quite the connoisseur of gourmet dining, wagging his little tail at anything with a succulent aroma, Clara managed to bluff her way through the restaurants of Europe with little trouble.
But Biscuit was dead, she thought glumly as she stepped into the waiting BMG limo—she’d been surprised and grateful to see a driver waiting in the lobby for her—and she had no idea how she was going to go it alone. Or if she’d even be given a chance.
Clara had researched BMG as soon as the take-over rumors began. She knew they had a food editor on staff, one Spencer James, though what he did—restaurant openings, chatting up famous chefs, enlightening readership on the world of gastronomy—was technically much different from the anonymous reviews she did. Many papers, in the interest of economy, combined the two concepts. Did she stand a chance against a fifty-something man with twenty years tenure at BMG? Doubtful.
Nonetheless, Clara would face Bartel with the dignity and grace of a professional English woman, and she would be careful to step over the pools of blood on her way out the door.
She rode the elevator to the top floor of BMG headquarters, mentally rehearsing her exit speech.
Yes, Mr. Bartel, I understand, but I do think you’re making a mistake.
With no disrespect, sir, you’ll find that Biscuit and I have a loyal and extensive fan base that spans numerous countries.
No, Kingsley—may I call you Kingsley?—I don’t believe Biscuit’s death will affect my column or my readership.
Fine sir, I’ll see myself out. I wish you only the best of luck in your European endeavours.
Upon exit, her final, unselfish words would be, “Please be good to Charlie.” Because she was genuinely fond of the chap.
Dignity, dignity, she mentally recited as she approached Kingsley’s lair. She must, under any and all circumstances, keep her dignity .
She stopped at the receptionist’s desk, vacant at this early hour, and nicked a few tissues to stash in her handbag in case things got ugly.
Bartel’s door was open. “Come in, Miss Bean, come in,” he called when he noticed her standing in the lobby. She tilted her head for a better view. His office was immense. She could see a grand wooden desk in front of a wall of windows, the sparkling Biscayne Bay beyond practically blinding her with its vast brilliance. It would take her an awkward day just to traverse the room and reach Bartel for a handshake.
Clara straightened her spine, tilted her nose upward a degree, and strode across the threshold with a bearing Queen Victoria couldn’t fault.
There was no doubt in her mind her knees would not have buckled gracelessly had she not noticed Luc leaning against the sidebar, sipping a tall glass of orange juice, looking like a blue-eyed devil.
Chapter 9
C lara caught herself before she went sprawling face first on the dark hardwood floor. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him start forward, as if to catch her, but she managed to correct her trajectory and stay upright. She mumbled something about a misstep, but the heat gathering on her neck and cheeks eroded her effort to remain unflappable, the cool poise she’d mustered gone.
“Clara! You’re here!”
“Charlie?” she said, surprised to see her boss standing next to him. She shifted her gaze to Bartel, then back to Charlie, carefully avoiding Luc’s hooded eyes.
Lovely. Her own personal firing squad. “What’s going on? Why are you… did I get our meeting time wrong?”
“No, no, dove,” Charlie clucked. “It’s spot on eight. You get an A plus for punctuality. Shall I make the intros then?” he said, with a glance to Bartel. “Right, then. Clara, this is Luc.” Charlie took her by the arm and tugged her closer. “Luc Bees-kaay,” he said, drawing the name out with awkward emphasis.
Luc, dangerously handsome in a dark grey suit with navy shirt and tie, zeroed his gaze on her mouth. If spontaneous combustion were triggered by embarrassment, she’d
But Biscuit was dead, she thought glumly as she stepped into the waiting BMG limo—she’d been surprised and grateful to see a driver waiting in the lobby for her—and she had no idea how she was going to go it alone. Or if she’d even be given a chance.
Clara had researched BMG as soon as the take-over rumors began. She knew they had a food editor on staff, one Spencer James, though what he did—restaurant openings, chatting up famous chefs, enlightening readership on the world of gastronomy—was technically much different from the anonymous reviews she did. Many papers, in the interest of economy, combined the two concepts. Did she stand a chance against a fifty-something man with twenty years tenure at BMG? Doubtful.
Nonetheless, Clara would face Bartel with the dignity and grace of a professional English woman, and she would be careful to step over the pools of blood on her way out the door.
She rode the elevator to the top floor of BMG headquarters, mentally rehearsing her exit speech.
Yes, Mr. Bartel, I understand, but I do think you’re making a mistake.
With no disrespect, sir, you’ll find that Biscuit and I have a loyal and extensive fan base that spans numerous countries.
No, Kingsley—may I call you Kingsley?—I don’t believe Biscuit’s death will affect my column or my readership.
Fine sir, I’ll see myself out. I wish you only the best of luck in your European endeavours.
Upon exit, her final, unselfish words would be, “Please be good to Charlie.” Because she was genuinely fond of the chap.
Dignity, dignity, she mentally recited as she approached Kingsley’s lair. She must, under any and all circumstances, keep her dignity .
She stopped at the receptionist’s desk, vacant at this early hour, and nicked a few tissues to stash in her handbag in case things got ugly.
Bartel’s door was open. “Come in, Miss Bean, come in,” he called when he noticed her standing in the lobby. She tilted her head for a better view. His office was immense. She could see a grand wooden desk in front of a wall of windows, the sparkling Biscayne Bay beyond practically blinding her with its vast brilliance. It would take her an awkward day just to traverse the room and reach Bartel for a handshake.
Clara straightened her spine, tilted her nose upward a degree, and strode across the threshold with a bearing Queen Victoria couldn’t fault.
There was no doubt in her mind her knees would not have buckled gracelessly had she not noticed Luc leaning against the sidebar, sipping a tall glass of orange juice, looking like a blue-eyed devil.
Chapter 9
C lara caught herself before she went sprawling face first on the dark hardwood floor. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him start forward, as if to catch her, but she managed to correct her trajectory and stay upright. She mumbled something about a misstep, but the heat gathering on her neck and cheeks eroded her effort to remain unflappable, the cool poise she’d mustered gone.
“Clara! You’re here!”
“Charlie?” she said, surprised to see her boss standing next to him. She shifted her gaze to Bartel, then back to Charlie, carefully avoiding Luc’s hooded eyes.
Lovely. Her own personal firing squad. “What’s going on? Why are you… did I get our meeting time wrong?”
“No, no, dove,” Charlie clucked. “It’s spot on eight. You get an A plus for punctuality. Shall I make the intros then?” he said, with a glance to Bartel. “Right, then. Clara, this is Luc.” Charlie took her by the arm and tugged her closer. “Luc Bees-kaay,” he said, drawing the name out with awkward emphasis.
Luc, dangerously handsome in a dark grey suit with navy shirt and tie, zeroed his gaze on her mouth. If spontaneous combustion were triggered by embarrassment, she’d
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