The Paris Affair (17 page)

Clutching her laptop case tightly in both hands, Claire stepped into the hallway and paused for only the briefest moment before lifting her chin and walking toward the elevator. She ignored the thudding of her heart and the lump in her throat as she walked past Helmut’s door. She wondered whether he was on the other side of it, watching the news, or sleeping. He could have company for all she knew.

Matt, the Marketing VP, met her in the hotel lobby. He greeted Claire politely enough, but the ride to the airport was silent torture. She could feel his unasked questions clouding the air in the town car, like smoke in a crowded bar.

She had no answers to give him.

There was no point in jumping to a defense. That would only make her look guilty of something. As for any other discussion of her relationship with Helmut, well, she had to discuss that with Helmut first.

Relationship.

Claire turned the word over and over in her mind, like a puzzle she couldn’t quite solve. Was this a relationship? It was sex, definitely. She didn’t want any more than that. Did she? She’d had a relationship with Frank for years. One full of humiliation and dependency. And sex. And a few fun memories, especially early on. And lots of humdrum ones. Did she really want to face that again?

Helmut was fun. He was exciting. He was worth having shaved legs and sexy underwear, witty stories culled from the week’s doldrums of work so she could make him smile. He was shiny and new and mysterious. A relationship meant stubble and morning breath and showing her granny panties and ratty old bathrobe. Conversations about groceries and laundry and unloading the day’s struggles on sympathetic ears. It was seeing his toothbrush next to hers in the bathroom, and his feet propped next to hers on the coffee table.

She had to cut off this train of thought right there, before the image of the two of them cuddled on the couch, watching the evening news started sounding good. Way too damn good. Claire stared out the window as the scenery changed from cityscape to industrial as they neared the airport.

Matt finally broke the silence. “Have you talked to Lackey this morning?”

“No. He’s supposed to get there early with the aircrew and technical support team, setting up.”

“Yeah, well, I hope the guy got some sleep last night. I gather some of the team was out late working.”

Claire frowned. She had meant to go over today’s briefing with Lackey after the press conference yesterday, but got derailed by the scandal. As soon as they’d gotten off the stage, she’d jumped in a cab for the hotel.

The cab driver had to drop them at the security checkpoint. They flashed their conference ID badges and caught a lift on a courtesy golf cart to the hangar where the S&F team was setting up.

Inside the metal-sheathed building, one of the company’s private jets, used for transporting the technical team and all of their equipment, was parked. Most of the wide concrete floor was left open, with a row of steel workbenches arranged along one wall.

It reminded Claire a bit of a woodworker’s shop, with power tools scattered across the lengths of countertop. On closer inspection, it was more of a mad inventor’s basement. Scraps of metal and piles of screws, fasteners, and bundles of cable lay here and there. Off to one side was a metal divider with a welder’s mask propped up against it.

Lackey was there, huddled with two other employees she had only briefly met, looking at a computer screen with what she thought was a schematic drawing of the tiny helicopter that they’d be demonstrating today. One of the men gestured at the screen while Lackey shook his head.

He glanced her way and straightened. Grabbing his suit jacket from the workbench behind him, he crossed the ten yards of concrete floor at half a run. “Good morning, Ms., er, Claire. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

He took her by the elbow and steered her away from the workers.

“Uh, thanks, Lackey. I wouldn’t mind meeting your team when they have a minute,” she said as she followed him toward a kitchenette. “I wanted to review the agenda for this morning’s presentation, and I have a couple of questions on this week’s p-n-l.”

“Great, great.” He glanced over his shoulder and shut the door behind them. The kitchen space wasn’t much more than a sink, a mini fridge, and a microwave with a small laminate table along the opposite wall. Not luxurious, but there was a tray of bagels and pastries and a large carafe of hot coffee and paper cups.

“I hear you had a late night last night,” she asked as he fussed over choosing a paper plate and a napkin. While he worked, Claire studied the man. He was good enough looking, she supposed, with sandy brown hair that looked ruffled above one temple, and clean-cut features. He handed over a cup of steaming black coffee, and she could see dark circles under his eyes.

“No biggie,” he said with an exaggeratedly relaxed shrug. “Just the usual cram session. Guess I never broke the habit from college. What did you want to go over?”

With the table full of pastries, there was no room to set anything down. Claire handed him back the coffee and pulled out a copy of the expense report she’d printed before she left this morning.

“Check these out,” she said as she exchanged her papers for the coffee.

“What the—” Ben ran his free hand through his hair as he skimmed his eyes over the numbers.

The door opened, and a young woman in khakis and a Sheffield & Fox golf shirt stuck her head in. “Ben, we need a decision on the—”

He cut her off. “Coming.” Ben shrugged helplessly and shot Claire what she supposed passed for a charming grin. “Forgive me, Ms. Sheffield. Duty calls. Terry can walk you out to the tent by the bleachers. We have chairs set up, and a table if you needed to spread out your work. I’ll come by as soon as I can.”

Claire caught the quelling glance he tossed at Terry as he passed her out of the kitchen, and she frowned again, wondering what was going on.

The woman, Terry, wasn’t much help. Claire asked her a few polite questions about her job and how long she’d been with the company, but got the barest answers imaginable.

Matt was already waiting under the shade of the canopy, talking on his cell phone, laptop open in front of him. Claire settled in and flipped open her own.

Helmut gripped the passenger handle of the cab with all of his strength. The driver was erratic, stopping suddenly and speeding up too quickly, throwing them around the passenger seat. Harriet Friedman sat next to him, staring open-eyed outside the car windows.

She was exactly what he had expected from an engineer: somewhat mousy, with a plain face and dull brown hair, and average figure. But her eyes sparkled with intelligence and she had an air of open honesty about her.

“Have you ever been to Paris before?” he asked, flinching as the cabbie slammed on his brakes again.

“No. Will we pass the city?”

“Le Bourget is only a few miles down the road from the main commercial airport. We would probably already be there if it weren’t for all of the traffic.”

“Oh.” Her face fell.

“You can do some sightseeing later.”

“Maybe. I wish my husband could have come with me. We talked about Paris for our honeymoon, but decided on a cruise instead. Maybe for our ten-year anniversary next year. It’s supposed to be such a romantic city.”

Helmut smiled tightly. Romantic indeed.

His ID got them in the gate of the show, but not through the VIP gate. The cabbie left them by the entrance. Helmut glanced at his watch then at the exhibition map posted by the entrance. “The demo starts in half an hour, but it’s on the far side. You OK to walk?”

“No problem,” she said with a half smile. Harriet hitched a laptop bag over one shoulder and followed Helmut, wheeling a small carry-on suitcase behind her.

They passed through exhibition halls and crowded corridors, weaving around throngs of people crowded around a display of airplane seats showcasing built-in entertainment screens.

“Mr. Forrester,” his companion said. “I was wondering about something.”

Helmut’s footsteps slowed. Her face was red, and she seemed to be struggling with keeping the laptop bag balanced on one shoulder. Helmut gently took the suitcase from her. “Call me Helmut. What were you wondering?”

“Why did you believe me, when Lackey didn’t? Everyone knows...I mean, I thought that I heard...” Her face blushed a deeper shade of red.

“That we were buddies?”

She nodded.

Helmut clenched his jaw. “Some things are more important than your buddies.”

She nodded again, and seemed satisfied with his answer.

“What about you, Harriet? Why was this so important to you? Assuming you’re right—and I do believe you—you are risking an awful lot by this. Your job for one.”

She shrugged. “Some things are more important than jobs.”

Helmut’s lips quirked. Two weeks ago, he thought nothing was more important than work. But his job was long gone. By interrupting a press conference, he risked Claire’s anger, and her company’s reputation. By not interrupting, he risked her life. He picked up the pace, making sure Harriet kept up with him.

After the long walk through the interior of the show, the bright sun blinded Helmut. And a security guard stopped him at the ropes leading to the bleachers.

“Your pass, sir?” the man asked in heavily accented English. He a thin patch of salt and pepper hair ringing a shiny bald spot that glared like a headlight in the morning light.

Helmut flashed his ID.

“And the mademoiselle?”

Helmut glanced at his watch. They only had about ten minutes left before the conference was set to start. “Can’t I bring her in as my guest?” he asked.

“No, monsieur. Everyone must have a pass.”

“Mr. Forrester, maybe I should wait here?” asked Harriet, shading her eyes with one hand.

“There’s not enough time.” Helmut turned back to the guard. “Check your guest list. The name’s Forrester. Helmut Forrester.”

The guard all but rolled his eyes and began flipping through a sheaf of papers.

Helmut tapped his fingers against the side of his leg as the man slowly examined every page of the list.

Finally he raised both hands apologetically. “No, monsieur. You are not on the list. With your ID badge, you may sit in general admission. Mademoiselle will need to purchase a ticket.”

Helmut glanced inside past the ropes. The bleachers sat on the far side of the tarmac from the stage and podium. Beyond that he saw a white canvas tent with one flap folded back. He thought he recognized Matt from Marketing talking on his cell phone.

This has to work.

“Thanks,” he muttered to the guard, and steered Harriet away from the gate and into the shade of an information sign. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed, his eyes on the tent in the distance.

Claire didn’t answer.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, please take your seats,” announced a loudspeaker in English, and followed it with a trill of French and Italian.

Shit. Shit. He was out of time.

“Look, Harriet,” Helmut started. “Maybe I should just go in myself, and...”

She wasn’t listening, he saw. She was on her own cell phone, waiving her arms toward the entrance. “We’re in,” she said as she hung up. “Come on.”

She hurried off around the side of the show area.

“What did you do?” he asked as he followed her.

“Friends,” she said simply as they came up to a side entrance. A woman in khakis and a Sheffield and Fox golf shirt waited for them.

“Harriet, what are you doing here?” the other woman said.

“How is the shell holding up, Terry? Are there any more of the cracks around the motor?” Harriet asked as a security guard waved them through. This time Helmut had to hurry to catch up to the women.