Haze (2 page)

Gabriel

I see my mother through the open doors of my office before she turns to look at me. In that instant, I'm reminded that I arranged this meeting. I ordered her here because I need answers.

As I watch her make small talk with my assistant, I can't help but admire how she carries herself around others. She appears confident to a fault. The way she holds her shoulders back is evidence of that. You'd never know by looking at her that she's as careless and reckless as she is. She knows that there's little I can do to remedy her behavior other than to explain the impact her actions have on the business, as a whole.  There's no doubt in my mind that she recognizes the risk she's taking. It's what energizes her and pushes her forward.

I reach to tap on the frame of the wooden double doors but it's unnecessary. Her dark eyes catch mine as her gaze wanders the reception area. She's bored with whatever, Sophia, my assistant is talking about. That's clear to me. Sophia, on the other hand, is oblivious to her disinterest and only ups the volume of her voice. The clattered chatter of her words is filling the space, seeping into my office.

"Gabriel." An instant smile courses over my mother's deep red lips. "I'm early."

She's not.

I'd asked her to meet me almost an hour ago. She'd countered with a proposed dinner meeting, but my plans for tonight are non-negotiable. When I'd explained that I needed her in my office no later than three, she'd told me she'd make it by five. It's a quarter to four now.

"Join me in my office." I hold her gaze, waiting for her to dismiss Sophia with a thoughtless flick of her wrist. It's the same gesture she's used on me time and again.

"Your secretary is telling me the most outlandish tale about a bullfrog."

My eyes drop to the marble floor in an attempt to mask the grin that I feel on my lips. "A bullfrog?"

"She asked where I grew up, Mr. Foster," Sophia goes on, "I was telling her about some of the things I saw back home."

I look up and directly at her. I have no idea where '
home
' is to her. She was a quick hire after my last assistant quit on the spot more than three months ago. Her name escapes me but the vile loathing in her eyes when I refused her request for an extra week's vacation to accommodate her honeymoon was memorable.

All the pent up resentment she'd held within for the eighteen months she worked for me had collided with her better judgment and had won. She'd hurled a barrage of insults at me in such rapid succession that I struggled to distinguish one from the other.

Once her peace was said, I calmly informed her that the two weeks of vacation time she'd previously requested had been approved months earlier and tacking on
'a few more days'
as she casually put it, would eat into my time in London during fashion week. I needed her there with me, not on a beach in the Caribbean drinking cocktails crafted from tropical fruit and flavored rum.

"We need to talk, mother," I say, ignoring the expected question about Sophia's childhood and the amphibian that apparently played an important role in the story of her life. "You can continue this conversation when we're done."

She shoots me a look that carries a veiled warning of something intended to be menacing. It may have worked, and likely did, when I was still a child, but now that I'm thirty-two-years old and running an international conglomerate that boasts our shared surname, the impact it has is fleeting, at best.

"You're asking me to be rude, Gabriel." She yanks softly on the diamond earring that is hanging from her left ear. "I'm just getting to know Sophia. You can wait a few minutes while we finish up."

It's now clear that she knows exactly why I insisted she make time for me today. It's also obvious why she lobbied for a discussion over dinner. She wanted the security that a crowded restaurant would bring. My mother knows me well enough to recognize that discussing family business in public isn't something I willfully do. That has a time and place, and regardless of what my mother wants, the time is right now.

"This can't wait." I motion towards my office. "We need to talk. That needs to happen now."

Her lips etch into a firm, thin line as she tosses her purse and coat on Sophia's desk in an overly dramatic gesture before she walks straight towards me.

***

"Your father would have no part of this." She arches her neck to once again look at the now closed doors of my office. It's the third time she's done it since I suggested she sit on the black leather sofa before I sat next to her. "He wouldn't approve of this at all."

I unbutton my suit jacket. "When is the last time you spoke to him?"

"Why? It doesn't matter when I spoke to him."

It actually does.

Since their divorce more than a decade ago my parents' broken relationship has swung on a pendulum from adoration to unconstrained contempt, bordering on hatred. The latter usually is in play when my father brings his latest companion to a company function in full view of my mother.

The string of dalliances he's had since they separated has been with women younger than me who view him as a tolerable rung on the ladder to success. Not one of the dozen or so women who have flirted their way into my father's life has lasted more than a few months.

"You know how much I value your input, Mother."  I lean back wanting my body language to convey my message just as much as my words. I've learned in the most difficult way possible, through much trial and error, that the only way to handle Gianna Foster effectively is to make her feel valued and irreplaceable. "You also know that I'm not hiring any new designers at the moment."

She scratches the top of her forehead. The motion pushes a few strands of her deep brown hair aside. My mother has never made a secret of her pursuit of youth. She's on a first name basis with at least three of the most prestigious plastic surgeons in Manhattan.  In her ongoing effort to recapture the face that once was reflected back in the mirror, she's lost the natural glow she had when I was a child. I remember back then thinking that she was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. Now, as I look at her perfect complexion, I see a woman battered within by the ever moving hands of time.

"Did your father put you up to this? Is that what this is about?"

It's an underhanded tactic devised to halt the conversation in its tracks. In the tug-of-war that was, and still is, the dissolution of their marriage, my parents viewed my two brothers and me as the ultimate prize. When we refused to take sides, my mother upped her game. Now, whenever there is a business related matter, she reverts back to blaming my father. He's too busy with his latest twenty-something girlfriend to even realize the company still exists.

"This is about Dante Castro." I stop for a beat before I continue, carefully considering my words. "He's a talented designer, but we have no place for him. You need to rescind the offer you made him."

Her jaw tightens at my words. "I'll do nothing of the sort. I already called a friend or two to announce that he's heading the men's division."

At last count, she'd called contacts at four of the premier fashion magazines. Each had reached out to me within the past two hours for my reaction to the announcement that my mother had secured the virtually unknown talents of a designer whose ability is questionable but whose presence is meant to make my father jealous. I'm not about to hand over the reins of our men's fashion line to someone whose claim to fame is designing t-shirts emblazoned with logos for skateboarding aficionados.

"You need to call him now." I tap the fingers of my left hand on her knee. "He's not a good fit for us."

"He's a perfect fit." Her bottom lip juts out in a pout. "Gabriel, I've already made the announcement. How would it look if I didn't give him the job?"

I push out a quick puff of air from between my lips, tempted to tell her that the position is already filled by one of the most creative designers in the world today. That would fall on her deaf, and now frustrated, ears. "If you can't handle it, Mother, I can. Give me the word and I'll make this disappear before the official announcement sees the light of day."

"Do it," she says as she smooths her hands over the fabric of her navy blue slacks. "Fix it the way you always do."

Isla

I nervously fumble with my smartphone as I sit in the reception area at Foster Enterprises. Cicely had stuck to her plan for us to bring each and every lace garter slip that was packed in the box she ripped open, to Mr. Foster's office with us.

We'd shoved the overstuffed Liore bags into the trunk of a taxi outside the store. I briefly argued the point that the tennis shoes that were already occupying the cramped space smelled like a dead body, but Cicely was too amped up on adrenaline to even acknowledge that I was along for the ride.

We've sat here for almost thirty minutes now and Cicely has used at least twenty-nine of those to quietly rehearse what sounds like a late night infomercial about the undeniable alluring qualities of the over-priced garter slips we brought along with us.

If she'd bothered to ask my opinion, which she hasn't, I would have told her to bring one and that if honesty is what Mr. Foster wants, a critique about the quality of the materials and the location of the hooks for fastening would be first on my list.

"Do you like working at the boutique?"

My gaze jumps from the addictive game I'm playing on my smartphone to the face of the woman who greeted us when we stepped off the elevator and approached Mr. Foster's office. The space is large and airy. The furnishings are exquisite and the walls are painted light grey.

The only spot of brightness is the woman behind the desk, Sophia. She has a slight southern drawl that reminds me of my third grade teacher. She's pretty, but in a muted, unassuming, way.

I glance towards Cicely who is still in full-on preparation mode. I will the doors of Mr. Foster's office to open but they don't. Engaging in idle talk about a job I may no longer have, isn't helping with my increasing anxiety. If I'm fired, I want to know so I can start looking for something else to fill in my time until my future really begins.

"It's a wonderful place to work," I try to sound as sincere as I can. "Do you like working here?"

There's a slight pause as her eyes flit across the room towards the closed doors. I see the hesitation in her expression before I hear it in her words. "I'm very lucky that I have this position."

I should push and ask for more but the details of why there's a hint of disgruntled dissatisfaction in her tone doesn't matter to me. I'll likely be off the Foster Enterprises payroll within the hour and I'll never set eyes on her again.

I clear my throat with the intention of saying something trivial about the weather and the cool breeze that took over the city this afternoon but I'm stalled when the doors to Mr. Foster's office burst open.

Cicely and I turn in unison to see a beautiful woman dressed in dark pants and a white blouse walk through the double doors towards us. As she turns back briefly, her rich brown hair brushes her shoulders.

From where I'm sitting, I can't see the person she reaches for but I know it has to be him. It takes just a few seconds for her to confirm that in a hushed tone. "You've always been my favorite, Gabriel. You will always be my favorite."

A deep chuckle fills the room as he steps forward, into view, to scoop her hand into his. As he raises it to his lips, he looks down into her face. "Asher is your favorite, Mother. We all know that he is."

She shakes her head briefly before she reaches up to touch her lips to his cheek.

"Mr. Foster." Cicely ignores any sense of decency and interrupts the tender moment by jumping to her feet. Her hands run over the skirt of the simple brown dress she's wearing. "We were here early, sir. You said we should be here at four o'clock. We were here by three fifty. I just want you to know that."

With her words, his eyes leave his mom's face and dart to Cicely and then settle on me, lingering there until his mom taps his chest. "Do I want to know what this is about? What are these two doing with all those Liore shopping bags? Is this some kind of clothing drive? Do they work at a shelter?"

I push back the urge to laugh at the suggestion that we're collecting expensive lingerie to clothe the city's least fortunate. As much as the comment amuses me, it maddens Cicely. "I'm the manager of the Liore boutique, Ma'am. You're Gianna Foster, aren't you?"

The hand that Cicely extends hangs in the air for several seconds before Gianna tentatively grabs hold of it with her own. "I'm Gianna Foster. What are you doing here? If you manage the store, you should be there, no?"

Yes, Mrs. Foster, she should. Instead, she's on a crusade to defend ugly ass garter slips and I'm along for the ride.

"I come bearing samples of one of our new items." She swings both her arms so wildly in the air that she stumbles backwards, her heel tapping the edge of one of the bags causing it to fall over spilling most of its contents on the polished floor.

Gianna grimaces as she drops Cicely's hand to point towards the garter slips that are now in full view. "Look what you've done."

Before Cicely has a chance to turn to pick up the slips, I'm on my knees, pushing them back into the bag. I would have been happy to stay where I was but if I'm going to hold onto this job, I need to make at least one good impression on Gabriel Foster.  This may be my only chance.

The room falls silent except for the sound of shoes against the marble floor. I catch a glimpse of a black wingtip oxford just as it comes into view. There's little time for me to react before I sense him crouching next to me. I suck in a deep breath hoping that he won't fire me in front of all these women while I'm on all fours with a handful of lingerie.

"Allow me to help." His breath races across my cheek as he leans in to scoop up the lingering pieces.

I only nod softly in agreement as my breath catches when his hand brushes against mine. The touch, matched with the scent of his exquisite cologne, and the sound of his voice, makes me feel momentarily light-headed.  I close my eyes hoping to ward off the sensation and the temptation to lean against him.

"You have your hands full, son." Gianna's voice pulls Gabriel back to his feet. "I'm leaving. I'll call you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," he repeats. "I'll take care of that issue we discussed before the end of the day."

Just as I stand I catch Gianna, with her coat and purse in hand, rounding the corner towards the elevator.

"Mr. Foster." Cicely stands in front of Gabriel. "I'm prepared to go over the samples with you."

"Samples?" His hands jump to the silver necktie he's wearing. He straightens it, keeping his eyes trained on my face.  "These are the samples that were delivered last week?"

"These are the ones." She scoops two of the bags into her hands as she brushes past him on her way into his office.

I follow her lead because right now, Cicely owns this meeting with her misplaced sense of why we are even in the Foster Enterprises building. Mr. Foster doesn't seem fazed that we arrived together with this much of his product in hand. Maybe I did misjudge what happened back at the boutique.

I pick up the remaining two bags and take a step towards his office. Any relief I may have felt is wiped away in a single second as I feel his hand catch hold of my elbow.  His breath races over my cheek when he leans down and close, his voice low enough that only I can make out the words. "I wanted you here alone, Isla. I thought I made that clear."

Fuck. Just, fuck. 

I don't turn to look at him when I feel his hand drop away. I pull in a deep breath, walk into his office and wait for his next move.