Someone Like You Page 5

  With Hunter on another continent, Riley could smoke the Gitanes without fear of detection. Not that Hunter would give a damn. If he knew that Riley enjoyed the French cigarettes, he’d have urged him to take all he wanted. But Riley liked the feeling he got from stealing the Gitanes, as if he was pulling a fast one on Hunter.

  It was the same feeling he got when he powered up his laptop and accessed the private accounts of Hunter and his loathsome boy toy, Derek. That had been so simple to arrange. Hunter had wanted a computer system in his office and apartment that was independent of the Congreve network. Riley figured Hunter knew that his father, Randolph Congreve, wouldn’t hesitate to order his lackeys to monitor Hunter’s private e-mail and computer use. Old Randolph’s spies were everywhere. It hadn’t taken long for Riley to suspect that the chanteuse in the hotel’s piano bar, Sheree Sheridan, kept an eye on both of them and reported back to the elder Congreve.

  Riley had discreetly hired someone to set up a separate computer system. What he didn’t explain to Hunter was that he’d had the consultant link the computers with another line on Riley’s desk, giving Riley the control of a network administrator via his laptop. Riley could read the files and e-mail on Hunter’s and Derek’s PCs. He could track what Web sites they visited, know what games Derek played and for how long, and access Hunter’s financial records. Riley understood that knowledge was power, particularly when he was the only one with the knowledge. He hoarded all the information he got, sure that it would prove useful to him one day.

  He checked Hunter’s READ mail and found a recent message from Hunter’s best friend, Garry Prophet.

  Con,

  Australia, huh? When you say distance, you aren’t kidding. No, I don’t think you’re an asshole for asking the old bastard to send you there. Derek will survive. The separation may do him some good, too. Not that I’m in any position to give you relationship advice. But I know better than anyone all the ways you drive the boy crazy—bad and good.

  Screw e-mail. As soon as you’re there and I figure out the time difference, I’ll call you. If you’re not already stateside by then. Or maybe Derek will have decided to join you in Sydney.

  Pro

  Riley scowled and closed the e-mail. Pro and Con. So precious it made him want to retch. It had probably started when they were roommates at Andover and continued through their tenure at Yale. He wondered how many other people had figured out the true nature of their relationship. Probably both families. That was why the Prophets were trying to force Garry into a sham marriage with pimento heiress Buffy Barlow. Hunter wasn’t as malleable as his friend-slash-lover. He’d apparently never made a secret of his sexual orientation, whereas Garry continued to maintain the charade that he was straight.

  None of that mattered to Riley. Although he was himself gay, his interest in Hunter was not romantic. A cruel twist of fate had tied his destiny to his boss’s. When Hunter prospered, so did Riley. If Hunter failed, Riley would be banished from the Congreve dynasty.

  It was a bitter pill to swallow after fourteen years of fighting his way up the Congreve ladder. He’d left San Antonio a seventeen-year-old runaway, ending up in Boston because that’s where his money ran out. The first job he’d been able to get was shining shoes at the Boston Congreve. From there, he’d been a doorman, bellhop, and desk clerk. After years of ass kissing, blackmailing, and otherwise manipulating himself into better positions, he’d been accepted into the hotel’s management training program.

  He stubbed out the Gitane and lit another, brooding over the injustice of it all. A few years earlier, just when Riley was sure he was poised to take over any of the more elite hotels in the chain, Hunter had abruptly entered the family business. Since Hunter was too pampered to start at the bottom, Riley had been transferred to this godforsaken hotel in the middle of nowhere to make sure the youngest Congreve heir didn’t screw things up too badly. Instead of being master of his own domain, Riley was nothing more than a glorified secretary.

  In all fairness, he had to admit that Hunter didn’t treat him that way. He gave his assistant the authority to act on his behalf, and Riley made the most of it. Around Hunter, he adopted a self-effacing facade. But Riley ruled the rest of the hotel staff with steely resolve. He couldn’t afford for anything to go wrong and bring down Randolph Congreve’s wrath on his son and, consequently, Riley.

  Riley went to great pains to know his new boss, although it wasn’t easy. Hunter was not a man who invited confidences, nor did he talk about himself. It seemed that Hunter was no happier than Riley to be in Indiana; Riley took satisfaction in this. If he was discontented and bored, Hunter would move on sooner, either taking Riley with him or getting out of his way. It pleased him to see that Hunter made no real friends, nor did he seem eager to find male companionship.

  Until Derek Anderson. In the beginning, Riley had regarded Derek as a harmless distraction, someone who could keep Hunter occupied while Riley ran the hotel. He’d expected that when the relationship died a natural death—which it was sure to do, since Hunter and Derek came from different worlds—Hunter would ask for a transfer. Then Riley could take over the mall hotel and prove his value to the Congreve empire.

  It hadn’t been the most attractive solution, since it left him exiled in the wasteland between Terre Haute and Indianapolis. But Riley figured it was an easy proving ground. The more upscale Congreve hotels hosted world-famous figures from the entertainment industry, royal families, and governments. The best bookings Riley could get were those connected with beauty pageants, colleges, agriculture, small-town governments, and families succumbing to the allure of a super mall.

  He shuddered inwardly at this last group. It was the final irony that he had to promote the hotel as a family-friendly environment, because children were the bane of his existence. While parents conducted business or shopped, their children ran the halls early in the morning and late at night, tied up the elevators, turned the swimming pool into a piss pit, and threw up junk food in the well-appointed rooms. No matter how many guided visits Riley arranged for them to such mall attractions as the planetarium, the arcade, the roller rink, and the bowling alley, it seemed their major source of entertainment came from wreaking havoc in his hotel.

  But he smiled, kept his mouth shut, and buffered Hunter from the more hideous realities of their clientele. He inflicted his vengeance on the housekeeping staff, who were expected to immediately eliminate all evidence of the destruction caused by the Lollipop Guild.

  That had nearly proved to be his undoing when Randolph Congreve dispatched someone to find out why housekeeping had such a high turnover rate. Hunter had sought answers from the only hotel employee other than Sheree Sheridan who was bulletproof, his personal housekeeper, Juanita.

  Juanita Luna was the unofficial leader of what Riley privately called the Disunited Nations, the melting pot of college students, blacks, Hispanics, Middle Easterners, and Asians who composed the housekeeping staff. Riley knew Juanita didn’t like him, and he’d fully expected her to use her inside track to Hunter to bring him down. He’d even armed himself with a counterattack. Juanita might consider herself as cunning as General Santa Anna, but Riley didn’t intend to let her turn the hotel into his Alamo.

  Juanita, however, had outmaneuvered him, presenting her opinion that the high turnover rate was caused by employee anxieties and misunderstandings based mainly on language barriers. With Hunter’s oversight and the old man’s grudging consent, hotel conference rooms were turned over to the staff once a week. The college students taught English. Groups representing different cultures explained their customs, religions, and social structures. They had fashion shows. The hotel chefs prepared ethnic foods. Families were invited.

  The turnover rate dropped, and Riley knew a crisis had been averted. He became more circumspect in how he handled the housekeeping staff, and he gave Juanita a wide berth. Not only did she have Hunter’s ear and the staff’s respect, but he knew from reading Derek’s e-mails to his cyber pal
s that she doted on Hunter’s insipid little boyfriend.

  Riley finally allowed himself a satisfied smile. This time, he’d outfoxed Juanita. When he’d found out Derek was looking for employment, he called in a favor from one of Drayden’s Human Resources managers, and Derek’s new job was a done deal. If Riley was reading Garry Prophet’s e-mail correctly, Hunter was apparently unhappy enough with his boy-toy-turned-shoe-salesman to have requested the temporary assignment to the Sydney Congreve.

  Riley intended to take advantage of Hunter’s absence. He would not only run the hotel flawlessly, but he’d also find a way to get rid of Derek Anderson. He was sure both accomplishments would score points with Randolph Congreve. Before long, he’d resume his climb up the ladder, finally making it to the pinnacle—management of the Manhattan Congreve, where he could rub shoulders with real power.

  He lit another Gitane and electronically tiptoed his way through Derek’s computer. None of Derek’s e-mails provided any useful information about his relationship with Hunter, and Riley rolled his eyes at the history trail of porn sites Derek had looked at. These did nothing for Riley, but hopefully they’d whip Derek into such a frenzy of lust that he’d start cheating on Hunter. That might prove to be his final undoing. With Hunter in another country and Derek on his way out the door, Riley’s cigarette took on the taste of victory.

  5

  That Witch!

  Natasha Deere dropped the remainder of her microwaved waffle down the garbage disposal and listened to the grinding noise with a fleeting wish that bland people could be as easily discarded. She took her coffee with her to the bathroom, where she pulled back her long, dark hair and wound it into a tight bun. She put on her makeup, then dressed in a black suit with a red silk blouse. After downing the rest of her coffee, she swished some mouthwash and spit it into the sink with deliberate aim.

  Today was going to be a good day. For her.

  Mondays were always her favorite day. They were symbolic of new beginnings. Sundays were for sissies, total throwaway days. It also didn’t hurt that most people hated Mondays. That made Natasha love them all the more. The productive week began on Monday, and for as long as Natasha could remember, she’d been driven to conquer one Sunday after another.

  As a little girl growing up in Los Angeles, she’d attended the finest private schools. Her parents, who could barely stand her—the feeling was mutual—surrendered to their true feelings about their daughter and sent her to boarding school when she was a teenager. Although never popular, she was invited to all the other girls’ parties for the simple reason that her parents always sent great presents, and word had gotten around. Most birthday girls’ only problem with accepting the present was having to put up with Natasha for a few hours at the party.

  Natasha couldn’t have cared less. It wasn’t like she actually chose the present. She just told her mother during their weekly phone call that she’d been invited to a birthday party, and the present would arrive, already wrapped, with a card for her to sign and attach, in plenty of time for the festivities. It was always something expensive and tasteful, classic and timeless. The Perfect Gift. The birthday girl would coo, and her bimbo friends would make comments of admiration. Natasha could see the pupils of their eyes turn into dollar signs, as in a cartoon.

  Natasha wasn’t bothered by the fact that they liked her gifts more than they liked her. She had a plan, and it didn’t allow for emotional attachments. People were a necessary evil, something to put up with while she worked toward her goal. Occasionally, one might serve as a vehicle to get what she wanted. More than anything, she wanted to be rich and free of her parents.

  By the time Natasha started working, her ambition and drive were the most noticeable parts of her personality. The less noticeable part, by comparison, was her striking beauty. If she chose to leave it down, her bouncy, dark hair was full of body, and her watery blue eyes could have been mistaken for pools. She had high cheekbones and a strong but not too defined jaw. Her figure was mannequin-perfect; it always had been. Her legs were long, and she looked great in anything she wore.

  Natasha had grown up in a world where beauty was bankable. Her mother belonged to a group of women whose lives were a futile quest to find the right cream, the right plastic surgeon, or the right drug to preserve beauty. Natasha refused to foolishly turn herself into a simpering female who traded on her looks. Beauty was brief. Financial freedom was forever.

  She worked the whole time she was in college, not because she had to, but because it was part of the plan. She maneuvered her way through a number of departments in the Neiman’s on Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills while she got her business degree at USC, then her MBA at UCLA. She could be found anywhere, from Cosmetics to Fine Jewelry, from Handbags to Furs.

  After completing her MBA, Natasha told her parents, during a conversation at some holiday function that she had long since blocked out, that she didn’t need them or their money. The latter of the two declarations she would come to regret. It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

  Natasha knew that she’d formed her only significant relationship with the retail world. It was the best vehicle to show off what she was capable of. She hadn’t wanted to stay in California, and she found herself going from place to place. She’d work her way up the ladder at one location, then move on to a more upscale store somewhere else.

  As she climbed the ladder, and occasionally slept under it, she came to realize that it mattered even less than she’d thought whether people liked her. Business was not about making friends. What a useless endeavor that would be. Friends. Natasha scoffed at the thought.

  But she also learned that it paid to make a few of the others think she was their friend. It didn’t have to be true, but if she pretended to bond with a couple of the people on her staff, it made life easier. The ones who hated her—and there were always plenty—would inevitably say something to one of the others who didn’t, and someone would at least try to make it seem like Natasha wasn’t entirely evil. Not that she cared if they thought she was evil. The payoff was in finding out who thought she was evil, and whether they could in any way threaten her, and if so, how to eliminate them.

  She strode with purpose through the employee entrance of Drayden’s, and the graveyard shift security guard greeted her. “Good morning, Ms. Deere.”

  “Good morning,” she replied with a nod and kept her pace steady as she continued down the hall.

  “Had a good day yesterday, did we?” the guard persisted.

  “We always do,” Natasha said.

  She turned the corner and set her handbag on her desk, then went to the sales floor. Her first task was always making sure that those who’d closed the night before had left things ready for the start of a new day.

  She stopped short when her vantage point allowed her to see that a shoe on the wall display had not been properly replaced. “Idiots,” she said aloud. She marched over and replaced the shoe on its shelf.

  She then moved from table to table with an imaginary white glove, making mental notes of who’d worked the night before. Finally, she went back to her computer and checked the previous evening’s sales figures for each person who’d been scheduled, comparing those figures to what that person was expected to sell per hour. As she looked at the sales figure for Jonquil, she frowned.

  How could someone be here for a full seven working hours and sell only $152, when everyone else sold over $1,000 during their shifts? she wondered. What the hell was she doing the whole time she was here? Giving blow jobs in the men’s room?

  The door pushed open from the back hallway, and two of her sales associates walked in. They were laughing and joking—until they saw who was waiting for them.

  “Which one of you closed last night?” Natasha demanded.

  “Um, I did,” Erik volunteered, and Missy looked sheepish.

  “Who was the senior person in charge of closing last night?”

  “I was,” Erik answered.

  “C
an you give me a good reason why the displays look so awful this morning?” Natasha asked, folding her arms across her chest.

  “Well,” Erik began, “each person was in charge of their own area. That’s the way we always do it.”

  “So in other words, you’re not supposed to have any responsibility for this, even though you were in charge of making sure it was done properly. Even though you’re the senior person on the schedule, I’m not supposed to hold you or anyone else accountable, because you all stick up for each other, right?”

  “The company does promote teamwork,” Missy volunteered.

  “Missy? Did anyone ever tell you that perfume you’re wearing smells like bug repellant?” Natasha paused, and Missy blushed. “Would you like to wash it off, or have me call the Orkin Man to see if he wants a date?”

  Missy fled, and Erik said, “You know, you don’t have to—”

  “What?” Natasha interrupted. “Let her know that she smells like she should be wearing a fumigation tent instead of that horrible Kmart blouse?”

  “Oh, you recognize it?” Erik got one dig in.

  “Not as well as I recognize someone who pictures himself as an assistant manager but clearly isn’t qualified,” Natasha snarled.

  Erik turned crimson at the mention of his submitting his name for the cross-department promotion as the assistant manager of Men’s Shoes. He obviously hadn’t realized that she knew about it. She’d never stand in the way of a valuable employee succeeding, but if the employee simply wasn’t up to the task of managing a department in a large, successful business, it was her duty to thwart him. Valuable was certainly in the eye of the beholder.