Once Touched, Never Forgotten - By Natasha Tate Page 0,7
hers and hissed, “Bill, he has sold the hotel.”
She blanched, the thought of being laid off settling hard in her belly. She couldn’t afford to lose her seniority, her position as manager, and start all over again. “What? Why?”
Henri pressed his lips together, confusion and worry evident in his brown eyes as he gestured toward the stage with his gelled ruff of platinum hair. “The new boss, he’s bought the Renaissance already. He takes charge tomorrow.”
Colette shifted her attention to the stage, tuning in to the tail-end of Bill’s introduction. The man who’d been like a father to them all these past few years said something about their jobs being secure and how he’d chosen his replacement based on what was best for the Renaissance family.
“But why didn’t Bill tell us anything about this?” she whispered, while the other employees surged to their feet and their questions began to crescendo. “Why keep it a secret until now?”
“Quiet down. Quiet down, folks,” said Bill, leaning over the microphone with his palms extended. “Things will be fine. I promise.” He dipped his attention to the front row and beckoned someone forward. “Why don’t you come up here and introduce yourself?” he asked. “Set everyone’s worries at ease.”
The murmurs increased in volume as Colette stood as well. The employees in front of her craned their necks and rose up on tiptoes, blocking her view. Dipping to peer through a crosshatch of arms, necks and heads, she caught disjointed glimpses of their new boss as he made his way across the small stage: jet-black hair, broad shoulders, a dark hint of stubble along a chiseled plane of whiskered cheek and bone—
Her stomach reacted first, quivering with an alertness she hadn’t felt for years.
No.
A dual rush of ice and fire pebbled her skin. Oh, God. She knew that profile. She knew that full, sardonic curve of lip and sharp blade of nose. She knew. Oh, God, she knew. Recognition slammed hard against her chest as Stephen Whitfield, the only man she’d ever loved, the father of her child and the millionaire who’d stolen her breath as easily as he’d claimed her virginity, stepped up to the microphone and addressed his shocked audience.
“Thank you, Masters, for your comprehensive overview of the coming transition, and thank you, Renaissance employees, for agreeing to meet with me today.” He smiled, a stunning flash of white teeth, while his newest batch of employees quieted to a stunned silence. At six foot four, and dressed in an immaculate navy silk suit, Stephen oozed confident command and tempered sexuality from every pore. It was no wonder they all gaped at him like he was a pagan hunter brought in from the wild.
“Please,” he said, as effortlessly comfortable before a crowd as he’d always been. “Be seated.” This had to be some sort of a dream. He couldn’t be here. He was supposed to be in London.
London.
Stephen scanned the audience with his encouraging smile while Colette, unable to move, remained frozen in place until his gaze caught hers and held. For a breathless moment in time the world halted on its axis, the abrupt shift from present to past jarring her heartbeat into stillness.
“I realize this may come as a bit of a shock,” he said without breaking eye contact. “But I want to reassure you all that for now, at least, your positions are secure.” His voice, that same deep voice that had haunted her dreams since she’d fled London, left no room for doubt in her quailing heart.
He was real. Very, very real.
“Your job descriptions might change a bit,” he continued, “but Masters has assured me that you are each valuable employees who will be willing to meet me halfway. Unless you prove otherwise, you can expect to remain on the payroll indefinitely.”
Stephen was in New York. Here. The world launched back into its dizzy, perilous spin, sending rivulets of shock through her veins.
“In return for this job security, however, I will expect flexibility and loyalty from each of you.” Demanding and fierce, his brutal slash of mouth, high cheekbones and icy blue eyes bore mute testimony to his insistence on making his own rules and exacting obedience from all within his realm. Thick hair the color of onyx and an angular jaw that appeared to be hewn from granite intensified his aura of power. Only his eyelashes, curling and long enough to tangle at the edges, lent any hint of softness to his commanding expression. “You best know now that