I tamped down my sarcasm as he scrolled to Misha peeking from her hotel room into the hall at Ethan. 313, the brass number, was on her door. I stood up so fast I knocked his phone to the table. “Careful!”
“She’s in three thirteen? I found that number written on Jacoby’s business card. Obviously I thought it was Ethan’s room number. Three Thirteen R M T.”
“Calm down, Sherlock. R M T. Roman Tower at the Palace. You already suspect they hooked up. Ethan and Misha meet in Vegas, Ethan writes her room number on the guy’s business card.”
“I didn’t find it in Ethan’s belongings. The card was in Julian’s apartment on the Isle of Wight.” I explained the Priory watch errand and hugged myself against another clammy flush. Thomas pushed the stool against the back of my legs. “Sit down before you keel over on me.”
I sat. “Put these pictures on a flash drive or something. Get them out your phone, now. This must absolutely not get back to Julian. He’ll ruin you.”
“I know and I will. For sure we’ve discovered a gargantuan mess, but Carmine’s role is over. Yes, Julian might be manipulating Ethan. But Emma, he might—”
“—be working with Ethan’s full, fucking appreciation.”
“Getting him a job’s not the end of the world.”
“Not your world,” I muttered.
“Can you keep it together and plough through next week on autopilot? Put this crap on hold till you can breathe?”
“As if I have a choice.”
“Lean on your staff. I’m around on assignment right through the board meeting. Remember how well you did in London.”
“New York Launch Week will run without a hitch. Then I’ll lay the cards on Julian’s table.” I had no other way to answer.
Two weeks without Misha’s housekeeping affected little but meal prep and laundry. Sunday, I dropped my launch trip clothes into our laundry pickup bag and finally emptied the hamper. It still included Ethan’s Las Vegas khakis and linen shirt I’d stuffed back in after kicking Misha out. His pants pocket gave up a five-dollar bill and torn piece of paper scrawled with 313 Roman Tower. The script matched Misha’s instructions often taped to her prepared dinners. Anxiety unleashed my demons.
I’d barely been home enough for the kitchen to need a paper towel swipe but I sprayed and scrubbed my counters as if swarming childhood cockroaches lay in wait. Ethan in cahoots with Julian? I vacuumed till my shoulder ached. If Misha was part of the deal why was he living with Nicole? I swiped rubbing alcohol over every chrome fixture. That night Ethan and Misha, Marsha and Wilma, Carmine and Julian stalked my dreams.
Ready or not Mesmerise American Launch Week arrived. Atticus, Amanda and Andrew, my Triple A out-of-towners, confirmed their Wednesday LA and Chicago flight ETAs. Our Madison Avenue office buzzed as staff gathered for the final meeting. Most of us had been together long enough each heartily pooh-poohed my opening apology for my stress level. I thanked them and gave the floor to Dustin.
“I’m still fielding hundreds of Thursday concert and afterparty ticket requests,” he said. “At Emma’s suggestion I’ve booked the band press interviews on a rotation schedule. The venue’s letting me set up partitions and reconfigure the space to avoid a packed room competing journalists in free-for-all. Security assures me they’ll keep desperate fans from sneaking in through the air conditioning vents.”
“But you’re in charge just in case.” He saluted me.
Despite Harrods’ restricted thirty-day hold, we’d also guaranteed an exclusive distribution perk. “Warehouse shipping is in progress,” Sam announced.
“I have it on good authority Mesmerise is on its way to the homes of several thousand UK-Connection fans to mesh perfectly with the concert,” Bill added.
When we’d reviewed every conceivable item on our launch agenda, I high-fived each of them. “I know Julian’s main interest is bottom line cash flow and he’s mostly in touch with Sam and Bill, but each of you is a gear in his Mayfair engine. He’ll be the first to agree. Take time to socialise with him at the concert and after-party. You’re as key to Mayfair as the board members. And, by the way, I’ve made sure your seats are just as good as theirs.”
Jennifer looked at me. “Anything else?”
“Not much. The Royal Suite will be mine tomorrow at three, normal check-in time. I’ll see you all there Wednesday evening. It’s also a safe place for your valuables or essentials during Thursday and Friday events. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” As my team departed Bill approached with an unreadable expression.
“Warehouse question?” I asked.
“No, Emma. Frankly, since you still haven’t mentioned it, I’m wondering when the hell you plan to inform us.”
I frowned. “I’ve overlooked something? I haven’t reviewed the faxes yet if that’s what you mean.”
He swore like a rapper, tugged me back to the table, shuffled papers and slapped them down. “Julian’s moving us to Zurich.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“No, no. Julian’s consolidating his fragrance interests into Imperial. Yes, he’ll merge the separate entities under a corporate umbrella and yes, core headquarters are in Zurich. But he’d be crazy not to keep a major fragrance base in North America. You know that. North America’s the toughest territory, smallest profit margin. Julian’s in total agreement. Leaving makes as much sense as running his sports interests from Switzerland,” I skimmed his sports division stat sheets. Bill studied me. “You really don’t know, do you?”
“State-side people are key. He knows that as well as you.”
“I also know I’ve got teenagers and a wife with teaching tenure. A transatlantic transfer is not in the cards. Neither is job hunting at fifty-two. Have I mentioned upcoming college tuitions? And Abdul’s older than I am…” He glanced at his watch.
“How much time can you give me?”
We grabbed lunch from the lobby sandwich shop, then pored over fragrance merger and Zurich real estate expenditures. Imperial relocation had its own section. Bahnhofstrasse corporate headquarters would reconfigure and expand to encompass the branch. Line items included COP—current oils production, Long Island, NY; Mayfair Fragrance/New York City; Nudes-Elixir, organic skin care and fragrance/California.
No more Madison Avenue office. “He’s never said a word about shutting down New York,” was all I could manage. “Emma, corporates never included this in board meeting number crunching or projections. If it’s honestly news to you—”
“Bill! It’s either a brand-new decision, which these financials dispute or Julian’s kept it from me.”
“I believe you. Forgive me.” He gathered the income and expenditure sheets. I pulled the sports category over, soon speechless at the depth of Julian’s corporate involvement, from NBA: Dallas Bulls, to Baseball: Buffalo Nickels; Class-A Advanced; to Bat & Glove, Ltd.
Bat & Glove, Ltd. Julian Petrenko owned Paul Jacoby’s scouting business? “Bill, I’m positive some of this was included by mistake. Not meant to leave headquarters or at least not meant for my eyes. Somebody’s head will be on the chopping block when Julian finds out.”
“You’ll bring it up?”
“You’re bloody hell, bugger all, damn right. I just have to figure out when.”
He loosened my arms from the death grip across my own ribs.
