The Billionaire Bargain #3(9)
What the hell was Portia doing at an executive meeting?
“In summary,” Portia said, “While our performance in some areas has been heartening, questions remain. Why have we not made more payments on the Jankowski Project loan? Why aren’t we pursuing more cost-cutting measures?”
“I sent you the report on cost-cutting,” Grant said dismissively. “We’re doing all we can to reduce waste and eliminate expenses without cutting into the quality of life of our employees. The Jankowski Project loan is due to be paid off within five years, which is a perfectly acceptable timeline. Of course, if you think you see other areas of potential improvement, you’re welcome to send an e-mail to me or the project manager. Moving on—”
“One moment,” Portia interrupted with an apologetic look on her face. Her face looked a little uncertain about how an apologetic look was supposed to go, but she conveyed it pretty well considering that it was probably the first time in her life she’d ever had to try it. “I know we were just having an interesting discussion with Mr. Hines here—” she gestured languidly at CFO—“about our expenditures. Are the revenues coming in from the Costa Rican plan really offsetting the costs of the relocation packages we offered to the employees—”
“It’s a loyalty building tool,” Grant said soothingly, as if he were explaining a complicated math problem to a stressed-out child. He didn’t seem at all concerned that Portia had been chatting up his chief financial officer behind his back. I frowned. What the hell was he thinking?
Portia shot Hines a look I almost didn’t catch, and he nodded. Grant wasn’t even looking at them.
Where the hell was his brain today?
“If I may just ask,” Portia said, a slight nervous titter—ha, I’d be willing to bet that that nervousness was as genuine as a street corner Rolex; that woman was up to something—she batted her lashes. “How you feel the strategic plan aligns with the newest health insurance coverage increases for the housekeeping staff—”
“Portia, I promise Jorge and his mop will never splatter your French silk again,” Grant drawled, cracking the first real smile I’d seen all day. Despite everything, the sight of it lifted my heart a fraction. He could still smile, after all. “I’m not going take away everyone’s dental because you had to attend a premiere with a bit of mud on your hem.”
Portia smiled, but this time the brittleness was plain. She was barely restraining herself from tearing him a new one.
Grant went on. “I believe the next item on the agenda is the impact of the new tariffs…”
He trailed off, letting one of the division heads leap in and carry the thread of the discussion. Outwardly he appeared to be paying attention, nodding every once in awhile at a particular point, but I could see his eyes glazing over. He was distracted, completely checked out. What the hell was going on with him?
Maybe Kate had had a point—
“And now I’ll be turning it over to Miss Newman,” a voice said.
I snapped to attention. “What?”
“Care to join us, Lacey?” It was no longer the division head who had been talking when last I checked into the conversation, but Jim Baker, a guy I knew mostly from the times he had stopped into Jacinda’s office to bond with her over a discussion of how terrible I was. He was smirking, but there was no time to get angry over that as sheer terror flooded my veins—I’d been so absorbed in the weird Portia thing that I totally hadn’t kept track of the flow of the meeting.
“Uh, right,” I said, trying to dart my eyes discreetly around the table to pick up clues about where the meeting had been. A flow chart, some notes on the expansion of our Los Angeles office—okay, okay, I could do this. “Sorry.”
I called up my PowerPoint on the projector, straightening my back and trying not to let my nervousness show as I stood and began my presentation on the publicity aspect of adding a new wing to our second-busiest location. “I thought we’d set the stage with some billboards and viral marketing, followed by ten-second TV spots highlighting job growth and local culture. As you can see, I’ve based the timeline on the 2005 San Antonio situation—”
“Unacceptable,” Grant interrupted. “That was a decade ago. It’s a completely different business culture now.”
“Yes,” I said, trying not to show how flustered I was as I skipped to the PowerPoint slide showing my research, “but as you can see, that’s more than made up for by the commonalities between—”
“What I can see is that you’ve been entrusted with a position and failed to deliver,” Grant shot back. “You’re obviously not prepared.”
“That’s not true,” I shot back, feeling my voice start to shake with anger. “I am prepared, and if you’d let me get one word in—”
“I’ve let you get plenty of words in, Miss Newman,” Grant said, not raising his voice a single decibel. Cool disdain dripped from every syllable. “But we’re short on time, so please, sit. You’re done here.”
I sat down, fuming. I could see the others around me shifting uncomfortably, knowing Grant was out of line but not wanting to say something to their boss. I couldn’t blame them, not really; nobody wanted to get caught in the middle of an ex fight, especially when one half of the fight paid your salary.