“Get it done, Pierre. Or I’ll find someone who can.” I stabbed at the phone on the conference table and the screen on the wall showing Pierre’s spluttering face went blank. Leaning back in my chair, my gaze focused on the view out the window.

The city of Denver spread out before me, but it was the mountains that stole the show. I’d grown up in New York, so of course, Denver was nowhere that big, but I liked it. It was more laid-back and less pretentious.

For now, it was my temporary home base. I’d moved here and taken up an office and penthouse at the Langston Denver, while I dealt with the newest acquisition of the Langston Hotels group.

The thought made me frown. Things were not going as smoothly as I’d hoped. Juggling the Windward Mountain Resort along with several renovation projects at properties around the globe —France, England, and Indonesia—along with some new builds and some potential new acquisitions left me a bit stretched. I felt a headache threaten, like a tiny jackhammer to the temple.

“I thought Pierre was going to cry,” a voice said.

I turned my head, taking in two members of my top executive team sitting at the glossy conference table. My CFO, Tristan Banks, sat sprawled in a chair to my left. He was tall, with some African-American heritage that gave him brown skin and a handsome face I’d seen women drool over. His green eyes were steady and calculating. As always, he was dressed impeccably. The man had an addiction to tailored suits and shirts. Preferably from Savile Row or Milan.

He looked relaxed, but it was deceptive. His sharp mind was always on the go. The man liked numbers, preferably ones to do with lots of money, even more than his precious suits. He was my genius finance guy.

We’d met in college. Tristan had been at Harvard on a scholarship. I knew there had been no fancy suits when he’d been growing up.

“At this stage, I’d prefer tears over the excuses. Pierre’s incompetent. He’s had multiple chances. If things haven’t improved by the end of the week, he’s out.”

“I’ll take care of it,” a female voice said.

My COO and right-hand woman sat with a hip perched on the corner of the conference table. How she managed that in the fitted, long skirt and sky-high heels, I didn’t know. But I knew better than to ever doubt Piper Ellis. There was no miracle that the woman couldn’t pull off.

Her pale-blonde hair was up in a fancy twist and even at this time of the day, not a strand was loose. She’d have the Langston Paris renovations completed in three weeks, with or without our excuse-ridden project manager.

“So, the Windward Mountain Resort,” Tristan said.