Nothing But The Best. Kristin Hardy
Her voice was dry. She grinned at him. “Relax, it’ll be fine. This time next week, you’ll be back in Milan.”
“London,” he corrected.
“Wherever. I think we’re both smart enough to keep a handle on it. No harm, no foul.”
That was overstating the case. It had certainly done harm to him—to his peace of mind, anyway. And yet, as much as he knew how narrowly they’d avoided trouble, he was glad they hadn’t figured out what was going on until after the fact, because the fact had been pretty damned memorable.
Cilla put out her hand. “We cool?”
“We cool.” He shook with her, letting go as quickly as he could. Before he really registered the feel of her skin.
Cilla blew out a breath. “Oh-kay. I’m going to hit the ladies’ room. That way we won’t walk back in together.”
“Worried about your father suspecting something?”
“I’m not, no,” she said frankly. “But it might be best for you if we keep our distance.”
He knew she was a creature of warmth, of humor, of appetites. Now, here was something he hadn’t expected—her concern.
Color stained her cheeks at his pleased stare. “What?”
Rand couldn’t prevent the smile. “Taking care of me?”
“Oh, well, just…paying back the good deed.”
He itched to brush his lips over hers. Off-limits, he reminded himself. “You’ve got a nice soft side, Priscilla,” he murmured.
“Only my grandmother ever called me that,” she muttered uncomfortably.
“You’ve got a nice soft side,” he repeated. “I’m glad I could be your Samaritan.”
4
MORNING CAME far too quickly for Cilla’s taste. Her father was of the lark persuasion and assumed everyone else was happy starting at seven-thirty. Of course, as president, CEO and chief shareholder of Danforth, she supposed he was entitled to think whatever he liked. What she thought, as she found a seat, was that nine o’clock would have been far more popular.
The conference room was furnished in dark wood and jewel-toned linens. No spectacular views here. The focus now was on work. The Danforth groups sat around an open rectangle of tables, a briefing book before each person. Pitchers of water and dishes of candy sat at intervals on the dark green table coverings. To one side, a breakfast buffet groaned with eggs and bacon and fruit, but at this hour Cilla couldn’t even think about it. All she wanted was coffee and consciousness.
Luckily, nothing on the early-morning agenda required any preparation from her, so she was able to merely absorb caffeine until she was marginally awake. Then Rand walked in and sat next to her. Butterflies fluttered around in her stomach even as she gave him a professional smile and nod. No way was she going to risk shaking hands.
She turned to the manager on her other side, chatting casually until her father brought the meeting to order. That should do it, she thought as the various department heads began reporting on the new business ventures, submitting to merciless grillings by her father and the board. Cilla didn’t bother to open her briefing book. She’d studied all the material ahead of time. Be prepared was one of her father’s mottos, and she’d taken it very much to heart.
It was interesting to watch Rand as he found himself on the hot seat, summarizing his work on the Milan store and the European expansion in general. Danforth had sunk a fair chunk of change into the venture, and the responsibility sat squarely on Rand’s shoulders. Still, he seemed to be at ease, even enjoying himself. Of course, through a combination of luck and skill, his news was rosy, which always simplified things.
His suit today was camel colored with a white shirt and a tie of pale gold patterned with gray. “We’re planning the grand opening of the Milan store in two weeks.” Rand looked around the room, focusing on her father. “The returns from the first month are strong. I think we’ve got a winner.”
“What comes next?” The present never counted so much to her father as the future. Being two steps ahead was the only way to compete.
“I’m in negotiations on properties in London and Zurich, and investigating Berlin.”
“Why not Paris?” her father demanded. “That was the initial plan.”
It didn’t faze Rand. “After my preliminary investigations, I reconsidered, as I reported in my February 5 memo. I think we should take the easy pickings first. Paris is a very competitive market. Let’s get the other properties rolling. We can perfect our marketing and stock for the European clientele, build buzz so that we’ve got more bounce when we go into Paris.”
Smooth, Cilla thought, very smooth. There were nods and mutterings of agreement from around the room, and they moved on.
“One last item to cover in business development,” her father announced. “Our boutique venture on Melrose Avenue, Danforth Annex.”
And Sam Danforth didn’t look happy about it. “Let’s dispense with this one quickly and move on to strategic planning. As most of you know, Stewart Law put this one together, he has since resigned.”
Poor Stewart, Cilla thought sympathetically. She might not have agreed with his execution, but there was no doubt he’d put everything he had into making the store work.
“If you’ll look in your briefing books,” her father continued, “you’ll see the financials for the first year of operation.”
Paper rustled as people turned to the appropriate page. Someone whistled. Cilla didn’t even bother to look. She knew the numbers by heart.
“Off plan is one thing. This is a complete failure,” Danforth pronounced. “Unfortunately, it’s still our problem. The question is, what do we do?”
Cilla felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck. This was it. This was the opportunity she’d been waiting for. She’d done her research. As soon as she saw the opening, she was going to dive for it.
“You going to bring in a tiger team?” one of the board members asked.
Danforth shook his head. “I don’t see the point. The concept doesn’t work. I plan to close it and cut our losses. The market in L.A. clearly won’t support more than one Danforth store.”
Close down a property on Melrose? Cilla stared at her father. It was sheer lunacy. “If you give up the space, you’ll be compounding one strategic error with another,” she heard herself saying calmly.
Around the room, heads turned, first to her, then to her father. Danforth wasn’t at the head of the table—with the arrangement, there wasn’t any such thing—but he was the one everybody looked to, even so. And by his reaction, he wasn’t amused. “I’m looking at a strategic error of about seven million dollars. How is breaking a lease going to compound that?”
“Giving up an opportunity to make money is just as bad as losing capital, and if you walk away from Danforth Annex, that’s just what you’ll be doing.”
“We don’t just need a modest sales increase at this store,” he said impatiently. “It has to completely reverse, and I don’t see a way to do that. We need to recognize that the Danforth concept is not working there and go on.”
“Exactly.” It was just the opening she needed. “The Danforth concept hasn’t worked there because the people who come to Melrose are not the same people who shop at the Rodeo Drive store.”
“If we’re not looking at a clientele with the money to support the boutique, then we should pull out,” Bernard Fox put in.
Cilla shook her head. “It’s not a question of money. The people who shop upper Melrose have plenty of it, but they’re not looking for their mother’s store. Even if they like the