When Empires Fall (4 page)

“Oh, no.” Tara’s eyes shot back to his, an appreciative smile on her face. “No, I’ll be fine. Thank you for everything. Really. I’ve loved working here, working for you, for the hotel. It’s been a great experience.”

“You’ll be missed,” Grant put in as sincerely as he could, though he remained purposely seated so she would not try to hug him. He was horribly awkward when it came to any show of affection, and he preferred to avoid it at all costs if he could.

“Thanks.” Tara nodded, pursing her lips as she glanced around once more, taking in the classy furniture with straight, masculine lines and shades of cobalt blue and steel gray, softened with rich mahogany and warm chestnut. It was an office that suited the man, who had the strength and unyielding stability of steel, yet was refined by his reverence of tradition and his dedication to family.

Glancing back at him, she noticed that he had that look he got when he was pressed for time on something and he really had to get back to it, but he didn’t want to hurt her feelings by being rude and shooing her away. It humbled her to be one of the few people he went out of his way to be kind to. It was a very exclusive list.

“I didn’t have the chance to meet my replacement, but Marshall tells me that she’s very nice.”

Grant couldn’t hold back a grimace at the idea of having to adjust to a new secretary. He was not a man who generally appreciated change, especially when it usually did nothing but disrupt his life for a while and throw everything off kilter, which took valuable time to get back in sync.

“Hopefully she’s a fast learner,” he grumbled, suddenly troubled by the thought of her
not
being one.

Tara let out a light laugh and tugged her light blue winter coat tighter over her rounded belly. “Marshall has good judgment. After all, he hired me.”

Grant’s mouth tugged up slightly at the corners at her words. “Yes, he did. Goodbye, Mrs. Sawyer.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Vasser.” Tara smiled again as she turned to leave the room, shutting the door with a soft click behind her.

For a few moments, Grant sat in the silence of his office, lost in thought. He really was going to miss Tara, or Mrs. Sawyer, as he preferred to call her in his attempt to maintain the professionalism of the office. She had been sharp, patient, and reliable. There wasn’t much more he could ask of a secretary than that.

His eyes drifted from the door to the framed photographs that cluttered his walls, all depicting his family. He enjoyed having them up there as a reminder of why he worked as hard as he did, a reminder of the legacy that had been passed down to him from a long line of Vasser men.

There were pictures of him and his three siblings when they had been young, both portraits and candid shots of them together. Always together, he mused, knowing as the eldest just how much they relied on him. And, he supposed in many ways he relied on them as well.

Mixed in were shots of his countless cousins and their children, of his fifteen aunts and uncles, and older pictures of those that had come before him, his grandparents and their siblings. There were even a few photographs of his great-grandfather, Winston Vasser, and one rare shot of his great-great-grandfather, Alton Vasser.

But in the midst of all the photographs were three large, professionally painted portraits of Alton, Winston, and lastly his grandfather, Cyrus Vasser, the current head of the Vasser family empire.

Cyrus had a sharp-featured face with high cheekbones, characteristic of their rich European ancestry, and cunning, tawny colored eyes. In his prime he had had a full head of rich, bark brown hair threaded with silver, wavy even in its cropped length. Now it had gone grayish white and he had lost many of the hard edges of his face due to wrinkles and sagging skin. But those eyes remained as sharp as ever, and as penetrating as they had been when Grant had been a child, both fearfully and reverently admiring the man. Even looking at the portrait made Grant feel as though Cyrus were watching him right then and there, assessing and determining his worth in that calculating and critical way he had.

Grant always thought it was interesting to note the vast difference in appearances between his grandfather and Winston, and then Alton before him. Sure, they all looked physically very similar, but their attitudes as captured by the painter seemed so drastically polarized. Where Cyrus appeared impressive and intimidating, his father, Winston, wore an expression of pride and importance, with bright blue eyes that shone with prosperity and happiness. He looked like a man of unlimited charm with a smile to match, and had a relatable sense about him that Cyrus lacked in spades.

And yet, Grant had always wondered how a man who looked so full of life in photographs and in his portrait could have possibly taken his own life. From what he had been told of his great-grandfather, his suicide had been the result of a ruinous affair with a devilish woman, who had carelessly broken his heart. A shame, Grant thought, to let any one person have such a hold over you.

It was without a doubt the greatest tragedy his family had ever suffered, and the effects of it were still being felt, even though nearly sixty years had passed. He had a feeling that Winston’s suicide would be a troubling smear on the Vasser family reputation and name for many more years to come.

Shaking his head to rid the thoughts from his mind, his eyes shifted to his great-great-grandfather’s portrait. Alton Vasser, who, perhaps since the portrait was much older, looked dry and humorless, cold and shallow. His expression was vacant and unfeeling, his dark eyes emotionless. And yet this had been the man that had started the first Vasser Hotel and built it from the ground up, making it, with the help of his only son Winston, into the empire that Grant and his family were a part of today. So Grant knew he had to throw ample respect and appreciation at his great-great-grandfather, simply because of that alone.

Inscribed in a gold plague embedded in the chestnut frame of each portrait was the name and favorite quote of each man. Not surprising, his grandfather’s quote read:
The King’s name is a tower of strength.

Cyrus had always taught them that the only reason their legacy held power was because their name was timeless and embedded in the history of the country and of the people who lived there. Quite simply, reputation was everything, and tarnishing the name meant losing it all.

But Cyrus was up there in the years now, just past ninety, and Grant knew it was only a matter of time before the old man passed, and someone else in the family was crowned with the prestige and burden of being responsible for every facet of the empire.

Not that Grant expected he would be the one. After all, he might have been qualified, but he was one of the youngest in the family, and therefore pretty low on the pecking order in regards to seniority. But he didn’t mind, so long as he was allowed to continue his duty as general manager of the Vasser Hotel in New York City. It was the original, and in his mind, the best of all the Vasser hotels. Then one day, when it was his turn, he would take over and do the best he could to preserve everything his forefathers had worked for. It was, after all, his legacy and his obligation to do so.

He was jolted out of his reverie when there was a brisk knocking on his door once again, only this time the person did not wait for him to beckon them in. But when he saw his Uncle Marshall, he made sure to unruffle his feathers and at least attempt something other than a frown.

“I’m sure going to miss seeing Tara’s pretty smile every day,” Marshall said wistfully, a sad smile quirking his lips as he came into the room and shut the door at his back.

“I’m sure all of us will miss her,” Grant replied, warring internally between his work obligations and his family as he eyed his uncle, wondering how he could get out of having a long and winded conversation about the new secretary. He really didn’t care very much to hear Marshall’s opinions on the woman, especially since his own opinions were likely to vary drastically. Tara had been a fortunate contradiction to the usual difference of opinion between he and his uncle regarding pretty much everything.

Marshall chuckled, his massive frame shaking with it beneath his stylish charcoal gray suit.

He was a large man, but not in the overweight sense. He rose to a near six foot five, built with broad shoulders and a midsection that had gotten thicker over the years given his impeccable love of fine cuisine and good brandy. With the help of a clever stylist, he kept his hair fuller than it naturally would have been and with only a light dusting of gray against a rich chocolate brown to match his generous and timeless mustache. As a result, he looked a lot younger than his seventy-one years, and he certainly acted younger, too.

He had the same twinkling, charming blue eyes of his grandfather, Winston, and by all accounts he acted very much like the man as well. Marshall was the life of the party at any event and a great poster boy for the Vasser family, a role he had played nearly all of his life. After all, he was Cyrus Vasser’s oldest son out of seven boys, which meant he was next in line to inherit the family empire. So long as he could outlive the old man, anyway.

“Well, I’m sure you have plenty of work to do, as usual.” Marshall winked at his nephew affectionately. “I just wanted to pop by and see if you needed a shoulder to cry on regarding the lovely Tara’s departure.”

With a derisive snort, Grant shook his head, trying not to be amused. “I don’t cry.”

“Of course you don’t,” Marshall mused as he glanced over his shoulder at the portraits and photographs on the wall behind him, admiring the paintings particularly. “I always said you look more like my dad than your own father, Grant.”

“I suppose I should take that as a compliment?” Grant returned to his notepad to scribble down another phone number. “I really am busy, Marshall.”

Marshall shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks and turned, grinning.

“Then I won’t keep you.” He let out a slow sigh as he admired his nephew, working busily away at the desk that had been both his and Cyrus’ for so many years, in the same office that had been Winston’s, and Alton’s before him. Tradition. It was a beautiful thing. “I just want you to know that I’m proud of you, Grant. If I’d had children, had a son, I hope he would have been just like you.”

Grant stopped writing and glanced up, meeting his uncle’s eyes cautiously. Great, treading on emotional ground again. Even though he felt an odd, deeply buried gratification at hearing the words, he still preferred those kind of remarks be kept inside, when all it seemed to do was make him feel uncomfortable. He was God awful at coming up with good replies to comments like that.

“Thanks. Goodnight, Marshall.” Grant nodded once, curtly, before turning back to his computer screen.

Marshall only smiled again as he turned away, thinking to himself just how lucky they all were to have Grant be the way he was. Sure, the kid could lighten up a bit once in awhile, but there was no one, absolutely
no
one, who worked longer or fought harder for the family business than Grant did.

The man was, put quite simply, one in a million.

The hollow rubber
ball smacked with a deafening thud against the broad white wall, then cheerfully rebounded straight for Linc Vasser’s head.

“
Shit
,” he grunted as he ducked out of the way and swung frantically upwards with his racket, barely managing to clip the ball, causing it to sail back towards the wall and back to his opponent, who swung a bit too short and missed the ball by mere inches.

Both men collapsed into a sweaty heap on the floor of the racquetball court, chests heaving as they gasped for air. But when they met eyes, both had mile wide grins of pure sportsmanship.

“Why do I even bother playing with you? I always kick your ass. It’s really not much of a challenge,” Linc huffed as he patted his friend on the back with as much force as he could muster, which wasn’t much since his arm was throbbing from that last hit.

“Screw you, you don’t always win,” Greg Carson glared back, fire in his soft brown eyes, his blonde hair sticking up in places and his boyishly handsome face flush from the game.

Linc grinned, his white teeth flashing in a charming smile, his cobalt eyes glittering with triumph and good humor. “You’re in what we call a state of denial, my friend. But it’s okay, you’re a humble man because you always get beaten. In fact, you should be thanking me.”