Play Dirty Page 3

  “I assume you’d have the doctor check me out first,” he said. “For all you know, I could’ve taken up with a lover in prison and have HIV.”

  “I seriously doubt that,” Speakman said drily, “but, yes, I would require you to undergo a thorough physical examination and bring me back a clean bill of health, signed by a physician. You could say it was for medical insurance.”

  It still seemed too easy. Griff wondered what he was overlooking. Where was the catch? “What if she doesn’t get pregnant? Do I have to return the first hundred grand?”

  Speakman hesitated. Griff tilted his head as though to communicate that this could be a deal breaker. Speakman said, “No. That would be yours to keep.”

  “Because if she doesn’t conceive, it might not be my fault. Your wife may not be fertile.”

  “Who negotiated your contract with the Cowboys?”

  “What? My former agent. Why?”

  “A piece of advice, Griff. During a business negotiation, once you’ve won a point, drop it. Don’t mention it again. I’ve already conceded that you could keep the initial hundred thousand.”

  “Okay.” They hadn’t covered that in the release preparation sessions.

  Griff weighed his options, and they boiled down to this: he didn’t have any options, other than saying no and walking away from mega cash. To turn this down, he’d have to be crazy. Crazy as Speakman and his old lady.

  He raised one shoulder in a negligent shrug. “Then if that’s all that’s required, we have a deal. One point, though. I want to do my thing in the privacy of my own bathroom. The doctor will have to come to my place to pick up the stuff. I think you can freeze it, so I could give him several samples at one whack.” He laughed at the inadvertent double entendre. “So to speak.”

  Speakman laughed, too, but was serious as sin when he said, “There won’t be a doctor, Griff.”

  Just when he thought he had this figured out, Speakman hit him with something like a linebacker coming around on his blind side and knocking him on his ass. “What do you mean, no doctor? Who’s gonna…” He made gentle thrusting motions with his hand. “Put it where it needs to go.”

  “You are,” Speakman said quietly. “I’m sorry for not making this clear from the beginning. I insist on my child being conceived naturally. The way God intended.”

  Griff stared at him for several seconds, then he began to laugh. Either somebody had set him up for a whopper of a practical joke or Speakman was out of his frigging mind.

  Nobody in Griff’s life cared enough to play an elaborate joke on him. No one in his present life would go to the trouble. No one from his past would give him the time of day, much less invest the time it would take to set up this bizarre scenario and talk Speakman into going along.

  No, he was betting that Speakman went beyond being an eccentric millionaire and neat freak and was, in fact, certifiable.

  In any case, this was all one huge waste of time, and he’d lost patience with it. Flippantly, he said, “My job would be to fuck your wife?”

  Speakman winced. “I don’t care much for the vernacular, especially in—”

  “Cut the bullshit, okay? You’re hiring me to play stud. That’s basically it, right?”

  Speakman hesitated, then said, “Basically? Yes.”

  “And for half a mil, I guess you get to watch.”

  “That’s insulting, Griff. To me. Certainly to Laura.”

  “Yeah, well…” He didn’t apologize. Kinky sex was the least offensive factor of this whole interview. “About her, does she know your plan?”

  “Of course.”

  “Uh-huh. What does she think about it?”

  Speakman rolled his chair toward an end table where a cordless phone stood in its charger. “You can ask her yourself.”

  CHAPTER

  3

  UPSTAIRS, IN HER HOME OFFICE, LAURA SPEAKMAN CHECKED the clock on her desk. Only half an hour had elapsed since Griff Burkett’s arrival. Punctual arrival. Being on time would definitely have won him marks with Foster. But of the other impressions he was making, were they good or bad?

  For thirty minutes she’d been reading a new flight attendants’ contract proposed by their union. She retained none of it. Giving up the pretense of working, she left her desk and began pacing the width of the office. It was a bright and airy room. There were drapes on the windows, carpet on the floor, crown molding at the ceiling. It was designated an office only by the desk and the computer setup concealed in an eight-foot-tall French antique armoire.

  What was being said downstairs in the library? Not knowing was driving her mad, but Foster had insisted on meeting with Burkett alone.

  “Let me test the waters,” he’d said. “Once I get a sense of him, I’ll ask you to join us.”

  “And if your sense of him isn’t good, if you don’t think he’s suitable, then what?”

  “Then I’ll send him on his way, and you will have been spared an awkward and unproductive interview.”

  His plan made sense, she supposed. But it wasn’t in her nature to delegate decision making. Certainly not on something this important. Not even to her husband.

  Of course, if she and Foster weren’t in complete accord about Griff Burkett’s suitability, he would be rejected. Nevertheless, she hated to miss seeing his initial reaction to their proposal and gauging that reaction for herself. How he reacted would tell a lot about him.

  She looked across at the closed door and, for a moment, considered going downstairs and presenting herself. But that would violate Foster’s careful planning. He wouldn’t welcome the interruption to his schedule.

  The pacing was only making her more agitated. She returned to her desk chair, reclined in it, closed her eyes, and utilized relaxation techniques she had taught herself while still a university student. After going days without a break from her studies, when her head was so packed full of information it couldn’t tolerate any more, she would force herself to lie down, close her eyes, do her deep breathing exercises, and rest, if not sleep. Practicing the technique helped. If nothing else, it slowed her down, made her admit to the limitations of mind and body.

  Difficult as it was for her to accept, right now there was nothing she could do but wait.

  As her agitation gradually abated, her thoughts drifted back to the events and circumstances that had brought her to this point in her life, to this day and hour, to hiring a total stranger to make a baby with her.

  It had begun with the color of the uniforms…

  Headlines on the business pages had blared the news when Foster Speakman, last in line of the prominent Dallas family who’d been made wealthy by oil and gas, bought the distressed SunSouth Airlines.

  For years the mismanaged airline had been teetering on the brink of total collapse. It had suffered a lengthy pilots’ strike, followed by a blistering media exposé on its slipshod maintenance practices; then a disastrous crash took fifty-seven lives. Declaring bankruptcy had been the airline’s final hope of recovery, but unfortunately that last gasp hadn’t saved it.

  Everyone thought the Speakman heir was insane when he spent a huge chunk of his fortune to buy the airline. For days the story dominated local business news: COSTLY HOBBY FOR MILLIONAIRE? SUNSOUTH’S SALVATION, SPEAKMAN’S RUIN? The acquisition was even mentioned with mild derision on national broadcasts. It was implied that yet another rich Texan had gone and done something crazy.

  Foster Speakman further surprised everyone by immediately grounding the airplanes, laying off thousands of employees with a promise to rehire them once he’d had time to conduct a thorough analysis of the airline’s situation. He closed the doors to all media, telling frustrated reporters that they would be notified when he had something newsworthy to tell them.

  In the ensuing months, Foster sequestered himself with financial and operational experts and advisers. Upper-echelon executives of the old regime were given the option to retire early with fair retirement packages. Those who didn’t opt to do so were
fired outright.

  The firings weren’t vindictive, only sound business acumen. Foster had a vision, but he also realized that, in order to bring it about, he would need people around him with knowledge equal to or greater than his. With his enthusiasm, charisma, and seemingly bottomless bank account, he lured the best in the industry away from cushy positions with other airlines.

  Almost three months after taking over, Foster called all the new department heads together for the first of many roundtable discussions. Laura was there, representing the flight attendants. It was at that meeting she saw the man in charge for the first time.

  She knew what he looked like from all the media coverage he had received, but photographs and television images had failed to capture his crackling vitality. Energy radiated from him like an electric aura.

  He was lean, handsome, confident, personable. He strode into the conference room dressed in a perfectly tailored pin-striped suit, soft gray shirt, conservative tie. But soon after the meeting was called to order, he removed his double-breasted jacket, draped it over the back of his chair, loosened his tie, and literally rolled up his sleeves. By doing so, he indicated that he intended to do what needed to be done, that he didn’t consider himself above applying elbow grease, and that he expected the same work ethic from everyone in that room.

  The date had been set for the airline to resume operation. It was circled in red on the large calendar placed on an easel where all could see. “Target date,” Foster announced happily. “Following our review of the budget, each of you will get a chance to tell me why I’m out of my mind and that there’s no way in hell we’ll make that deadline.”

  Everyone chuckled as expected. The meeting commenced.

  The new CFO—hired because he was a notorious penny-pincher who had won his reputation by saving an American auto manufacturer from going under—was asked to talk them through the proposed budget item by item.

  In his monotonous drone, he went on uninterrupted for a full ten minutes, then said, “Flight attendant program, the allotment remains the same. Next is food and beverage. Now here—”

  “Excuse me.”

  The CFO raised his head and, looking over his reading glasses, surveyed the table to find the voice that had interrupted him. Laura raised her hand to identify herself. “Before moving on, this figure begs discussion.”

  He lowered one bushy eyebrow into a near scowl. “What isn’t clear?”

  “It’s perfectly clear,” she replied. “What needs discussion is how sorely underbudgeted this department is.”

  “Everyone at this table thinks his department is underbudgeted.” He squinted at her, referred to the agenda for the meeting, and then squinted at her again. “Who are you, anyway?”

  Before she had a chance to answer, Foster Speakman spoke from the head of the table. “Ladies and gentlemen, for those of you who haven’t met her, this is Ms. Laura Taylor.”

  Her lips parted wordlessly. It came as a shock to her that Foster Speakman knew she existed.

  The CFO removed his reading glasses and, after giving Laura a glance of consternation, asked Foster, “Where’s Hazel Cooper?”

  He said, “Ms. Taylor, will you do the honors?”

  She rose to the challenge, saying evenly, “Ms. Cooper tendered her resignation day before yesterday.”

  “She did, that’s right,” came a voice on the other side of the table. The man was director of Human Resources. “I sent a blanket e-mail. Didn’t y’all get it?” His gaze swept around the table, but there was a unanimous shaking of heads. “Oh, well, Hazel took early retirement. Said as long as there was a major shake-up, she might just as well make the move now, ’cause she planned on retiring next year anyway. I asked Ms. Taylor to sit in for her until another director for the department can be hired.”

  The CFO coughed behind his hand. “All well and good then. Once a new director is in place, I’ll take up the budget for that department with him.”

  “Or her,” Foster said.

  The CFO turned red-faced. “Of course, I was speaking generically.”

  “As long as we’re here, let’s discuss the budget for this department,” Foster said.

  The CFO gave Laura another irritated look. “No offense to Ms. Taylor, but is she qualified to conduct that discussion?”

  Foster riffled through a stack of file folders he had carried in with him. He found the one he wanted, stacked the others precisely, leaving no edge overlapping another, then opened the one he had withdrawn.

  “Laura Eleanor Taylor…hmm, I’ll skip down to…Here we go. Graduated with honors from Stephen F. Austin State University. Two years later she earned an MBA from Southern Methodist’s business school. Again with honors.

  “Applied and was accepted into the flight attendant program for SunSouth Airlines in 2002. Advancement, advancement, and another advancement,” he said, consulting her employee record in the file.

  “Promoted to do training and performance evaluation in 2005. Was a thorn in the side of the previous management and has made a nuisance of herself with Ms. Cooper by writing memo after memo, copies of which I have,” he said, holding up a handful of sheets, “criticizing standards and practices now in place and suggesting ways in which the department could be vastly improved.” He read directly from one memo. “‘But’—which is underlined—‘not without insight, intelligence, and plain common sense on the part of the new owner.’ Who happens to be…” He paused for what seemed to Laura an eternity. “Me.”

  He replaced all the sheets in the file folder, then set it on the top of the stack. Only after lining them up to ruler-edge exactness did he stand. “Will you accompany me outside, Ms. Taylor? Bring your things.”

  She sat stunned, cheeks flaming, feeling every eye in the room, except Foster Speakman’s, on her. He was already at the door of the conference room, going through it, expecting her to follow.

  With as much dignity as possible, she retrieved her handbag and briefcase, then stood up. “Ladies, gentlemen,” she said. Some, embarrassed for her, averted their eyes. Others gave her nods of sympathy. The CFO, with whom this had started, opened his mouth as though to apologize, then thought better of it and gave a regretful shake of his head.

  She stepped through the door and pulled it closed behind her, then squared her shoulders and turned toward Foster Speakman, who was standing in the empty corridor. “You’re not nearly as ferocious looking as your memos led me to expect, Ms. Taylor.”

  Her cheeks still burned with humiliation, but she maintained her composure. “I didn’t realize my interdepartmental memos were being forwarded to you.”

  “In view of her impending retirement, I suppose Ms. Cooper felt the issues you raised were no longer her problem but mine.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Would knowing I was reading the memos have changed your opinions?”

  “Not at all. But perhaps I would have softened the tone and language in which I expressed them.”

  He folded his arms across his chest and studied her for several moments. “Satisfy my curiosity. Why, with an MBA from SMU’s highly regarded business school, did you become a flight attendant? It’s an honorable profession, but you were overqualified.”

  “Four times I applied to SunSouth for an entry-level management position and was passed over each time.”

  “Were you told why?”

  “No, but the positions went to men.”

  “Gender discrimination?”

  “I’m making no accusations, only telling you what happened.”

  “So you settled for a flight attendant’s position.”

  “I accepted it, but I didn’t settle for it. I thought that once I got my foot in the door—”

  “You would distinguish yourself and work your way up to the level for which you had applied in the first place.”

  “More or less.”

  He smiled. “Having studied your file, I thought as much. For all I know, you have your sights set on my job, Ms. Taylor. In a
way, I hope you do, because I admire ambition. But today I’m offering you Ms. Cooper’s position as director of the flight attendant program. Add to that the title of vice-president in charge of…et cetera.”

  For the third time since she’d laid eyes on him, he had stunned her. First, just by knowing who she was. Second, by calling her out of the meeting for what she thought would be immediate dismissal. Now this. “Just like that?”

  He laughed. “I never do anything ‘just like that.’ No, this offer comes after careful analysis of your employment record. I also ran credit and criminal background checks, as I did with every person in that room. You passed, but you have an outstanding parking ticket that hasn’t been paid.”

  “I mailed the check yesterday. Grudgingly. There was no sign posted, but it would have cost more to contest the ticket than simply to pay it.”

  “A practical decision, Ms. Taylor. I believe your drive, ambition, and talent have been wasted by managers who lacked ‘insight, intelligence, and plain common sense,’” he said, his smile widening as he quoted from her memo. “I assume you accept this position?”

  Still shaky, but with relief instead of the humiliation of being summarily terminated, she said yes.

  With no more ceremony than that, he said, “Good. Now, shall we return to the others?” He reached for the door, then paused. “A word of warning: You’ll have a fight on your hands over that budget. Are you up to it?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Murmured conversations ceased when they reentered. Foster startled the others by introducing her by her new title, but most seemed more pleased than not. “Mr. George,” Foster said, addressing the human resources director, “following this meeting, I, you, and Ms. Taylor can go over the contract I prepared in advance and with the hope that she would accept my offer. I think you’ll both find it satisfactory.” He slapped the table lightly. “Now, Ms. Taylor, it’s your first official duty to tell us why the budget allotment for your department is inadequate.”