Authors: Jayne Ann Krentz
“But why would they want to hide the fact that they were contracting with the center? It makes no sense.”
“I don’t know. I can tell you that one of them is a fairly small player. But the other, Client Number One, has obviously dropped some big bucks into the center over the course of the past several years. As you can see, the amounts got even larger in the last twelve months.”
Randolph stared at the figures on the page in front of him. “Forty-seven percent of the total operating budget of the center has been coming from Client Number One for two decades?”
“The figure shot up to fifty-seven percent of the total income this past year.” Webber leaned over the desk to point to another row of figures. “You will notice that Client Number Two came on
board about a year ago. He doesn’t do anywhere near the same volume of business as the other one, but he is definitely a significant account.”
“This is unbelievable,” Randolph whispered. “B–between the two of them, these two anonymous clients accounted for over s–sixty percent of the center’s gross receipts for the past year.”
“Right. The rest of the income appears to come from a mix of small grants from some nutritional supplement manufacturers, sleep research foundations and a couple of small-time inventors who hired Belvedere to test various types of sleep aids.”
“Th–th–this is a disaster.” Randolph sagged into his chair. “Over sixty percent of the center’s funding is coming from two unknown sources. It doesn’t make any sense. What services was my father providing to them?”
Webber cleared his throat. “I’m still working on that. The records are all very vague. But as far as this past year goes, I did discover that the bulk of the billing for both accounts appears to have been connected to one particular department here at the center.”
Randolph’s stomach knotted. “Which one?”
“The Department of Dream Analysis.”
Amelia’s jaw clenched.
A great sense of impending doom settled on Randolph. He could almost hear Amelia saying
I told you so.
He made a fist with one hand to stop the tremor.
“Isabel Wright,” he muttered. “I c–can’t believe it. Who would pay that kind of money for some silly psychic dream analysis?”
Webber raised one scrawny shoulder in a mild shrug. “The pharmaceutical companies are rolling in cash. Maybe a couple of them decided to spend some of it on dream research. It might explain the secrecy. They’ve got a lot at stake when it comes to protecting their proprietary R and D data.”
Randolph shook his head. “No sane, sensible corporation that has to show its shareholders a p–profit would throw several million dollars at a low-profile research facility like the Belvedere Center for Sleep Research just to fund investigations into my father’s ridiculous psychic dream theories.”
Webber pursed his lips and canted his head an inch or so to one side. “I suppose one or both of the anonymous clients might be wealthy eccentrics or religious cults with a thing about dreams.”
“I told you there was something strange going on with the funding here, Randolph.” Amelia stopped in front of the window, her brittle tension clear in every line of her body. “And I told you that it probably had something to do with your father’s personal research interests. I also told you that meant that the extremely healthy cash flow was very likely connected to that ridiculous Department of Dream Analysis. Didn’t I tell you that?”
He knew she was angry but he was, nevertheless, taken aback by the impatience and raw fury he saw in her face. They had been lovers for weeks. In the bedroom Amelia was far and away the most inventive woman he had ever met. But in the days following Isabel Wright’s departure from the center, she had shown another side of her nature.
When he had refused to believe that Isabel Wright and the
Department of Dream Analysis might be important to the long-term financial future of the center, she had insisted on bringing in a forensic accountant to take a deep look into the center’s books.
“I d–don’t understand,” he said, utterly bewildered.
She crossed the office and stopped in front of his desk.
“Try to stay focused here, Randolph,” she said. “I’ve been telling you for the past few days that it is absolutely critical that you persuade Isabel Wright to return to the center before those two accounts, whoever they are, realize she is gone. Now do you understand why?”
He pulled himself together and tried to concentrate. “How did you know that my father was doing so much business through that little department?”
“I kept my eyes open.” She threw up her hands, exasperated. “I paid attention. I did the math. It was obvious to anyone who cared to look that there was no way Martin Belvedere could possibly have made the overhead and paid the excellent salaries here at the center with the funding he got for the routine sleep research projects. I knew there had to be some other source. Given your father’s eccentricities, I concluded that other source was probably linked to Isabel Wright’s dream analysis work.”
He felt cornered. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”
Amelia planted her hands on the desk. “Exactly what I told you to do. Call her. Tell her that you made a mistake and you want her to come back to her old job. Tell her that you will make her dream come true.”
He went blank. “What dream?”
“Promise her that you will appoint her head of the Department of Dream Analysis.” Amelia looked knowing. “That’s what she wants more than anything else. Don’t worry, once she’s back here, I’ll take charge of that department. She can have her fancy title, but I’ll control her and the interaction with those two well-heeled clients.”
“I need to think for a m–minute.” Mostly he needed to clear his brain of the panic that was nibbling at the edges. He should have known that his father would find a way to ruin everything for him, even from beyond the grave.
A few seconds of silence ticked past. Webber and Amelia waited, their impatience obvious.
He took a deep breath and reached toward the intercom. “First, I’ll get the word out to the staff that Wright’s departure was the result of a misunderstanding that has been cleared up. I’ll have Mrs. Johnson let it be known that Isabel will be resuming her responsibilities immediately after she returns from a well-earned vacation.”
Webber nodded wisely. “That may help put a stop to the office gossip.”
“It shouldn’t be that hard to talk her into returning to her old job,” Amelia added quickly. She looked relieved. “According to her personnel file the only other work she’s qualified for is answering phones at a psychic hotline. She’ll be desperate by now. Make your offer a good one and she’ll come flying back.”
“Let’s just hope that the two anonymous clients haven’t found out that she’s gone,” Webber muttered darkly.
Randolph shuddered and punched the intercom. “Mrs. Johnson, has anyone called this office to inquire about Isabel Wright recently?”
“Why, yes, as a matter of fact there was one call. I explained that Isabel was no longer working here.”
Webber and Amelia exchanged worried glances.
Oh, shit.
Randolph told himself to stay calm. “Did the caller identify himself, Mrs. Johnson?”
“It was a woman, sir. I believe she said she was with a credit card company.”
Randolph allowed himself to take another deep breath. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Webber and Amelia relax slightly. If Isabel Wright had financial problems, that would make it all the easier to convince her to return.
“From now on, you will refer any and all questions c–concerning Ms. Wright directly to me. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“There has been a serious m–misunderstanding, Mrs. Johnson. Isabel Wright was not fired. She is on vacation and will soon return to her position here at the center. Please make certain that everyone else on the staff is aware of that.”
“Yes, sir.” Sandra Johnson’s voice brightened. “If you don’t mind my saying so, I’m delighted to hear that. I know a lot of other people will feel the same way. Isabel was very well liked around here.”
“Yes, I got that impression.” Randolph cut the intercom connection. He looked at Webber. “All right, that’s all I can do in the
way of damage control for now. The next step is to find Wright and let her know that she still has a job. I’ll get her c-contact address and phone number from HR and call her personally.”
“As soon as she knows you want her back, she’ll realize that she’s in the driver’s seat,” Webber warned. “She’d be a fool not to try to negotiate an increase in salary.”
“She can have whatever she wants, including caviar pizza delivered every day for lunch so long as she comes back,” Amelia snapped. “We’re talking about a potential bankruptcy here, in case no one else has noticed.”
“Trust me, I’ve n-noticed,” Randolph said.
The anger was so thick in his throat he was about to choke. Damned if he would let the old man do this to him, he thought. The center was the only thing of value he’d ever gotten from his father. The bastard never had any time for him when he was growing up, never showed any signs of approval no matter how hard he tried to please him. Martin Belvedere had cared only about his dream research.
“The s-sonofabitch set me up for failure,” he said, reaching for the phone. “But I’m not going to let him s-screw me over this time.”
w
ho was that man I saw you having coffee with yesterday?” Leila asked.
Startled, Isabel laughed.
Leila frowned. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing really.” Isabel closed the Kyler Method instructor’s manual she had been studying. “I just realized that it’s been quite a while since anyone asked me that kind of question.”
Leila’s brows rose. “What kind is that?”
“One that makes it sound like I might actually have a social life.”
They were sitting in Leila’s office. All of the Kyler executive suites were first class, Isabel reflected, just like everything else involved in the business, but her sister’s position as vice president ensured a particularly fabulous view. The darkly tinted, floor-to-ceiling windows looked directly out over the bay.
The elegant space was decorated in rich, warm neutrals with accents of black and Kyler red. The furnishings were expensive, modern pieces imported from Italy. Leila had overseen the interior design of every building at the Kyler headquarters. She had excellent taste.
But then, that was Leila through and through, Isabel thought. Her younger sister was not only extremely attractive, with her delicate features and excellent figure, she had a natural flair for style. Her hair was streaked with subtle blond highlights and cut into a fashionable bob. Her close-fitting cream-colored silk blouse and camel trousers sent a message of good breeding and refinement.
They were only two years apart, Isabel reflected, but they had always been opposites in many ways. Leila had played the role of the overachieving good girl, the one who made their fiercely competitive, highly successful executive father proud and pleased their socially ambitious mother.
From time to time Isabel had tried to warn Leila that her efforts were for naught. It had been clear to her early on that nothing either of them did was going to hold their parents’ marriage together, but Leila kept on trying to do just that by being Miss Perfect.
Even after their parents had divorced and remarried, Leila continued to be the good daughter. She was the one who brought home the long strings of A’s on her report cards, signed up for endless after-school activities in order to make herself look good to potential college acceptance committees, got elected to the student council and dated the kind of boys who were voted most
likely to succeed. She attended an excellent college, established herself as a successful interior designer and topped off her list of accomplishments by marrying Farrell Kyler, a fast-rising executive in their father’s corporation.
Isabel was well aware that she, on the other hand, had been a major disappointment. She loved her parents and as a child had wanted to please them. But as she grew older, the mysteries of her rapidly developing capacity to dream extreme dreams fascinated and consumed her. She needed answers but no one she talked to even understood her questions.
She had been labeled an “overly imaginative child inclined to daydream,” a diagnostic understatement if ever there was one, and had spent a lot of time chatting with some very nice people in the counseling profession who tried to get her to participate in more school activities.
But the long line of therapists failed to draw her away from the consuming strangeness of her dream world. Her life, until she met Martin Belvedere, had been a lonely journey of exploration, self-discovery and low-wage jobs.
“I saw you with him out on the terrace in front of the café,” Leila explained. “He didn’t seem to be your usual type.”
That gave her pause. “You really think I have a usual type?”
“Brian Phillips, Jason Strong and Larry Higgins, for starters.”
“Huh. I see what you mean.”
The three were among the handful of men she had dated in recent years. All followed the familiar pattern: a roller-coaster
ride that started out with a lot of enthusiastic conversations about their dreams, followed by steep plunges into boredom.
“Well, if it makes you feel any better,” she continued, “Ellis Cutler is not a hot date. If I’m lucky, however, he may turn out to be a client.”
“You mean he’s thinking about signing up for your new seminar here at Kyler?”
“No.” She spread her fingers on the cushions and dug her nails slightly into the soft leather, bracing herself. “I did some dream analysis work for him while I was at the center. He’s thinking of contracting with me for some more of the same.”
Leila grimaced. Isabel pretended not to notice. She was used to that look on the faces of her relatives whenever the subject of her career path arose.
“You’re serious about trying to establish yourself as a freelance dream consultant?” Leila asked.
Her tone implied that she had moved beyond her initial reaction of acute disapproval and was now resigned to the inevitable.