however, had outmaneuvered him, presenting her opinion that the high turnover rate was caused by employee anxieties and misunderstandings based mainly on language barriers. With Hunter’s oversight and the old man’s grudging consent, hotel conference rooms were turned over to the staff once a week. The college students taught English. Groups representing different cultures explained their customs, religions, and social structures. They had fashion shows. The hotel chefs prepared ethnic foods. Families were invited.
The turnover rate dropped, and Riley knew a crisis had been averted. He became more circumspect in how he handled the housekeeping staff, and he gave Juanita a wide berth. Not only did she have Hunter’s ear and the staff’s respect, but he knew from reading Derek’s e-mails to his cyber pals that she doted on Hunter’s insipid little boyfriend.
Riley finally allowed himself a satisfied smile. This time, he’d outfoxed Juanita. When he’d found out Derek was looking for employment, he called in a favor from one of Drayden’s Human Resources managers, and Derek’s new job was a done deal. If Riley was reading Garry Prophet’s e-mail correctly, Hunter was apparently unhappy enough with his boy-toy-turned-shoe-salesman to have requested the temporary assignment to the Sydney Congreve.
Riley intended to take advantage of Hunter’s absence. He would not only run the hotel flawlessly, but he’d also find a way to get rid of Derek Anderson. He was sure both accomplishments would score points with Randolph Congreve. Before long, he’d resume his climb up the ladder, finally making it to the pinnacle—management of the Manhattan Congreve, where he could rub shoulders with real power.
He lit another Gitane and electronically tiptoed his way through Derek’s computer. None of Derek’s e-mails provided any useful information about his relationship with Hunter, and Riley rolled his eyes at the history trail of porn sites Derek had looked at. These did nothing for Riley, but hopefully they’d whip Derek into such a frenzy of lust that he’d start cheating on Hunter. That might prove to be his final undoing. With Hunter in another country and Derek on his way out the door, Riley’s cigarette took on the taste of victory.
5
That Witch!
Natasha Deere dropped the remainder of her microwaved waffle down the garbage disposal and listened to the grinding noise with a fleeting wish that bland people could be as easily discarded. She took her coffee with her to the bathroom, where she pulled back her long, dark hair and wound it into a tight bun. She put on her makeup, then dressed in a black suit with a red silk blouse. After downing the rest of her coffee, she swished some mouthwash and spit it into the sink with deliberate aim.
Today was going to be a good day. For her.
Mondays were always her favorite day. They were symbolic of new beginnings. Sundays were for sissies, total throwaway days. It also didn’t hurt that most people hated Mondays. That made Natasha love them all the more. The productive week began on Monday, and for as long as Natasha could remember, she’d been driven to conquer one Sunday after another.
As a little girl growing up in Los Angeles, she’d attended the finest private schools. Her parents, who could barely stand her—the feeling was mutual—surrendered to their true feelings about their daughter and sent her to boarding school when she was a teenager. Although never popular, she was invited to all the other girls’ parties for the simple reason that her parents always sent great presents, and word had gotten around. Most birthday girls’ only problem with accepting the present was having to put up with Natasha for a few hours at the party.
Natasha couldn’t have cared less. It wasn’t like she actually chose the present. She just told her mother during their weekly phone call that she’d been invited to a birthday party, and the present would arrive, already wrapped, with a card for her to sign and attach, in plenty of time for the festivities. It was always something expensive and tasteful, classic and timeless. The Perfect Gift. The birthday girl would coo, and her bimbo friends would make comments of admiration. Natasha could see the pupils of their eyes turn into dollar signs, as in a cartoon.
Natasha wasn’t bothered by the fact that they liked her gifts more than they liked her. She had a plan, and it didn’t allow for emotional attachments. People were a necessary evil, something to put up with while she worked toward her goal. Occasionally, one might serve as a vehicle to get what she wanted. More than anything, she wanted to be rich and free of her parents.
By the time Natasha started working, her ambition and drive were the most noticeable parts of her personality. The less noticeable part, by comparison, was her striking beauty. If she chose to leave it down, her bouncy, dark hair was full of body, and her watery blue eyes could have been mistaken for pools. She had high cheekbones and a strong but not too defined jaw. Her figure was mannequin-perfect; it always had been. Her legs were long, and she looked great in anything she wore.
Natasha had grown up in a world where beauty was bankable. Her mother belonged to a group of women whose lives were a futile quest to find the right cream, the right plastic surgeon, or the right drug to preserve beauty. Natasha refused to foolishly turn herself into a simpering female who traded on her looks. Beauty was brief. Financial freedom was forever.
She worked the whole time she was in college, not because she had to, but because it was part of the plan. She maneuvered her way through a number of departments in the Neiman’s on Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills while she got her business degree at USC, then her MBA at UCLA. She could be found anywhere, from Cosmetics to Fine Jewelry, from Handbags to Furs.
After completing her MBA, Natasha told her parents, during a conversation at some holiday function that she had long since blocked out, that she didn’t need them or their money. The latter of the two declarations she would come to regret. It had seemed like a good idea at the time.
Natasha knew that she’d formed her only significant relationship with the retail world. It was the best vehicle to show off what she was capable of. She hadn’t wanted to stay in California, and she found herself going from place to place. She’d work her way up the ladder at one location, then move on to a more upscale store somewhere else.
As she climbed the ladder, and occasionally slept under it, she came to realize that it mattered even less than she’d thought whether people liked her. Business was not about making friends. What a useless endeavor that would be. Friends. Natasha scoffed at the thought.
But she also learned that it paid to make a few of the others think she was their friend. It didn’t have to be true, but if she pretended to bond with a couple of the people on her staff, it made life easier. The ones who hated her—and there were always plenty—would inevitably say something to one of the others who didn’t, and someone would at least try to make it seem like Natasha wasn’t entirely evil. Not that she cared if they thought she was evil. The payoff was in finding out who thought she was evil, and whether they could in any way threaten her, and if so, how to eliminate them.
She strode with purpose through the employee entrance of Drayden’s, and the graveyard shift security guard greeted her. “Good morning, Ms. Deere.”
“Good morning,” she replied with a nod and kept her pace steady as she continued down the hall.
“Had a good day yesterday, did we?” the guard persisted.
“We always do,” Natasha said.
She turned the corner and set her handbag on her desk, then went to the sales floor. Her first task was always making sure that those who’d closed the night before had left things ready for the start of a new day.
She stopped short when her vantage point allowed her to see that a shoe on the wall display had not been properly replaced. “Idiots,” she said aloud. She marched over and replaced the shoe on its shelf.
She then moved from table to table with an imaginary white glove, making mental notes of who’d worked the night before. Finally, she went back to her computer and checked the previous evening’s sales figures for each person who’d been scheduled, comparing those figures to what that person was expected to sell per hour. As she looked at the sales figure for Jonquil, she frowned.