Chapter Nine
When she walked into the living room of the suite after cleaning up and dressing, she found Ian sitting at a desk, his computer open, his phone next to his ear.
“I’ve gone over his background extensively. His experience is steeped in venture-capitalist and fly-by-night Internet companies. He hasn’t got a stitch of financial discipline,” she heard him say. He glanced up and noticed her walk into the room. His eyes remained on her as he spoke. “What I actually told you is that you may hire whomever you wanted from a pool of acceptable CFO candidates, Declan. You have yet to supply me with that pool, so until you do, don’t start the hiring process, especially with a joker like this.” Another pause. “That may be true for all the other companies in the world, but not for one of mine,” he said, his voice like dry ice, before he said good-bye briskly.
“Sorry about that,” he said, standing and removing his glasses. “I’m having a hard time staffing a start-up company.”
“What sort of a company is it?” Francesca asked, interested. He never really spoke to her much about his work.
“A social-media-gaming concept that I’m test-driving in Europe.”
“And you’re having trouble finding the executives you want?”
He sighed and stood. He looked regal casual—a new term she made up on the spot to describe Ian’s apparel when he wasn’t wearing his typical suit. Today, it involved a cobalt-blue V-neck lightweight sweater, a white dress shirt beneath showing at the collar, and a pair of black pants that did god-awful sexy things for his narrow hips and long legs.
“Yes, among other things,” he admitted, tapping on his computer keyboard. “It’s usually that way, though. Unfortunately, my youth-oriented market appeals to the wild-gunslinger variety of executive who likes to spend my money merely because it’s there.”
“And while you may be liberal in your product and marketing ideas, you’re a rigid financial conservative?”
He looked up from his computer before he closed the monitor and walked toward her. “Do you know very much about business?”
“Not an iota. I’m a walking financial disaster. Ask Davie. I can barely swing my rent every month. I was just guessing about your business style from what I know of your personality.” He paused a few feet in front of her and raised his eyelids slightly, his manner one of amused expectancy.
“Personality?”
“You know,” she said, her cheeks heating. “The control-freak thing.”
He smiled and reached up to her touch her cheek, as though tracing the path of the warmth.
“I’m not afraid to spend money—and a lot of it—I just want to know it’s for an excellent reason. You look very pretty,” he said abruptly, changing the subject.
“Thank you,” she murmured, glancing down in embarrassment at the simple long-sleeve cotton shirt she wore tucked into low-riding jeans with her favorite belt. She’d left her hair down but pinned back the front to keep it off her face. “I . . . I didn’t bring that much to wear. I wasn’t sure what you wanted to do this afternoon.”
“Ah . . . speaking of which . . .” Ian dropped his hand from her cheek and checked his watch. As if his focus on the time had made it happen, a knock resounded on the suite door. He strode across the room and opened it. An attractive woman in her forties, wearing a chocolate-brown dress and stunning lizard-skin heels entered the suite. Francesca stood there, bewildered, as Ian exchanged greetings with the woman in French and then waved toward Francesca significantly.
“Francesca, this is Margarite. She’s my shopping assistant. She speaks French and Italian, but not English.”
Francesca exchanged greetings with the woman in the limited French she knew. She looked at Ian with a question in her eyes when the woman withdrew a tape measure and what looked like a wooden ruler contraption from the posh handbag she was carrying.
When she walked into the living room of the suite after cleaning up and dressing, she found Ian sitting at a desk, his computer open, his phone next to his ear.
“I’ve gone over his background extensively. His experience is steeped in venture-capitalist and fly-by-night Internet companies. He hasn’t got a stitch of financial discipline,” she heard him say. He glanced up and noticed her walk into the room. His eyes remained on her as he spoke. “What I actually told you is that you may hire whomever you wanted from a pool of acceptable CFO candidates, Declan. You have yet to supply me with that pool, so until you do, don’t start the hiring process, especially with a joker like this.” Another pause. “That may be true for all the other companies in the world, but not for one of mine,” he said, his voice like dry ice, before he said good-bye briskly.
“Sorry about that,” he said, standing and removing his glasses. “I’m having a hard time staffing a start-up company.”
“What sort of a company is it?” Francesca asked, interested. He never really spoke to her much about his work.
“A social-media-gaming concept that I’m test-driving in Europe.”
“And you’re having trouble finding the executives you want?”
He sighed and stood. He looked regal casual—a new term she made up on the spot to describe Ian’s apparel when he wasn’t wearing his typical suit. Today, it involved a cobalt-blue V-neck lightweight sweater, a white dress shirt beneath showing at the collar, and a pair of black pants that did god-awful sexy things for his narrow hips and long legs.
“Yes, among other things,” he admitted, tapping on his computer keyboard. “It’s usually that way, though. Unfortunately, my youth-oriented market appeals to the wild-gunslinger variety of executive who likes to spend my money merely because it’s there.”
“And while you may be liberal in your product and marketing ideas, you’re a rigid financial conservative?”
He looked up from his computer before he closed the monitor and walked toward her. “Do you know very much about business?”
“Not an iota. I’m a walking financial disaster. Ask Davie. I can barely swing my rent every month. I was just guessing about your business style from what I know of your personality.” He paused a few feet in front of her and raised his eyelids slightly, his manner one of amused expectancy.
“Personality?”
“You know,” she said, her cheeks heating. “The control-freak thing.”
He smiled and reached up to her touch her cheek, as though tracing the path of the warmth.
“I’m not afraid to spend money—and a lot of it—I just want to know it’s for an excellent reason. You look very pretty,” he said abruptly, changing the subject.
“Thank you,” she murmured, glancing down in embarrassment at the simple long-sleeve cotton shirt she wore tucked into low-riding jeans with her favorite belt. She’d left her hair down but pinned back the front to keep it off her face. “I . . . I didn’t bring that much to wear. I wasn’t sure what you wanted to do this afternoon.”
“Ah . . . speaking of which . . .” Ian dropped his hand from her cheek and checked his watch. As if his focus on the time had made it happen, a knock resounded on the suite door. He strode across the room and opened it. An attractive woman in her forties, wearing a chocolate-brown dress and stunning lizard-skin heels entered the suite. Francesca stood there, bewildered, as Ian exchanged greetings with the woman in French and then waved toward Francesca significantly.
“Francesca, this is Margarite. She’s my shopping assistant. She speaks French and Italian, but not English.”
Francesca exchanged greetings with the woman in the limited French she knew. She looked at Ian with a question in her eyes when the woman withdrew a tape measure and what looked like a wooden ruler contraption from the posh handbag she was carrying.
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