buyer for Bloomford’s department stores. Three years as marketing manager for Hyatt Furniture in Newport News, Virginia.
Hyatt Furniture!
Three years modeling for…André McGinty!
Dread rising in him, he reread the vital identifying information.
Name: Cordelia Hyatt.
Killian surged to his feet and said a few words Jack had probably not heard among the English gentry, judging by his sudden blanching. Killian slapped the report on his desk and turned to confront Jack, unable to believe the man had done this to him. He was not surprised to find that Jack, too, had gotten to his feet.
“What, sir?” Jack asked in a calm voice. “What is it? Whatever it is, I can fix it.”
“You damn well better, Jack,” Killian replied, temper barely held in check. “You just hired my wife!”
Jack stared at him for a confused moment. “You mean…the one you’re…divorcing?”
“Yes, the one I’m divorcing!” Killian shouted. Then, remembering that he never shouted, he drew a breath and counted ten beats of his heart. That didn’t take long; it was thumping. “How many wives do I have?” he asked reasonably. “Cordelia Hyatt is my wife.”
“Forgive me, sir, but I didn’t know that.” Jack spoke quietly, though he appeared distressed. “When I was first hired, I’d heard rumors of your divorce after only three months, but I didn’t know…I mean…I’d heard your wife was in Scotland. Brokenhearted, everyone said.”
Brokenhearted. Killian glared at him. She had not been brokenhearted. She was just used to having things her way and she’d wanted him very badly. Losing him had simply been a disappointment. One she should have anticipated when she slept with Brian Girard, marketing manager of the November Corporation and son of Corbin Girard, its CEO.
The Girards and the Abbotts had been in serious competition for the upscale ready-to-wear market for years, and Killian’s father and Corbin Girard had hated each other. Killian and Brian had always felt obliged to suspect each other because of that situation. That the press and society put them in opposite corners of the business ring contributed to their contentiousness.
The Girards had been threatening a takeover of Abbott Mills for several years now, and though Killian felt confident that the corporation was too secure for that to happen, the weight of responsibility for a business that had been in his family for over two hundred years made him worry anyway.
Jack squared his shoulders under Killian’s stare. “That’s what they said,” he insisted. “How was I to suspect she’d be back wanting employment? And you must admit that this trend among American women to retain their maiden name contributes to this kind of confusion.”
Killian had to grant him that. He went to the bar behind his desk, ignored the coffeepot and poured himself a shot of bourbon. “She did take my name,” he said, gulping it down. It burned a trail down to his stomach but failed to provide the warming comfort he waited for. He had to acknowledge that it probably wasn’t coming. And he had a meeting with his advertising rep in half an hour; he couldn’t have a second drink. “I’m sure she took advantage of the fact that you were new to the company and wouldn’t