Fortune (26 page)

She would simply be professional, Skye decided. After all, they were both artists, both women. They both had to eat, sleep, go to the bathroom. Dorothy Monarch wasn't a god, after all.

The moment Griffen introduced his great-aunt, all Skye's plans to be coolly professional went down the tubes. She gushed. She couldn't help herself. She went on about Dorothy's Wind series; about the pieces she had done during the Kennedy years; about her use of enameling and semiprecious stones in fine jewelry, a most avant-garde direction for their day.

When she finished, Dorothy hugged her. “Thank you, my dear. What high compliments you've just paid me. I believe you've made my week.”

Dorothy Monarch wasn't what Skye had expected. She was a petite woman, though her high cheekbones, Joan Crawford eyebrows and wide, mobile mouth, gave her a larger-than-life presence that belied her size. She wore faded blue jeans and a deep purple silk blouse. As she talked, her chin-length, wavy gray hair fell across her face. When it did she would push it away with a graceful gesture that reminded Skye of a butterfly flapping its wings.

It was interesting to look at the great-aunt and nephew together, as they were so dissimilar physically. Griffen was tall, six-three, Skye guessed; Dorothy was five foot one, if Skye was generous. Too, Dorothy was animated, gesturing when she spoke, every bit the creative bohemian; Griffen was still, contained in the way of the predator, a way that suggested he saw everything and missed nothing, the urbane businessman from head to toe.

But they were both handsome people, polished and self-confident. Both with those unusual blue eyes and strong, angular features.

“Let me show you around our facility,” Dorothy said, motioning to their right. “Our group consists of two teams, research and development, of which the designers are a part, and production. The production team consists of the bench workers, quality control, inventory and trafficking. Sales and marketing come under retail's auspices, that's Griffen and his crew's baby, though the design team is a part of their decision-making process.” She shot him an affectionate smile. “He likes to ‘meeting' us to death.”

They turned down a hallway, lined on both sides with small offices, belonging, Skye learned, to the six artists in research and development, all of whom were presently at a trade show at McCormick Place.

“As lead designer,” Dorothy continued, “I'm ultimately responsible for the look of everything that leaves this studio. I hear all problems and all ideas, I make all the final decisions. Conference room—” she pointed dead ahead, then slightly to the right, “break room. I insist the staff keep the coffee, Coke and any other edibles in there or their individual office.

“That's the software room.” She pointed again. The woman working there looked up, smiled almost shyly, then returned her attention to the beads she was stringing. “All beads, seed pearls, cord and the like are stored and applied there. Stone setting is the room beyond that. By the way, we use the store's gemologists and buyers to provide us with our gemstones. And we don't do any lapidary.”

She turned left. “The raw safe. Here you'll find all the various gauges of silver and gold wire, as well as any findings you'll need. Inventory is supposed to stay on top of it, but if you discover we're out of something, let Ted know.”

She opened the safe and indicated a chart on the inside door. “This will tell you exactly where what you need is. I'm a fanatic about having an orderly studio, so be sure to put things back where you found them.” She shot Skye a smile. “Order is a must when your memory is as bad as mine. Gemstones are kept in the store's vault.”

Turning, she indicated the room's vertical-filing system. “We have production instructions on every piece of jewelry that's ever come out of the Monarch studio, even Anna Monarch's first pieces. Nothing's been permanently retired yet, except, of course, for the one-of-a-kind and special-order pieces.

“We send all our casting and plating to a production foundry, but do all finishing work in-house. We use mostly vulcanized rubber-injection molds, they're durable as hell and we get exact wax models every time. No smoking from here on.”

“I don't smoke,” Skye said quickly.

“I do,” Dorothy countered. “Like a chimney. And I don't want to hear a word about it.” She glared at Skye, then Griffen. He shrugged, as if with resignation.

As they moved through the facility, Skye noticed the bench workers kept their eyes and attention on their work. Occasionally Dorothy would stop to check someone's technique, offer a compliment or advice.

“Bench workers are assigned according to their talents and experience,” she continued. “Only my designers can move from one finishing area to the next.” Dorothy quickly pointed them all out. Buff room. File and solder room. Electra stripping area. Enameling room.

As they started back the way that they had come, Skye could tell that the tour had fatigued the other woman. Earlier, Skye would have guessed her to be thirty years younger than her seventy years, now she seemed every one of those—plus some.

Dorothy led them into a large front office, obviously hers. The walls were lined with awards, framed medals and photographs of Dorothy with famous faces. She went immediately to her desk and pack of cigarettes. Lighting one, she sank with an audible sigh to her chair.

“Sit.” She waved Skye toward one of the chairs that faced her desk. “I want to talk to you.”

Skye did as the woman asked, though she noticed Griffen didn't move from his position in the office doorway. Predatory, she thought again. He looked like a cat waiting for the perfect moment to spring.

Dorothy studied Skye through a haze of smoke. “So, what do you think of our little playpen?”

Skye laughed, liking the other woman more with each passing minute. “It's the most fantastic facility I've ever seen.”

Dorothy sucked almost greedily on her cigarette. “You being fresh out of school, I'd be interested to know what you think the current trends in jewelry are.”

Skye didn't have to pause to think; she, her faculty adviser, and several of the other grads had had this discussion just days ago. “Eclecticism, definitely. If nothing else, the nineties has been about anything being possible. There's also been a no-holds-barred exploration of materials and mediums. Consumption is in, which is always a good environment for the decorative arts to flourish.

“Recently, however, I have seen a return to the classics. Silhouettes have become slimmer, chunky and gaudy are out, sleek and simple are in. Personally, I think that's part cyclical swing and part reaction to society's frenetic pace and the almost constant bombardment on our senses by new stimuli.”

Skye leaned slightly forward in her seat, warming to her subject. “But to be quite honest, I don't believe in following trends. People never make their mark by following the leader. To stay ahead, you have to set the trends. Get out on a limb, take risks. Be the leader.”

Dorothy arched her eyebrows. “So, you're saying, know the trends then ignore them?”

“Basically. Leave that to the mass production and costume houses.”

“Very artsy-fartsy of you,” Dorothy murmured. “But what about our retail business? Our clientele doesn't want tomorrow's favorites, they want today's.”

Skye smiled. “It's the age-old conundrum between artist and patron, between creation and starvation. To stay alive, to grow, you need a balance between the two.”

“I see.” Dorothy's lips twitched, though Skye wasn't certain whether with appreciation or irritation. “And what about
our
balance between crass commercialism and lofty creation? What do you think about how we're doing?”

Skye sat back in her seat, realizing how neatly she had been cornered. “I'm really not familiar enough with your recent work to comment on—”

“Bullshit.” Dorothy stamped out her cigarette. “You're one smart cookie. Smart enough to do your homework before showing up here today. Let me have it, both barrels.”

Skye tilted her chin up, her gaze never wavering from the older woman's. “Weighing in a bit heavy on the commercial side these days. Just my opinion.”

Dorothy cackled. “You're a spunky little thing, aren't you? For myself, I think I would have lied.”

Skye held her head up, though her spirits sank a bit. “I speak my mind. Some have considered it a fault.”

“I don't. I like it.” Dorothy rocked back in her chair. “I get pretty sick of all the yes ma'ams and ass kissing that goes on around here. That's not what I need.” She stood and came around the desk, stopping before Skye, looking her dead in the eye. “As I'm sure you know, my day as a leading-edge designer has come and gone.”

“That's not what I meant,” Skye said quickly. “You're a legend, one of the great—”

“Save it. That was yesterday's news. I've been at this a long time. I've done some great work, and I've had a lot of fun doing it. But I'm old now. I'm not as willful as I once was. Not as creative. And not as strong. I have a great love of the new and innovative, but I have no affinity for it. I need bright, strong-willed people around me. I need people who'll tell me the…the…”

Dorothy frowned, her forehead creasing as with confusion. Griffen took a step into the room, his expression concerned. “Aunt Dot, are you okay?”

“Yes, but I…What was I saying? I've gone completely blank.”

He shook his head. “Dorothy, you're getting so forgetful.”

“I know that, dammit!” She glared at him. “What I don't know is what I was saying.”

“That you need bright, strong-willed people around—”

“That's right!” She smiled at Skye. “It's a bitch getting older, my dear. Remember that and enjoy every moment of your youth. Anyway, as I was saying, I like your work, Skye. I like it a lot. And I like you.” Dorothy glanced up at Griffen, as if sending him a silent, guarded message, then back at her. “I'm going to enjoy having you on board. You'll be the perfect addition to my team.”

“You mean, I have the job?” Stunned, Skye looked from Dorothy to Griffen. “Really?”

“Really.”

“I don't know what to say. I…I'm thrilled.”

Griffen crossed to stand beside his great-aunt. He smiled. “Then ‘yes' would be the most appropriate response. And the one we're hoping for.”

Skye laughed, delighted. “Yes, then. Of course, yes.”

Griffen smiled and held out his hand. She took it and he drew her to her feet. “Welcome to the Monarch family, Skye Dearborn. We are very happy to have you with us.” He looked at Dorothy. “Aren't we?”

“Yes. Absolutely delighted.” Dorothy caught Skye's hands and kissed both her cheeks, the smell of smoke clinging to her. “You're part of the Monarch family now. Welcome home.”

Home. Family.
Skye could hardly believe it was happening. She couldn't believe the way they were accepting her. It was like a dream come true. “But…I…when do you want me to start?”

“As soon as possible.” Griffen smiled. “After all, we don't want to give you a chance to change your mind. You're ours now, Skye Dearborn. And we don't intend to lose you.”

W
ithin two weeks Skye and Mr. Moo had moved themselves and everything they owned to Chicago. Skye had talked to Griffen almost daily. He offered to take care of everything for her, and true to his word, he did. He had found her an apartment in one of his family's many properties, a fabulous two-bedroom on the Near North side, only three blocks from Lake Michigan. He had arranged to have it painted, cleaned and aired out for her arrival, and had the phone and utilities hooked up.

Skye had decided that Griffen Monarch was the most wonderful man she had ever met. He was attentive. Easy to talk to. Gorgeous. One night, they had stayed on the phone for two hours, swapping stories, talking about their likes and dislikes, their views on the world. It was almost uncanny, they had so many things in common, from favorite foods, authors and artists, to their views on politics.

It was as if there was this connection between them, this psychic tie. As if they were two pieces of one whole, meant for each other.

Whenever she caught herself thinking such over-the-top things, she scolded herself. She was being a ridiculous romantic. A softheaded, starry-eyed fool. People were not “meant for each other.” People did not have “psychic ties” that bound them to each other.

But still, she couldn't quite stop her thoughts, and that frightened her. As did the way she felt around him, giddy and sort of breathless. She was too smart for that kind of behavior, too world-wise.

The thing that scared her the most, however, was the way she found herself wanting to trust him. To depend and lean on him. To believe in him. It had been so long since she had allowed herself that luxury.

Thirteen years, to be exact.

She thought of Chance and stiffened her spine. Luxury left you soft. And vulnerable. She knew that. When you depended on someone, when you trusted them, they could hurt you. Most often they did.

Griffen could hurt her. Badly. He was her boss, president of Monarch's, Inc. He was rich, handsome, sophisticated. He could have—and probably had had—any girl he wanted.

It wouldn't do to be making eyes at him; it wouldn't do to be thinking of him as anything other than her boss and friend. She had better remember that.

Starting now. Today. Her first day as a member of Monarch's research and development team.

Skye stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and gazed up at the building. People streamed around her, some of them sending her a curious glance, but most too hurried to take the extra moment to do even that.

She pressed a hand to her stomach, to her butterflies, and drew in a deep breath.
This was it. Way to go, Skye.

Releasing the breath, she crossed to the door, prepared to ring for the security guard. Before she could, he was there, opening the door for her, all smiles. “Good morning, Miss Dearborn. Go right in. Mr. Monarch alerted me that you were starting today.”

“Thank you—” she read his badge “—Ed.”

“Good to have you with us, Miss Dearborn. Have a great first day.”

She thanked him and started for the elevator, thinking how nice everyone she'd met had been. She had always heard that people in big cities were cold, that most of them would rather spit on you than lend a hand. That certainly wasn't proving to be her experience. If people got any nicer, she would start to suspect she had somehow fallen into the twilight zone.

The elevator was waiting and whisked her to the fifth floor. No one else was about. She had purposely arrived early so she could explore and gaze wide-eyed at everything before the others arrived. Dorothy had called the night before to say hello and to make sure she had received the agenda she had forwarded via fax.

Skye had received it. Which was precisely the reason she had arrived early. She had a get-acquainted coffee-and-pastry thing with Dorothy and the rest of the studio staff at nine; at ten-thirty the research and development team would be looking at ideas for a Holiday collection; at noon, a lunch meeting with the head of sales and marketing. Afternoon off to meet her moving truck.

Skye wandered through the studio, wanting to look it over while it was empty. She circled around, saving her office, the best, for last.

She reached it, and a lump formed in her throat. Her name was on the door. She ran her hand across the nameplate, fighting the ridiculous urge to cry. She opened the door and the scent of flowers assailed her. A huge arrangement of fresh flowers waited on her desk, a combination of all her favorites—orchids, birds of paradise, tea roses, daisies. She laughed softly at the unconventional but exotic combination, pleased, knowing who they were from without having to read the card.

She wanted to anyway. With shaking fingers she opened it.

 

Welcome Home. Griffen.

 

Home, she thought, bringing the card to her chest. That was the second time a Monarch had said that to her. She shook her head, surprised to realize that, odd as it was, this did feel like home already. It felt as though she belonged here. She moved her gaze over the room, soaking it in. The room was outfitted with the usual desk and PC, but also with a jeweler's bench complete with a flex-shaft and bench pin, a drawing table, a viewing board…it even had a window.

It was perfect. She bent her head to one of the blossoms and breathed in its fresh, sweet scent. Just perfect.

“Hi.”

She made a sound of surprise and whirled. Griffen stood at her office door, leaning against the jamb, watching her, his expression pleased. She felt her cheeks heat. “Hi to you.”

“I see you got the flowers.”

“They're beautiful. Thank you.”

“Is the office okay?”

“It's wonderful.”

“And the apartment?”

“Wonderful, too. Empty, but great.” She laughed nervously, holding his gaze a moment, uncertain how she should handle this. How could she keep a professional distance when he was looking at her so intensely, as though she were the only, the most special woman in the world? When he was sending flowers and giving her gifts and making her feel about sixteen years old?

“When does your furniture arrive?”

“This afternoon. What there is of it.”

“You'll need a hand with some of the heavy boxes. I'll stop by.”

“That's not necessary, Griffen, really, you've already done too much.”

“Funny, to me it seems like I haven't done enough.” When she tried to protest more, he stopped her. “I want to. Besides, I can't wait to meet this Mr. Moo of yours. I'm sure he and I are going to be very big buddies.”

She smiled and capitulated. “All right. I'd like that.”

“Good.” He smiled. “Until tonight, Skye Dearborn.”