Kane, Andrea (31 page)

Gloria eyed him for a minute. "And?"

"And what?"

"And why did you bring this up?"

A shrug. "Just curious." He tilted his head slightly in
her direction. "By the way, when Dylan flew to Manchester... and dropped
that bomb you were referring to, did you get to meet him?"

"No. I didn't."

"Too bad... But you will... And when you do, keep a close
watch... He's going to factor into your life in a big way.... He already does
in mine.... But it's going to get bigger.... Ironic..." Carson's eyelids
drooped as if he were fighting sleep.

Swiftly, Gloria glanced at her watch. The nurse would be tossing
her out any minute. But she wasn't leaving... not yet. Not until they stopped
dancing around the obvious.

"Carson, are you playing matchmaker?" she demanded.

9:35 A.M.

Ruisseau Fragrance Corporation

The ten department heads sat rigidly around the conference room
table—and around Sabrina.

As she settled herself in her chair, Sabrina assessed the group,
looking around the table, one-by-one, and putting names to the faces.

Obviously, she knew Stan and Dylan, who flanked her on either
side.

To Stan's left was Nelson Harte, III, chief financial officer—a
go-getter, third generation Harvard Business School grad, financial genius.
After that came Alfred Rowe, VP of manufacturing—the former president of
Distillation Technologies Inc., a company acquired by Carson twelve years ago.
Next there was Sandra Cooper, VP of sales—forty years old, the youngest company
VP with the exception of Dylan, polished and savvy as they come, which was a
sure-fire reason for her meteoric rise.

Directly to Sandra's left was John Baker, VP of information
technology—a rare combination of technogenius, creative dynamo, and
attention-to-detail fanatic. Next came Steve Hollings, VP of strategic
planning—innovative, enterprising, a real roll-up-your-sleeves-and-get-it-done
kind of guy. Beside him was Rita Whiting, VP of marketing—the brains behind the
C'est Moi marketing campaign, sharp as a tack and exuding the energy of a
thirty-year-old, despite being well into her fifties. After Rita, came Claude
Phelps, the VP of research & development—hyper and eccentric, the mad
scientist type, one of Carson's original staff members. Then, Roland Ferguson,
the VP of human resources—who'd left the successful recruiting firm he'd
started up to come work for Carson.

Finally, there was Dylan—officially titled VP & general
counsel, although he'd never changed the plaque on his door to include that
pomp and circumstance—and Sabrina herself, the legal president of Ruisseau
Fragrance Corporation as of twenty minutes ago when she'd signed the papers
Dylan had prepared, Carson had signed, and Stan had witnessed—first for Carson,
then for her. She had the title, the authority—and the anonymity, until she
chose otherwise. For the time being, her input would be conveyed via Stan,
who'd voice her recommendations and cast her proxy votes. Her official role, as
far as Ruisseau's entire staff was concerned, would be that of Carson's newly
hired management consultant.

A daunting balancing act, to say the least.

Sabrina finished her perusal, having made all the individual
connections, and sipped at her coffee. The tension in the room was palpable.
She couldn't help but feel an immense sense of empathy. All the VPs were
clearly unglued, fiddling with pens, crossing and uncrossing their legs, and
looking generally freaked-out as they waited for Stan to address whatever he'd
called them here for. They were exhausted from overwork, unnerved by Carson's
shooting, and drained from the police interrogations they'd been through.

And now, their COO had called an unscheduled, mandatory meeting.
So on top of everything else, they were edgy as hell, unsure what was coming
next, and casting uneasy, curious glances at her—the unknown intruder—trying to
figure out who the hell she was and what she was doing here.

Stan didn't keep them guessing for long.

"Good morning, everyone, and thanks for being here on such
short notice," he began. "I apologize for the late start. I came from
Mount Sinai. The traffic was miserable." He folded his hands on the table,
looking pretty green around the gills himself. The poor man had to open the
meeting by breaking the worst kind of news imaginable to a group already
reeling from a murder attempt on their CEO.

"Let me start by putting at least one concern to rest,"
he wisely prefaced things by saying. "There's no upsetting announcement
about Carson's health. He's stable. I just spent a half hour with him. He was
awake, talking, maybe even a little stronger than yesterday. That having been
said, he was terribly upset. So am I. There's no easy way to break this to you.
So I'll just say it. Last night, Russ Clark was stabbed to death outside his
apartment."

A collective gasp ran through the room.

"I don't have any details, other than the fact that Russ's
money and watch were taken, and that Detectives Whitman and Barton are
investigating to determine if there's any connection between this and Carson's assault."
Stan nibbed an unsteady hand across his forehead, then cleared his throat to
regain his composure. "Ruisseau will be holding a small service in Russ's
honor on Monday evening. A company-wide memo will go out later today with the
time and place. In addition, Carson has arranged for a YouthOp fund to be set
up in Russ's honor. Contributions of any size are welcome. Again, specifics
will be in the memo."

Stan gazed around the table, his own expression as bleak as those
that looked back at him. "I don't have to tell you how devastated Carson
is. You know how he feels about his employees. He asked me to remind you how
dedicated Russ was, how hard-working, and how thorough. He would have made one
hell of an investigative reporter. And he would have been furious if we let his
murder bring things at Ruisseau to a grinding halt. I know it's hard to think
about perfume when one of our own's been killed, and our CEO's in intensive
care. But we have to put our minds and our energies into doing just that—for
Russ's sake. And for Carson's. He's counting on us. I'm counting on you."

Again, he cleared his throat. "On that note, I'm going to
continue with the main—and positive—objective of this meeting." He turned
toward Sabrina, gave her an encouraging smile. "I'd like to introduce
Sabrina Radcliffe. She's the president and founder of the Center for Creative
Thinking and Leadership in Auburn, New Hampshire. I'm sure many of you have
heard of it, since its success stories are numerous, its write-ups are glowing,
and, as a result, its revenues have skyrocketed in the short year it's been in
existence. Smart, successful companies send their management teams there for
training. We're even luckier. The president herself has come to us. She doesn't
do that often, since she's inundated with work. But, in our case, she's making
an exception. As you know, Carson can be very persuasive."

A unanimous chuckle went through the room, as much from relief as
from anything else. It was hardly a secret that Carson was a steamroller when
he wanted something. But sharing an inside joke felt incredibly good,
incredibly normal, at a time when everyone's nerves were raw and everything
seemed out-of-control.

The tension in the room thawed a bit.

"Bottom line?" Stan concluded. "Carson is the heart
and soul of Ruisseau. While he's recuperating, he wants us to stay on track.
We've got tremendous momentum going, especially with the upcoming release of
C'est Moi for men. We've got to build on our success and keep it going, make it
stronger than ever. Sabrina's here to help us do that. She'll be at Ruisseau
for an indefinite period of time, and we're very lucky to have her. She'll be
reporting directly to me. She'll also be meeting with each of you on an
individual basis and working with each of your departments to maximize its
potential. I've told Sabrina what great team initiative we have, how we pull
together under pressure, and how she can expect full cooperation from each and
every one of you. So please join me in welcoming Sabrina to Ruisseau."

Stan came to his feet, initiating the round of applause that
ensued. Sabrina followed his lead, smiling as she rose to meet his handshake.
"Thank you, Stan."

"The floor's yours," he murmured, his words drowned out
by the applause. "Go get 'em."

"I'll do my best," she assured him, her voice equally
quiet.

She turned to face the group, noting the variety of expressions on
the faces looking back at her—from pleased to relieved to wary.

All perfectly normal reactions.

"My thanks to all of you," Sabrina began as the applause
subsided. "I appreciate the warm welcome." Her gaze flitted from
person to person, making sure to include everyone at the table. "I'm very
excited to be here. Ruisseau's success stories reach far and wide—even to the
rural outskirts of New Hampshire." She got a few return smiles.

Time to get past the dark cloud precipitating her arrival. It was
the only way to get things started on the right foot. To sidestep the issue
would mean erecting a permanent wall between her and the group, and she could
forget maximum efficiency.

"I was shocked and upset by what happened to Carson Brooks,
and I'm even more sickened by the murder of Russ Clark," she said,
grabbing the proverbial bull by the horns. "I'm used to stepping in when
companies need help. Sometimes it's because they're in trouble—whether they're
experiencing growing pains, adjusting to a recent reorganization, or requiring
new strategic direction in order to jump to that next level. Sometimes it's
because they're thriving, and their CEO wants to go that extra mile to make
sure things stay that way. Your situation's different. The reasons for my being
here transcend business. Your CEO was shot. That's personal, emotional, and
professional, thanks to the kind of organization Carson Brooks has created. The
man's a genius. Yet, he not only cares about his company, he cares about his
people. That's why I'm here."

Sabrina's shoulders lifted in an honest but rueful shrug.
"Believe me, it's not easy to step in at a time like this. It's even
harder to launch a new product and continue expanding Ruisseau's reach in the
luxury goods market on the heels of news like the kind Stan just delivered. But
I've met with Carson, and that's exactly what he wants us to do. I understand
his vision for Ruisseau. I believe I can help you attain it by keeping the
momentum going until Carson is back at the helm where he belongs. But I need
you to work with me. In fact, to echo Stan's words, I'm counting on you—all of
you."

There were a couple of "I'm-on-board" smiles, several
open, supportive expressions, an on-the-fence nod or two, and a few still-wary
gazes.

Fair enough.

"The job title 'management consultant' is not my
favorite," Sabrina continued. "Sometimes I think it's an out-and-out
misnomer, since to many people it suggests I'm the one doing the managing. I'm
not. I'm doing the consulting.
You're
doing the managing. You know this
company. You know your people and your products. Without your skills, your
insights, and your ability to execute, my job is pointless. So let's work
together to keep Carson's dream surging ahead until he's well enough to take
over himself."

She pulled a dozen photocopied pages out of her briefcase and
passed them around. "This is today's schedule. You'll see that each of you
has half an hour with me. Marie has double-checked with each of your assistants
to make sure there are no conflicts. If we've overlooked something, let me know
and I'll rearrange your time slot. No preparations are necessary. I'd just like
to get to know each of you, and get a feel for the way you see your department,
its challenges, and how it fits in with Ruisseau's strategic direction. Once
we've talked, we can arrange full-department meetings for next week, focusing
on the key initiatives and projects each department is working on."

She waited until the pages had made their way around the table and
everyone was scanning them. "Whatever unaccounted-for time I have today, I
plan to use walking around with Stan, being introduced to as many staff members
as possible. I'm not going to bombard you with hand-outs or espousals of my
corporate philosophy. I'm not a windbag and I'm not a game-player. I'm a
straight shooter, and I'd appreciate if you would be, too. If you have a
problem, tell me. If you don't like an idea, say so. If you disagree with a
point of view, give me your reasons why and support them with facts. And if you
want to run something by me, or to say hello, or just to check me out and see
if I'm really the nice person I seem to be or if I'm really a control freak
who's just a great actress, come on by. My office is two doors down from
Carson's. Firsthand experience is always the best way to find out."

Gathering up her briefcase and coffee, she made a mental note of
where the chuckles came from—and where they didn't. "I'm heading to my
office now. My first meeting's set for eleven o'clock. That's with you,
Rita." She turned to the head of marketing, ensuring that she made direct
eye contact. Good. Rita was nodding, and she looked enthused.