The Diplomat's Pregnant Bride. Merline Lovelace
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hungry.
When he finally raised his head, she saw herself reflected in his eyes. “I...I have to go!”
He stepped back and gave her room to make an escape. She slid into the cab and spent the short drive to the Tremayne Group’s headquarters trying desperately to remember all the reasons why she wanted—no, needed!—this job.
* * *
At three-ten, she was reiterating that same grim list. She’d been sitting in Nicole Tremayne’s ultramodern outer office for more than half an hour while a harried receptionist fielded phone calls and a succession of subordinates rushed in and out of the boss’s office. Any other time Gina would have walked out after the first fifteen or twenty minutes. She didn’t have that luxury now.
Instead, she’d used the time to reread the information she’d found on Google about the Tremayne Group. She also studied every page in the slick, glossy brochure given out to prospective clients. Even then she had to unlock her jaw and force a smile when the receptionist finally ushered her into the inner sanctum.
Stunned, Gina stopped dead. This dark cavern was the command center of a company that hosted more than two thousand events a year at a dozen different venues? And this tiny whirlwind erupting from behind her marble slab of a desk was the famed Nicole Tremayne?
She couldn’t have been more than five-one, and she owed at least four of those inches to her needle-heeled ankle boots. Gina was still trying to marry the bloodred ankle boots to her salt-and-pepper corkscrew curls when Nicole thrust out a hand.
“Sorry to keep you waiting. You’re Eugenia, right? Eugenia St. Sebastian?”
“Yes, I...”
“My father had a thing for your grandmother. I was just a kid at the time, but I remember he talked about leaving my mother for her.”
“Oh. Well, uh...”
“He should have. My mother was a world-class ball-breaker.” Swooping a thick book of fabric swatches off one of the chairs in front of her desk, Tremayne dumped it on the floor. “Sit, sit.”
Still slightly stunned, Gina sat. Nicole cleared the chair next to hers and perched on its edge with the nervous energy of a hummingbird.
“I looked at the digital portfolio of your sister’s wedding. Classy job. You did all the arrangements?”
“With some help.”
“Who from?”
“Andrew, at the Plaza. And Patrick Donovan. He’s...”
“Dev Hunter’s right-hand man. I know. We coordinated a major charity event for Hunter’s corporation last year. Three thousand attendees at two thousand a pop. So when can you start?”
“Excuse me?”
“One of the assistant event planners at our midtown venue just got busted for possession. She’s out on bail, but I can’t have a user working for TTG.” Her bird-bright eyes narrowed on Gina. “You don’t do dope, do you?”
“No.”
“I’d better not find out otherwise.”
“You won’t.”
Tremayne nodded. “Here’s the thing. You have a lousy work record but a terrific pedigree. If you inherited half your grandmother’s class and a quarter of her smarts, you should be able to handle this job.”
Gina wasn’t sure whether she’d just been complimented or insulted. She was still trying to decide when her prospective boss continued briskly.
“You also grew up here in the city. You know your way around and you know how to interact with the kind of customers we attract. Plus, the classy digital portfolio you sent me shows you’ve got a flair for design and know computers. Whether you can handle vendors and show yourself as a team player remains to be seen, but I’m willing to give you a shot. When can you start?”
Tomorrow!
The joyous reply was almost out before Gina caught it. Gulping, she throttled back her exhilaration.
“I can start anytime but there’s something I need to tell you before we go any further.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m pregnant.”
“And I’m Episcopalian. So?”
Could it really be this easy? Gina didn’t think so. Suspicion wormed through her elation.
“Did my grandmother call you?” she asked. “Or Pat Donovan?”
“No.”
Her jaw locked. Dammit! It had to have been Jack.
“Then I assume you talked to the ambassador,” she said stiffly.
“What ambassador?”
“Jack Mason.”
“Jack Mason.” Tremayne tapped her chin with a nail shellacked the same red as her ankle boots. “Why do I know that name?”
Gina didn’t mention that TTG had coordinated Jack’s wedding. For reasons she would have to sort out later, that cut too close to the bone.
“Who is he,” Tremayne asked, “and why would he call me?”
“He’s a friend.” That was the best she could come up with. “I told him about our interview and...and thought he might have called to weigh in.”
“Well, it certainly never hurts to have an ambassador in your corner, but no, he didn’t call me. So what’s the deal here? Do you want the job or not?”
There were probably a dozen different questions she should ask before jumping into the fray. Like how much the job paid, for one. And what her hours would be. And whether the position came with benefits. At the moment, though, Gina was too jazzed to voice any of the questions buzzing around in her head.
“Yes, ma’am, I do.”
“Good. Have my assistant direct you to the woman who handles our personnel matters. You can fill out all the necessary forms there. And call me Nikki,” she added as her new employee sprang out of her chair to shake on the deal.
* * *
Gina left the Tremayne Group’s personnel office thirty or forty forms later. The salary was less than she’d hoped for but the description of her duties made her grin. As assistant events coordinator she would be involved in all phases of operation for TTG’s midtown venue. Scheduling parties and banquets and trade shows. Devising themes to fit the clients’ desires. Creating menus. Contracting with vendors to supply food and decorations and bar stock. Arranging for limos, for security, for parking.
Even better, the personnel officer had stressed that there was plenty of room for advancement within TTG. The tantalizing prospect of a promotion danced before Gina’s eyes as she exited the high-rise housing the company’s headquarters. When she hit the still glorious May sunshine, she had to tell someone her news. Her first, almost instinctive, impulse was to call Jack. She actually had her iPhone in hand before she stopped to wonder why.
Simple answer. She wanted to crow a little.
Not so simple answer. She wanted to prove she wasn’t all fun and fluff.
With a wry grimace, she acknowledged that she should probably wait until she’d actually performed in her new position for a few weeks or months before she made that claim. She decided to text Sarah instead. The message was short and sweet.
I’m now a working mom-to-be. Call when you and Dev come up for air.
She took a cab back to the Upper West Side and popped out at a deli a few blocks from the Dakota. Osterman’s had occupied the same choice corner location since the Great Depression. Gina and Sarah had developed their passion for corned beef at the deli’s tiny, six-table eating area. The