Sinclair crossed the threshold to her office, dropping her briefcase and purse on her credenza, and picked up a stack of mail on the way to her desk. “Why?”

“So Chantal could review them.”

“What?” She stared at Amber. “Why would she do that?”

“Because she’s queen of the freakin’ universe? Is there something I should know, Sinclair? Something pertaining to PR?”

“No.” Sinclair set down the mail. “There’s nothing for you to worry about.” She moved to the door. “Wait here.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“I assume you gave him the files?” Sinclair called over her shoulder.

“I didn’t have a choice.”

No. She didn’t.

When the president asked for the files, you gave up the files. But there was nothing saying you didn’t go get them back again. Roger’s micromanaging was getting out of hand. So was Chantal’s apparent carte blanche in the PR department. Sinclair took a tight breath, pressed the button, and waited as the elevator ascended.

This inserting of Chantal into Sinclair’s projects had to stop. You didn’t add a new voice ten days before the ball. And you sure didn’t empower a neophyte like Chantal on a project of this size and importance.

What was the matter with Roger? Was he trying to sabotage Sinclair’s efforts?

Maybe it was due to her frustration over the failure of the spa plan, but Sinclair was feeling exceedingly protective of the ball. It was her one chance for the PR department to shine, and she was determined to do it or die trying.

The doors slid open on twenty, revealing burgundy carpet, soft lighting and cherrywood paneling. Myra, Roger’s secretary, looked surprised to see her.

“Did you have an appointment?”

“I need two minutes with Roger.”

Myra glanced at Roger’s door. “I’m afraid he’s-”

The office door opened.

Chantal Charbonnet stepped out, a stack of files tucked under her arm. She was wearing a leather skirt today, with a glittering gold blouse. Her heels were high, her neckline low. She gave Sinclair a disdainful look and passed by with a sniff of her narrow pert nose