Once Touched, Never Forgotten - By Natasha Tate Page 0,4

or fairytale endings. Men who didn’t want to be fathers had no place in her or her child’s precious life.

CHAPTER TWO

Five years later

“I HAVE mixed feelings about this, Whitfield,” said the soon-to-be former owner of the Renaissance Hotel, as he signed his name on the last of the purchasing paperwork. He slid the deed across the desk separating them and sighed. “This place has been my life for a long, long time.”

“Yes,” Stephen said as he added his own signature to the deed. “But it’s a good decision. You’ve earned a decent retirement.”

“Then why do I feel like I’m abandoning my family?”

“Trust me,” Stephen assured the old man. “I will take care of your people.”

Unlike the other hoteliers with whom he’d negotiated, Bill Masters’ primary concern when it came to selling his aging property had been his employees. He didn’t care about Stephen’s money, the new business model he’d brought to the table, or any of the changes he intended to make. Masters only wanted his tribe of employees to be protected. It was an admirable sentiment, but it had made the transaction unnecessarily complicated.

“That’s the only reason I sold to you,” Masters reminded Stephen. “Because you agreed to keep them all on.”

“Yes, I know.” Stephen bit back an exasperated sigh.

Were it not for the Renaissance’s prime New York location, overlooking Central Park, and its potential for profitability, Stephen would have abandoned the deal weeks ago. “As long as the employees perform their jobs efficiently, they have no reason to be concerned.”

“But you’ll be patient with them as they adjust to the new ownership?” Masters insisted.

“Of course,” he said. It had never been his style to eviscerate a failing hotel and its staff just because he’d decided to finance its recovery. And, after purchasing and renovating eight different hotels in the last five years, he’d have thought his reputation would be enough to reassure the old man. Apparently, he’d been wrong. “It costs money to interview, hire and train new employees. Why would I incur the expense if it’s not necessary?”

“It can’t be just about the money,” Masters reminded him, before lifting a large stack of manila folders to the desktop. “It has to be about the people. Their lives and their families and their dreams for the future. You’ll be part of that now, and you’ll need to look out for them.”

“Yes,” he repeated. “I’m aware of that.” He’d navigated the rocky shores of staff relationships for too many years to not be aware of the impact his decisions had on the minutiae of their lives. He certainly didn’t need some old man lecturing him on how to manage his employees successfully.

“These are the staff’s updated personnel files,” Masters said. “I thought we might go through so you can match a few faces with their names when you meet them.”

As if he needed the directive. “Have you informed them about the transfer of ownership yet?”

The white-haired man cleared his throat and avoided Stephen’s eyes, a dull red flush rising to color his neck. “I didn’t think it wise to rush things.”

Stephen arched a single brow. It wasn’t like he was adopting the Renaissance employees, whether Masters wanted it to be that way or not. He was simply taking over as their boss. It was business. “It would have been better to disclose things earlier,” he said grimly, barely concealing his annoyance. “They’d have had time to adjust to the idea before I took over.”

Masters’ mouth firmed into a stubborn line. “Yes, but if they’d known I was trying to sell they would have suffered unnecessary anxiety about their job security.” He lifted his chin, an aging patriarch protecting his children from harm. “I wanted the details ironed out first.”

Stephen kept his grimace in check, wondering how much nannying he’d have to do before his staff adjusted to the new professional boundaries he planned to institute. He’d agreed to keep them on, not to hold their hands and coddle them while they worked through their insecurities. “When’s the meeting?”

“Three p.m. in the Da Vinci Room.”

Stephen reached for the stack of manila personnel files and opened the top folder. “Doesn’t give me much time to prepare,” he said, glancing down at the small picture and overview of his housekeeping manager.

“Yes, but I’ll help,” Masters offered as he rose and then circled the desk to peer over Stephen’s shoulder.

Traditionally, Stephen preferred to orient himself to the staff on his own. But he suspected the gossipy Masters wanted the opportunity to confide additional