All of your business, p.4
All of Your Business, page 4
He balked at the cheeky observation. “Only in the most practical sense. I slept for nearly all of it.”
“If I had any concerns, I’d tell you.” She grinned as if she knew full well that Ben was very much out of his depth. “And I’d love to have dinner with someone from London. I know nothing about this city other than the fact that there’s a palace and a queen lives in it.”
“There are several palaces, actually. Where are you stopping?”
Confusion crinkled Didi’s features. “Uh...in London.”
Ben suppressed a laugh. “No, I mean, where’s your hotel? Which part of the city?”
“It’s out here by the airport. It’s called the Ibis, I think.”
Ben harrumphed. That was inconvenient. If Didi were stopping in the city centre, he might have offered her a lift. Returning to collect her would take nearly an hour. They would spend more time in transit than at dinner.
Her left-leaning smirk resurfaced. “Problem?”
“Your hotel is somewhat far from where I live. That’s all. But I’d still like to show you the city.”
“Tell you what.” Didi readjusted the straw bag’s handles against the shoulder of her suede jacket. “Why don’t you come up with a plan? I’ll go along with whatever. These are your stomping grounds, not mine. We can eat fast food for all I care.”
Ben lowered his chin to convey his indignation. “We will be aiming higher than that.”
She chuckled. “Okay. Just so you know, I’m not picky.”
“Good thing,” he said dryly. “Or you might not have agreed to spend the evening with me.”
When Didi laughed more broadly, Ben felt ridiculously proud – which was preposterous because all he had done was take the mickey out of himself. But a soupçon of self-deprecation could yield heaps of bonhomie. It was another lesson he learned from his father. His mother did not feel the same.
He and Didi watched the luggage trundle around the carousel until, finally, she pointed. “There’s mine. The one with the green ribbon on the handle.”
Her hard-shelled red suitcase was sandwiched between a pushchair and an overstuffed duffle. Ben risked a bit of chivalry. “Want me to get it for you?”
“Sure.” Didi stepped back to clear a path.
After he set the suitcase down next to her, Didi made no effort to leave. Instead, she stayed close as though she meant to guard their pocket of space by the conveyor. Ben noticed – and not for the first time – how naturally they interacted. Didi’s presence seemed to make things easier however much he tried to complicate them.
She also had no clue who he was. Not really. Anonymity always felt like an advantage. While Kip attracted the lion’s share of fortune hunters, a handful set their sights on Ben. At uni, he had learned how to spot them.
Didi exhibited none of the symptoms. No interest in fine dining. No overeager agreement. No subtle hints at a hidden agenda.
As Ben tugged his suitcase from the carousel, he prepared himself for an abrupt farewell. Didi needn’t remain in his company.
And yet, she did.
They rolled their luggage toward a trio of passageways framed by brightly colored signs. Motioning for Didi to go first, Ben entered the corridor for travelers who had nothing to declare.
Beyond a final set of security doors was the spacious arrivals hall. Indirect sunlight sluiced through a gigantic glass-paneled wall. A few tourists meandered indecisively while Londoners sped toward the exits.
Didi scanned the bright yellow signage posted overhead. “I need to get a taxi.”
“The taxi rank is out those doors to our left. I’m headed in a different direction.” Ben’s phone buzzed once more. S-O-S. He ignored it. “The Ibis, you said? How does half six sound?”
She looked confused. “Half six of what?”
Ben stifled a grin. “Half six is the same as six-thirty. Will that give you enough time to get ready?”
“I think so.” She didn’t seem sure. “Are we talking fancy or casual clothes?”
“Somewhere between posh trousers and tracksuit bottoms.”
Didi craned her neck like she hadn’t heard him clearly. “What did you say?”
“Tracksuit bottoms,” he repeated. “Do you not have those in the States?”
For several seconds, her brown eyes toggled back and forth. “Are they the same thing as sweatpants?”
“Probably?” Ben wasn’t sure.
Was this a prelude to their evening together? An interpreter might be in order. He fished a business card and a pen from his briefcase, then scribbled his private number on the back of the card.
“Ring me if you get a better offer,” he said.
Without even pausing to read it, Didi dropped the card into her bag. “That won’t happen. See you at half six, Ben.” As she headed for the exit, she tossed one last smile over her shoulder.
Waving, Ben watched her leave. Didi’s stride matched her personality. It was determined but with a playful sway. And now they were going out for the evening after he’d almost let her slip away.
How many hours until dinner? Ben checked the time on his mobile. Eight and a quarter.
He looked forward to doing something different.
Chapter Four
Late, late, late. It might as well be her middle name. Dahlia Tarde Velasquez.
At least the delay wasn’t her fault. London was completely to blame. The traffic was awful. The weather was worse. Thank God she’d packed a raincoat. An umbrella might become her first official souvenir.
Even though for once she was innocent, it would be tough to convince her boss otherwise. Didi’s perpetual lateness remained DEI’s longest-running office joke. Everyone lied to her about meetings to make sure she showed up on time. Didi appreciated their efforts.
Monte called it enabling. Maybe it was. But this time Didi could point the finger back at her boss for putting her in a hotel so far from London’s business district. It was like staying in Baton Rouge for a conference in New Orleans.
The cab ride had taken way over an hour despite the driver’s mad bobbing-and-weaving skills. More than once Didi clung to the slick plastic strap dangling above the window. During the rest of the drive, she reviewed her presentation one screenshot at a time on her phone.
Now she stood at the edge of a ground-floor lobby that looked more like a botanical garden. A trio of neatly dressed greeters – or were they security guards? – motioned for Didi to approach them.
Richmond Tower served as the headquarters for one of the world’s most successful corporations. Once upon a time, she had dreamed of working here. Reality clipped her wings.
With nervous fingers, Didi attached the visitor name badge to her raincoat. She passed her purse to a woman who checked its contents. Whisking through a metal detector, Didi reclaimed her belongings.
She thanked the woman. “Where are the elevators?”
“The lifts are straight ahead.”
As Didi tried to strike a balance between a sprint and a stroll, she cursed the sweat pooling beneath her blouse. On Wikipedia, she had read that British professionals were almost as time-oriented as Americans. While her parents’ culture viewed meeting times as suggestions, Didi couldn’t use her upbringing as an excuse. Not today.
Today was about winning. Monte expected a home run from her, and she intended to deliver.
In the elevator, Didi pressed the button for the thirty-third floor. Although she never minded interacting with strangers, she was relieved that no one else entered before the doors slowly shut. After that cab ride and her dash through security, she needed a moment.
As she coasted upward at a steady clip, she examined the building’s center. Richmond Tower wasn’t the tallest skyscraper in London, but it was among the greenest – literally. The lobby could double for a terrarium on steroids even with its café, bar, newsstand, and boutique.
The tower’s forty-two floors encircled an open-air atrium that stretched all the way to a massive skylight. Sunlight poured through its panels. The building’s framework was white metal, and the walls were transparent which meant employees were on full display. Any goofing off would have to be strategic.
No problem. She liked a challenge. And she would love to work in a place so light and bright instead of the dark and dingy office space that Monte rented because it was cheap.
Didi exhaled. Not going to happen. Not yet anyway. She was stuck at DEI for at least a few more months, and she had a job to do for it now. She filled her last seconds alone with a prayer for success and her go-to mantra.
Buena cara.
When the doors parted, a prerecorded female voice announced the floor in a British accent. Didi stepped into a scaled-down version of the botanical lobby that emptied into two larger hallways. Like the elevator, the thirty-third floor appeared vacant. There was no map or info desk.
Didi glanced back and forth. Should she go right or left? The hallways didn’t connect so she couldn’t circle back around if she went the wrong way. Why hadn’t Monte sent better directions? He could have given her more than a floor number.
Then again, he loved to keep her guessing.
She moved toward the hallway on her right. It was empty. Where were RE’s employees? More than 4,000 people worked in this building alone, and it was one of five located across the globe.
Frustrated, Didi spun around and collided hard with someone. As she let out a yelp, hands gripped her shoulders. She sputtered an apology.
“Didi? What are you doing here?”
Her name. That voice. Dios mio.
Didi lifted her gaze. Simply-Ben stared back, his turquoise eyes wide with disbelief. He had shaved and changed into a grey tweed suit. His glasses were gone. His uptight manner wasn’t.
She echoed his question. “What are you doing here?”
“This is where I work.” He let go of her shoulders. “I thought we were meeting at your hotel.”
“I’m not here to see you.” The refusal came out harsher than Didi intended, but if Monte caught her chatting up her airplane date, things would go from bad to worse in an instant. “I’m giving a presentation, and I don’t know where the meeting room is.”
“You’re giving a presentation?” He said it like he thought she might be lying.
“And I’m late,” she added.
“A presentation to Kwame Akamba of GhanaGold?”
Didi stepped back. “How do you know that?”
“Because I just finished giving mine. You’re Dahlia Velasquez.” He emphasized her first name.
She crossed her arms. “You’re Ben Richmond?”
“It says so on my card.”
Didi eyed him. Nicely played. She couldn’t accuse him of withholding information because he hadn’t. It wasn’t Simply-Ben’s fault she neglected to read the business card he gave her at the airport.
His demeanor lost some of its stiffness. “Are you all right? Did I hurt you?”
“No. Our crash was my fault. I wasn’t watching where I was going because I have no idea where to go.”
Ben gestured to the hallway on the left. “Please allow me to show you. You are indeed very late.”
Didi roiled her shoulders. “Just tell me which way. I can find the room myself.”
“I insist.” He disappeared around the corner.
As she trailed Ben down the hallway, she tried to hide her irritation. How would it look to Monte if they showed up at the meeting room together? Her boss was always jumping to conclusions. He thrived on scandal and speculation.
But Ben was behaving like a good host should. And Monte had no clue they’d already met. Didi learned early on to tell her boss nothing that wasn’t work-related. Silence had become her best defense whenever Monte stuck his nose in her business.
Ben stopped at the first of three doors that faced a communal lounge. The lighting was energy efficient. The furnishings were top-dollar. Only two people occupied the lounge, both standing near its edge like they were ready to head elsewhere.
One of them had the aura of an executive assistant. She was neat but not distinctive, ready for action but not in charge. Her black hair draped a heart-shaped face. Her concentration volleyed between the woman standing beside her and a tablet cradled against her right arm.
Didi recognized the other woman at once. No introduction required. In college, she wrote a paper on Lydia Richmond, the CEO of Richmond Enterprises. Some said she was the most powerful woman in business. Maybe even the world.
Mrs. Richmond definitely looked the part with a crisp silk suit, matching leather pumps, and a stare that would make a Rottweiler whimper. Her brown hair swooped away from her face into a stiff wave at her neck. Even in heels, she was barely taller than Didi. Ben must have gotten his height from his dad.
With or without heels, Mrs. Richmond was a giant in the corporate world. She hadn’t just made a counteroffer on the GhanaGold mine. She crashed the entire party. At her request, the key players were meeting in London on her turf. Monte had griped for six days straight about Mrs. Richmond’s power play.
No question – it was a baller move. One that put Monte in his place.
Simply-Ben initiated the introductions. He used Didi’s full first name, not her nickname.
His mother stuck to last names only. “Miss Velasquez, it is a pleasure to meet you.”
Her sharp tone matched Ben’s exactly. That apple didn’t fall far.
“Likewise,” Didi replied. She made sure to dial her Texas accent down to zero. “Actually, I prefer ‘Ms.’ if you don’t mind.”
Mrs. Richmond scrutinized Didi with an unreadable stare. “This is Miss Chopra. She’ll take your coat.”
Thanking her, Didi shrugged free of her bargain-rack rain jacket and passed it to the other woman. She was about to march into the meeting with it on. Not exactly a power outfit.
“Why aren’t you stopping at the tower?” Ben sounded more critical than curious.
Didi forced her distracted brain to translate. Stopping meant staying. And by the tower, Ben meant the billion-dollar, state-of-the-art office building with his last name above the door. Was Richmond Tower used as a hotel, too? Didi hadn’t noticed that detail on its Wikipedia page.
“I wasn’t invited,” she told him.
Ben’s gaze lost none of its contempt as it deviated toward his mother.
“Not invited?” Mrs. Richmond’s lips flattened just like Ben’s did. “Is that right?”
Didi responded with a tight smile of her own. “I’m late. Do you mind if I get started?”
“By all means.”
Gesturing for her assistant to follow, Mrs. Richmond marched away. Her office was probably on another floor. According to Wikipedia, she lived in a penthouse on the forty-second story. The entire floor was hers along with a garden and private gym on the forty-first. Employees had their own workout center, including a pool, on one of the lower levels.
Ben extended an arm toward the meeting room. “In here, Ms. Velasquez.”
Didi stopped smiling. She already knew that. Through the room’s glass walls, Monte glowered at her like she’d just run over his pet. She never had to guess what her boss was thinking. He wore his feelings like his custom-made Stetson.
“Thank you, Mr. Richmond.” She countered Ben’s hint of condescension with a heap of polite confidence. “I appreciate your assistance. It’s so nice to finally meet you.”
His stone-cold composure wavered just for a moment. “The pleasure is all mine, Ms. Velasquez.”
As she entered the meeting room, Didi mustered her own sense of calm. Ben’s unexpected appearance had rattled her even more than running behind. The meeting room was a self-contained version of the lounge with one long table and ergonomic chairs. London’s skyline dominated its windows.
Monte’s aftershave dominated the air. Its unmistakable odor swirled around him like a dumpster’s funk. It reminded Didi of turpentine laced with menthol underscored by the stench of stale cigars.
Her boss stood to begin the introductions. “Kwame Akamba, I’d like you to meet Dahlia Velasquez. Dahlia is our director of global acquisitions.” Unlike her, Monte didn’t dial down his southern twang. If anything, he cranked it up.
Didi didn’t miss his emphasis on her current title, either. The subtext was more glaring than sunlight on a mirror.
Screw this up, and you’re SOL.
Smiling, Didi shook Mr. Akamba’s hand and repeated his name. Details from her research leaped into her thoughts. Akamba was a Methodist. Philanthropist. Father of four. He wrote poetry and had known Nelson Mandela.
Mr. Akamba bowed his head in greeting. Instead of a business suit, he wore a loose-fitting shirt dyed purple, orange, and black. The country of Ghana was known for its vibrant hand-painted fabrics as well as its profitable gold mines.
Born in Ghana, Mr. Akamba grew up with nothing more than the clothes on his back. He parlayed his hard work in a mission school into admission to Cambridge University. Plenty of journalists had written about his rags-to-riches story.
Now in his sixties, Mr. Akamba was downsizing his business to keep the lucrative parts afloat. He wasn’t too proud to make sacrifices if it meant preserving the whole. He also contributed to multiple charities – and not for the tax incentives.
“It is a pleasure, Miss Velasquez.” Despite his mild demeanor, Mr. Akamba’s eyes twinkled with familial warmth. He was Monte’s height, around five foot seven, but that’s where similarities ended.
Monte proved it with a brusque question. “Should we get down to business?”
Didi resisted the urge to disagree. Africans didn’t like to rush things. Personal connections were more important than sticking to a schedule, and meetings always started with small talk. Even though Didi hadn’t planned to be late, she knew Mr. Akamba wouldn’t hold it against DEI. When it came to business, Mexican and African cultures had a lot in common.
Monte had nothing in common with either. He had cornered the market on all-balls-out bravado. On his mellowest days, he was boisterous and brash. Gestures accompanied every word. He spoke at top volume, somehow convinced that the loudest person in the room won the trophy. Monte slapped backs, squeezed arms, and hugged any woman who would let him.
