An Unforgettable Lady (An Unforgettable Lady #1)(12)

Forget about it, she told herself. Forget about him.

Grabbing the brass door handle, Grace threw her weight into closing the heavy door. As she pushed it home, she caught one last glimpse of the fine dust that floated in the air over the drive, like a promise of things to come.





chapter

4





The following week, Grace was in her father's former office reviewing the invitation list for the Foundation's annual gala, when the intercom buzzed softly. She jerked and the pen skidded across the paper.

Her assistant's voice was tinny as it came through the speakerphone. "Mr. Lamont is coming to see you and I have something for you to sign."

Great, she thought. All she needed was another meeting with that man. Each time they talked, their relationship deteriorated further.

"Come on in before he gets here."

Grace tugged at the Hermes scarf around her neck. When she loosened the knot and it still felt like a noose, she took the thing off altogether. The tangerine and yellow silk fell into a vibrant pool on the desk.

She was getting sick and tired of jumping all the time. The spasms were triggered by a host of things such as phones ringing, footsteps in the hall, sudden noises. She felt like a marionette, yanked around by strings she had no control over.

It was a hell of an exercise program, she thought, putting her arms out against the desk and stretching.

The chair and the desk had been her father's command post. They were massive pieces of furniture, made of hand-carved mahogany and fitting for a man of Cornelius Woodward Hall's imposing size and demeanor. She'd always loved them. As a child, when he'd brought her into the office on weekends, she'd sit in his lap feeling utterly safe, surrounded by the strength of his arms and the heft of all the wood.

Now, with only herself to fill the chair, she felt loose in it, dwarfed by its high back and thick armrests. Still, she was loath to get replacements. They were such a part of her father, as were the dramatic landscapes that hung on the walls, the formal conference table he'd taken his meetings at, the leather bound books on the shelves.

She thought of him every time she walked into the room.

Glancing past his pipe rack and a candy dish still stocked with the peppermints he'd loved, she looked into a bronze bust of her father's face. Cast when he was in his fifties, it showed a handsome man with a distant smile and sharp eyes.

Lately, her memories of him seemed like the only allies she had at the Foundation.



When he'd died following a heart attack, he'd left her almost a billion dollars in his will, as well as his title of president and CEO of the Hall Foundation. The money was hers to keep as soon as the estate went through probate. Her ownership of the titles was proving less absolute. The job was hers by birthright but also one she'd been training for since she'd started interning at the Foundation while in college. Unfortunately, Cornelius's intent had been clear only on paper and others had a different idea of who should be sitting on the throne.

Grace was up to the task of leading the Foundation. She knew the employees, the mission, the strategy for its future. She knew what needed to get done both on the business side and with the social set that poured millions into its coffers-every year. She also knew there were those who thought she couldn't handle the job. That she was too young and inexperienced. That a change of guard might be a good thing.

Some of the older dissidents even objected because she was a woman. That particular criticism really got her steamed. As if wearing pants was somehow a prerequisite for success.

The nexus of her naysayers was a tight-knit group of directors, led by Charles Bainbridge, the board's chair. They were all older men who had respected her father but weren't content to have him rule from the grave if they thought Cornelius was wrong about something. They were men she had grown up around, who had come to the Hall family's Christmas parties and Fourth of July fetes. Some of them had probably seen her in diapers and still remembered her with braces.

She could understand why it would be difficult for them to view her as anything other than young and decorative and she was determined to bring them around. She just hoped she had enough time before they pushed her aside into some figurehead position and let Lou Lamont run the place.

The door to the office swung open and Katherine Focerelli came into the room. Kat was in her mid-twenties and working her way through law school at night. Grace had hired her the day after her father's death, when she'd moved into the office. In a matter of weeks, Kat already seemed to know the ins and outs of the Foundation and didn't seem that impressed with Lou Lamont.

The latter was a huge seller in Grace's mind.

The young woman was also a welcome replacement for the gray-haired ball buster who had served for years as Cornelius's secretary. Getting rid of that old battle-ax had been one of the first things Grace had done when she'd taken over.

"Here are the documents for the Randolph dig," Kat said, a dimple showing in one cheek as she smiled.

Grace leafed through the pages, checking that the changes she'd made had been incorporated correctly. They had.

As she scrawled her name, she said, "So what's Lament up to now?"

"He said he needed ten minutes, but wouldn't tell me why. I put him on the calendar only because you told me never to turn him away. By the way, your five o'clock got bumped and the mayor wants you to call him at six thirty. Oh, and is it okay if I leave early tonight? I'm going on a blind date."