Echoes of Titanic (35 page)

“Yes, please, I'd love that,” she said, putting away her papers and then falling into step beside him.

Thornton Resources didn't have a lot of square footage, but they made the most of what they had. Cole explained that they were a small outfit of just twelve employees, but that by keeping the overhead reasonably low and
having a talented, tight-knit staff that worked well together meant no duplication and no wasted efforts.

“We're a lean, mean resource machine,” he quipped. “And we've accomplished a lot of exciting things in just the few years we've been in business.”

“Good for you, Cole,” she said, meaning it. “That's awesome.”

As the owner of the company, he had the corner office, one with twice the windows and even more sunshine than in reception. Stepping inside, Kelsey felt at once that the pleasing space was both completely foreign and incredibly familiar—on the desk, his old Yankee Stadium pencil holder, on the shelves, his A to Z bookends and his little aquarium. She couldn't help but do a quick scan of the room for pictures or some evidence of his life outside these walls. But the only framed photo in the whole place was one she knew well: sixteen-year-old Cole posing with a gold medalist at the '96 Summer Olympics in Atlanta.

Unable to stop herself, Kelsey picked up the photo and studied it for a long moment. She and Cole had first met just a few weeks after that shot had been taken. How she missed the boy with the easy smile and the beautiful eyes.

“That was the same summer I joined the youth group,” Cole said, noting her interest.

“I remember,” she replied, placing it back on the desk. “Feels like yesterday sometimes, doesn't it?”

He nodded, eyeing her strangely. “Sometimes. Though usually it's the opposite, as though it were a lifetime ago.”

She nodded and glanced away, feeling suddenly shy. To cover her discomfort, she crossed the sunny room to the small tank on the shelf and bent to peer at the goldfish inside.

“That's not still Ginnie Mae, is it?”

“No, she died last year. That's Fannie Mae, and the other one is—”

“Let me guess, Freddie Mac?”

“Nope. Roi.”

“Roy?”

He grinned. “With an
i
. R-O-I.”

Kelsey chuckled. Only Cole would name a fish after the primary goal of everyone in their line of work, Return On Investment.

“Come on,” he said warmly. “I'll walk you out.”

She wished she could just ask him if he was married, what his life was
like these days, but she couldn't come up with a subtle way to get around to it and finally gave up thinking about it for now.

They headed back through the hallway together, and though she thought he'd only go as far as the front door, he stayed with her all the way down the stairs and even to the outside. He pointed toward the nearest subway entrance and then laughed and said, “Wait. I guess you already knew that. You took it to get here.”

Turning to face him, Kelsey wished she could think of some way to prolong their conversation. Somehow, standing in the circle of his gaze was much warmer and more comforting than the cold, empty place her own world had become.

“So tell me, what's up with nicknames like Thriller and Flash? Does everybody at Thornton Resources have one?”

Cole smiled. “Flash is short for Flasininski. His parents were Russian defectors during the Cold War. I've heard rumors they worked for the CIA and that's where he learned all of his skills, but he won't say either way.”

“Wow. How about Thriller?”

“Believe it or not, that's his real name. His mother was a big Michael Jackson fan, and the song had just come out when he was born.”

Stepping closer to avoid a double-wide stroller barreling toward her on the sidewalk, Kelsey said, “So what nickname do they call you? Coleslaw? Colby Cheese? The Colester?”

Eyes twinkling, he studied her face for a long moment.

“None of the above,” he replied, grinning. “In fact, if they know what's good for them, they won't call me anything but ‘Boss.'”

They parted after that with another hug, this one lingering slightly longer than the one before.

“Thank you again,” she whispered before pulling away.

Cole shrugged modestly, told her he would see her tonight, and turned to go inside.

Kelsey could still feel his strong arms around her as she walked to 8th Avenue and got on the subway. Twenty minutes later, telling herself to take her mind off Cole Thornton and focus on the task at hand, she got off at 5th and 53rd and walked to Park Avenue. There she turned and headed upward toward the offices of Queen's Fleet Management Group several blocks away.

No one had gotten back to her yet from Pamela's office, and she had a feeling no one would, at least not anytime soon. Better to drop in on the woman
unannounced, she'd decided, and shame her into giving Kelsey at least a few minutes of her time.

She spotted the building up ahead and slowed down, using the rest of the walk to review in her mind the points she intended to make. Though Pamela Greeley was past the usual retirement age of sixty-five, that didn't mean she was past her prime when it came to business strategy. The woman was as shrewd as they came, and Kelsey knew she was about to face a formidable opponent.

Even so, right now she felt empowered after her morning at Thornton Resources. For the first time she was starting to believe she might have some influence over the situation. She realized that Cole's belief in her had instilled this new confidence. He was so kind, so dependable, so
good
. There weren't many good men left in the world, and she was glad she had one on her side now.

Kelsey reached the entrance to QFMG's corporate headquarters, in which everything shouted success and prosperity. The huge lobby with its luxurious ambiance, Persian carpets, and period furnishings set the tone. Just the open space there spoke volumes about the company's wealth. Square footage was at a premium in Manhattan, particularly on Park Avenue, and a company with this much open space was just plain flaunting its affluence.

Kelsey approached the receptionist, whose vast walnut desk could have accommodated a board meeting all by itself. As expected, when she asked to see Pamela Greeley, the response was, “Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but if you let her know I'm here, I think she'll see me anyway. Tell her it's Kelsey Tate of Brennan & Tate.” She held her chin high and met the receptionist's stare, surprised to see that the young woman's eyes were violet. Nobody on the planet had eyes that color. What was the point of tinted contacts if everyone could tell they were fake?

“I'll see if Ms. Greeley has time.”

Kelsey nodded and then stepped a few feet away from the desk as the receptionist picked up the phone to call upstairs. At least Pamela was in the building. Now the question was if she'd have the nerve to sit face-to-face with the heir apparent of a company she was trying to steal out from under her.

From what Kelsey could tell, the receptionist had to navigate through several layers of administrative assistants before she got the final word and hung up the phone.

“Twentieth floor, Ms. Tate. Ms. Greeley is expecting you.”

Ah, yes, the penthouse suite. Kelsey had been there several years ago with Gloria for a meeting. She entered the elevator now with two perky young women carrying stacks of files and giggling with each other about whether a certain coworker had really left his keys in her office by mistake or whether he'd done it intentionally so he'd have to come back for them later.

Trying to tune them out, Kelsey kept a neutral smile on her face until they exited at the eighth floor. Once she was alone, she tried to calm her nerves by studying the elevator car itself, which was lined with what appeared to be genuine cherry paneling in old growth wide boards. All the fittings were of gleaming brass, with fine art prints recessed into the side walls. They
were
prints, weren't they? Who would put original paintings in an elevator? Kelsey squinted at the nearest one but couldn't tell.

She could, however, continue to hear the screams of the decor: Success! Prosperity!

Good grief.

As the doors opened at the penthouse level, Kelsey was surprised to see that Pamela was standing there waiting for her. The older woman stepped forward and shook her hand, smiling politely. Even in her late sixties or early seventies, she was striking. Her honey-colored hair looked as if it had never heard the word “gray,” and her complexion was flawless. Pamela was wearing a navy power suit with a red silk scarf, and for a moment Kelsey felt inadequate in her azure silk dress sans jacket.

“Kelsey, how wonderful to see you. I got your message earlier and was trying to figure out when I could meet with you.”

Sure you were
, Kelsey thought, but she gave a gracious smile.

“Anyway, here you are regardless.”

“Thank you for seeing me, Pamela. I decided to stop by without an appointment in the hopes that we could talk.”

“Well, come in, come in. How is your family holding up? I was so sorry to hear the news about Gloria Poole.”

They discussed Gloria's death and the funeral arrangements as Pamela led the way through two outer offices that looked more like opulent drawing rooms than places of business. At last they reached the inner sanctum—Pamela's domain, complete with French doors that led out onto a rooftop observatory deck. Two walls held gorgeously carved bookcases, and behind the massive rosewood desk at the center hung several rows of what looked like embossed gold saucers. Peering at them more closely, Kelsey gasped.

“Are these pre-Columbian?” she asked.

Pamela stepped toward her, nodding proudly. “Yes. They are pectoral discs, circa twelfth century
AD.
They were worn by important chiefs and warriors as symbols of their power.”

Pamela's meaning was not lost on Kelsey. The discs themselves were strikingly beautiful, but to mount them on the wall in an imposing arrangement behind the desk of the most powerful chief in the building was downright tacky.

Stepping away to take in the rest of the room, Kelsey decided that Pamela's office had the same effect on her that Pamela herself did. Very classy, very intimidating. At least she didn't have to sit facing her wall of power for their talk. Instead, the woman led her over to a pair of deeply cushioned wing chairs beside the French windows.

“So, Kelsey,” Pamela said, smoothing her skirt as she sat, “I'll be frank with you. It looks like Queen's Fleet will soon be taking over Brennan & Tate. I have to assume that you're here to secure a position within the new organization once the takeover is complete?”

Kelsey made herself take a deep breath before answering. She didn't want to blurt out anything stupid.

“Why, no, actually. That's not why I'm here at all.”

“No?” Pamela arched a delicate eyebrow at her. “In that case, what can I do for you?”

Kelsey took a deep breath, reminding herself of Cole's words from their phone call the day before.
You may be young, but you're already the lifeblood of that place
. He was right. She might not have the years of experience that a Pamela Greeley had, but she'd accomplished a lot in her time at Brennan & Tate, far more than many others her age, and she was perfectly capable of standing her ground.

“Well,” Kelsey said. “First, I wanted…” She faltered for a moment but then cleared her throat and tried again. “I needed to speak with you, face-to-face, to ask how you could possibly be doing this to us. You
knew
my Great-Grandmother Adele, Pamela. You got up at her funeral and told the congregation you wanted to be just like her. Now you're trying to take over the very company her father founded and she helped to build? Trust me, if you see this takeover through, you are nothing like her at all.”

And there it was. She'd laid the gauntlet down in front of the head of one of the most powerful conglomerates in Manhattan. Kelsey had no doubt that with the amount of money that flowed through these hallowed halls,
Pamela could buy and sell places like B & T for breakfast and crush a career like Kelsey's for lunch. Yet somewhere inside the woman's polished exterior had to beat a real heart. Surely she could see what a travesty this hostile takeover would be, for the stockholders, for those who worked at B & T, and especially for the legacy of Adele.

“I'm sorry you feel that way,” Pamela said. “To my mind this would be a real coup for Brennan & Tate. You need a cash infusion and some new blood. We need a solid name in the investment branch, one that's positioned precisely as you are. Seems to me it's a perfect match.”

Kelsey was about to respond, but Pamela continued, cutting her off.

“You do know how you're positioned in this market, don't you?”

Kelsey eyed the woman keenly, not sure if she was trying to lead her into some sort of trap. “Why don't you tell me?”

“Our research shows that B & T projects a dual image—which is not an easy thing to do, believe me. On the one hand, it's thought of as a solid company rooted deeply in the past, but on the other hand, it's one that is known for its innovative, forward-thinking investment choices. Are you aware that the company's early success was due in a large part to the founder's focus on wireless technologies? Here we are a hundred and some years later, and what's one of the biggest slices of the financial pie out there? Wireless technologies! The mechanics are a little different now, of course, than they were back at the turn of the nineteenth century, but I still think it's a delightful example of a business coming full circle. I've already been jotting down ideas for some ad campaigns. For example, I was picturing someone out of history, perhaps Braun or Marconi, sitting at an old wooden desk, tapping out a message in Morse code. Then that message is received as an email by a group of good-looking young executives around a computer at a state-of-the-art company where they make cell phones or GPS units or something. Clever, don't you think?”