Glamour (34 page)

“When I evaluate executives, I go by results.” Jane felt strangely detatched. A pigeon swooped past, outside the huge window behind Mr. Scott; it made her smile, which infuriated him.

“You’ve used PR to advance your career. Think what it’ll look like if we take a risk on a kid who can’t even legally drink the wine we sell.”

“My track record proves I’m risk-free.”

“Look, get this straight.” Nobody ever talked to Scott like that. He loved what the girl had done to his personnel overheads, otherwise she’d be gone. “We are
not
going to put you into a frontline division.You’ve got an offer on the table.” The board had instructed him to keep her—they were terrified a headhunting firm would poach her. “It’s a
huge
offer,” he insisted, frustrated.

“It is.” Jane smiled again. They had begged, and pleaded, and in the end just thrown money at her. The final offer was nearly double her salary. Three hundred fifty thousand dollars. “I don’t want it,” she explained.

“You’ll make
more
than if you ran a sales division.”

“I don’t care. I want the training.”

“Training?” He blinked. “For what?”

“For when I own this company.”

Turnbull Scott laughed—Jane didn’t.

“I’m serious. Are you going to switch me into a frontline job?”

“No!” he almost shouted.

“Then I quit.” Jane reached into her jacket, took out her letter of resignation and her car keys, and laid them on his desk. “It’s been nice working with you.”

Scott stared incredulously at her.The board was going to yell at him about this.

“You arrogant goddamned
bitch
!” he snarled. But she had already turned on her high heels, and was walking her tight little butt out the door.

“There’s a bit of a slump,” Marcy Wilkerson, her real estate agent, told her. “Places have been slow to move. . . .”

Jane turned to her. “You can’t snow me. When I was buying, it was all ‘Jump on it now, you have to move fast.’ I read the property supplements every day.”

“The market’s changed since you purchased this place.”

“No, it hasn’t. I want six fifty for this apartment.”

Marcy’s eyes boggled. “That’s a profit of one hundred fifty in eight months.”

“It’s eminently achievable,” Jane said crisply.“Either you do it, within a month, or I’ll find a better agent who can. Now excuse me please, I’m busy.”

Then she opened the door. Marcy walked out.

Bitch,
she thought as Jane Morgan slammed it behind her. Hard as nails. Definitely needed to get laid.

“I want a ticket to Los Angeles, please.”

“Certainly, ma’am.” The ticket agent looked curiously at the young girl standing in front of her. So pretty—slim and young, in a neat little designer dress, carrying a small suitcase. She sounded intelligent—probably a student, looking for a last-minute deep discount. “Let me see what comes up for you on the standby tracker. . . .”

“No. First class.”

Her eyebrow lifted, but the girl produced a Prada wallet and coolly handed over a gold Amex card.

“And when will you be returning?”

“I won’t. One-way.”

“That’s three thousand dollars,” the older woman said tentatively, as if to ask “Are you sure?”

“That’s fine. Ring it up, please.”

The ticket agent did as she was told, even more curious than before.Who
was
she? Turns up at the airport, flies first class? Why hadn’t she booked? And strangest of all, there was no wedding ring. She could see this woman as some investment banker trophy wife, but there was nothing.

“The first-class lounge is upstairs.”

“Thank you.” She took her ticket and turned to go, cool and collected.

The agent sighed.

That girl definitely had to be someone special.

Jane gave a little mental shrug as she walked into the first-class lounge. She felt dozens of eyes on her. Let them stare.

Turnbull Scott thought she was insane. A wild risk-taker. Junking her comfortable corporate life in favor of the wild blue yonder.

But that was only because he didn’t understand.

To stay at Shop Smart now was to doom herself to failure. Jane had a clear idea of where her ladder headed, and if the top of it was resting against “well-paid executive,” then she wasn’t bothering to climb.

She wanted security. What happened to Daddy would never happen to her. She wanted serious rich,Aaron Spelling rich, Paulie Lassiter rich.

And you didn’t get that from a paycheck. You got it from ownership.

She felt a little fear as she strode over to the bar and ordered a mineral water, choked with ice.This was new territory. And the business world had her pigeonholed into one box—human resources; stuff that does not count. It was why Shop Smart hadn’t given her a shot.

And now somebody else would have to.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

It was a relaxed, confident masculine voice.

“No.” She didn’t look round.

“That’s the right answer.Well done.”

Now, she looked at him—annoyed.

“Excuse me?”

He inclined his head. Fifteen years older than her, still young, around thirty-five, she guessed. Dark eyes with thick black lashes. A rather arrogant, cruel mouth; a strong jaw, and a tan.

“I can’t
buy
you a drink—because they’re free. But we could still have one together.”

“I’m already having one. By myself.” Jane turned back to it. This game was for losers, and she wasn’t playing.

They started out all nice and flirty. And when it became clear she really wasn’t interested in being some junior marketing prick’s one-night lay, then they called her a dyke and a bitch.

“A great idea.” He was unfazed. “I’ll have one by myself, too. Right next to you. And then we can both get on our respective planes and we’ll never see each other again.”

She relented.

“Sorry if I was a little cold.”

“Cold? I don’t think you need the ice with that drink.”

Jane’s eyes sparked again. He was
laughing
at her. His eyes were on her, and his body language was completely relaxed, confident and at ease. Another man would have slunk away.

“Does that often work for you?”

“What?”

“Insulting girls.”

The bartender girl sauntered up to them and made goo-goo eyes at him. “Mr. Levin.What a
pleasure
to see you again, sir.”

Jane’s mental Rolodex did a quick check.

“You’re not Craig Levin, are you?” Jane asked.

His eyes danced again, with pleasure.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What can I get for you, sir?” the bartender asked. “Your usual?”

“That’s fine, and please call me Craig, Iris.”

She beamed, obviously thrilled that he remembered her name. “Coming right up,” she promised, in a breathy Marilyn Monroe voice.

Craig Levin. Wall Street wonder, except not on Wall Street. Rich enough to import a snow machine to your Los Angeles mansion at Christmas. Rich enough to hire out the city zoo for your kid’s sixteenth. A genius investor, Jane had seen him described as “the next Warren Buffett” more times than she cared to count. He had influence enough to swing a stock. Like Buffett, he never split shares in his index fund, and they now traded at eight thousand dollars a share.

Some of his original investors had made hundreds of millions from a tiny initial stake. And Levin had a myth about him. He never gave interviews. No cozy little chats with
Fortune
. No vanity slots on CNBC with Maria Bartiromo, “the Money Honey,” beaming on in approval.

Levin was young, independent, and vastly rich.

No wonder he was arrogant.

“Does knowing my name mean you’ll be nicer to me?”

Jane was cold with fury; half at him, half at herself. He was still gazing at her with that amused regard.

“It certainly doesn’t. I’m not for sale.” She couldn’t help herself; she nodded toward the bartender, fixing Levin a generous Scotch on the rocks. “Maybe she is, though.You might get lucky after all.”

His smile abruptly vanished.

“You’re sitting here in the first-class lounge because you’ve got a first-class ticket. I don’t know anything else about you, but I know you’re a woman of means. She’s a bartender. Probably not getting rich on this job. So you sitting here in that elegant suit and calling her a whore isn’t cool.”

Jane flushed purple.

“I’m sorry,” she said, wrong-footed and ashamed of herself.

But he replied coolly,“Enjoy your drink,” and walked away to the other end of the bar, retrieving his whisky from the beaming bartender as he passed her.

Jane winced. She was ashamed of herself. Levin was right; she should have been better than that. And he’d immediately lost interest in her.

Not that she
cared
.

Levin had been bothering her. The pursuit annoyed her. So why was she more annoyed when it stopped?

“Can I get you anything else, ma’am?” the simpering bartender was back, oblivious to anything that had happened.

“No.That’s okay.Thank you,” Jane added, guiltily.

“That Craig Levin—he’s hot. So funny, too. Did you ever hear him joke? He cracks everybody up.”

“Is he in here a lot?” Curiosity filled her.

The bartender—Iris, right, that’s what he called her, grinned.

“All the time. He has more air miles than Santa Claus. And remembers people’s names . . .” She sighed. “And so damn handsome. Don’t you think?”

Jane shrugged. “If you like that sort of thing.”

“Man! I would in a heartbeat.” She sighed.“But the girls I see with him are mostly models. Socialites . . . you know.”

“How clichéd.”

“I guess he can have whatever he wants, and he takes advantage. I never saw the guy be rude to any woman, though. Saw a couple of his girlfriends crying when he left. None of them last very long.”

“Rich playboy. It’s as old as the hills,” Jane said, glad to be able to look down on Levin.

But she still wished he hadn’t walked away.

All business, of course. Levin was so rich he could have bought Shop Smart by writing a check.You didn’t want to cross a man like that. Maybe it was good that he didn’t know her name.

“Flight 961 to LAX is now boarding at Gate 33.”

She stood up, half-relieved, half-disappointed. “That’s me. Thanks, Iris.” She put down a crisp twenty on the bar as a tip. “Have a nice day.”

She thought about him all the way through the corridors and walkways of the airport. Jane tried not to, but it didn’t work. She had read about Craig Levin—of course. She had built him up in her mind; wanted to meet him—he was one of the giants, one of the people she most admired.

And now he’d asked her for a drink, and she’d told him to go to hell.

She was annoyed with herself. But really, he’d been hitting on her. Hadn’t taken no for an answer. And Iris said he had a string of gorgeous girls.

A distraction. Jane tried to wrestle her mind back to the business at hand. Finding Helen and Sally. Starting her own retail chain, her own Shop Smart.

“Good morning . . . second on the left . . .”

The air hostess was repeating her inane instructions; Jane ignored her and walked past.Why the hell did they do that? How tough would it be to find seat 2B? Aisle, on the left. She took her little carry-on and lifted it up to the overhead compartment; a strong pair of hands whisked it away from her and tucked it inside.

“Thank you—”

Jane glanced round. It was him. She gasped in shock.

“We’re sitting together.” He smiled easily at her. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“I—no.” Her mind raced, and she thought about apologizing for earlier. But the moment had passed, what could she say? “That’s fine.” Jane slid into her seat, and took refuge in the free magazine provided.

“Yes,” Levin said. “That article on the strawberry growers of the Midwest is certainly fascinating stuff. I heard two of their journalists are up for a Pulitzer.”

Jane’s eyes glittered. “So the billionaire is laughing at the impoverished writers, is he?”

He grinned. “Touché.”

Jane felt an unreasonable elation.

“Miss Morgan, can I get you some champagne, or freshly squeezed orange juice?”

“Orange juice.Thank you.”

“I’ll have the same. One’s my limit.” He passed Jane her glass. “Are you a teetotaler, Ms. Morgan?”

“For another three months. I’m not yet twenty-one.”

“Don’t I feel old,” he said, with a grin that said he didn’t.

“You don’t need to worry about me; I’m an adult.” She lifted her head defiantly.

“Glad to hear it,” he answered, with a soft, predatory intent that sent a tingle down her spine.

Jane chided herself. What the hell was she doing? Months—years—of brushing men off, and she was all but ready to start flirting with Craig Levin just because he was an alpha male?

“So let me see.” Levin’s eyes focused on a point some way in front of him; it was unnerving.“Morgan—female, twenty, British. That makes you Jane Morgan. Senior vice president of human resources, Shop Smart Corporation.”

She blinked. “How the hell did you know that?”

“I have a photographic memory. It’s a big help when assessing stocks. So I’m right?”

“All except the last part. I quit Shop Smart yesterday.”

“Excuse me a second.”

“Of course,” Jane said; but she was disappointed. Levin turned from her and swiped a black Amex through his Skyphone, punching in numbers. She had just started to enjoy herself.

“Anna? Craig. Dump Shop Smart. Everything; the whole half-million.Tell the brokers to feed it out slow. See ya, babe.” He turned back to Jane. “Tell me the rest of your story.”

She struggled with the unexpected wave of desire that rocked through her body. On two words from her, he’d just sold over ten million dollars’ worth of Shop Smart stock.

“Why did you do that?” she almost whispered.

“Jane Morgan,” he replied, and his eyes flickered across her face, noting the dilated pupils, the flushed skin. It almost made her want to run away from him—except that they were in the air, and there was nowhere to go. “Junior VP. Promoted from the shop floor. In her first year, cut costs in one store by thirty percent and increased productivity by twenty-seven percent, all through personnel changes. Promoted to central management, applied techniques across the United States; immediate savings of fifteen percent on salaries, management redundancies saving another eight percent. Productivity data increase not yet in.You see, in such a low-cost store, staffing costs are about half the overhead. You had something. If they’ve let you go, they’re nuts.”