“Mr. Tremaine.” Grant shot up out of his chair. “How can—what are you doing?”
“Checking your drawers. What does it look like?”
“Mr. Tremaine?” he squeaked, panicked.
Vaughn yanked open all the drawers in Grant’s desk, found nothing, and spotted his briefcase. Grant lunged for it, but Vaughn blocked his way, opened it, and turned it upside down.
The small clear packet containing white powder fell out on top of the files.
Fury burned through him as he whipped around to glare at his manager. “You’re fired, Grant.”
Grant’s eyes glistened with pleading. “Vaughn—”
“Don’t. I don’t give a shit how many years you’ve worked for me. I don’t tolerate drugs or alcohol abuse from any of my staff members. This is my fucking hotel, Foster, and you could give a shit that you are this close to flushing everything I worked for down the toilet.”
The truth was Vaughn was angry with himself, too. If he had a tighter handle on things, if he hadn’t run away, he would have known what was going on with Grant.
“Pack up your things, get out, and get some help for Christ’s sake.” He strode toward the door.
“You can’t do this!” Foster yelled. “I’ve worked my ass off for you.”
Vaughn stopped and turned around. “You worked hard for me until you stopped working hard for me. Now get your shit and get out . . . or I’ll throw you out myself.”
Seeing he meant it, Grant lowered his gaze to the desk, his cheeks flushed with humiliation.
On that note, Vaughn stormed out of the office, slamming the door shut behind him. He glared at Grant’s personal assistant. The guy must have known what was going on. Vaughn’s own PA, Ailsa, probably knew more about him than most people did.
“What’s your name?” He was cold, calm on the outside like always, but furious on the inside.
The young man seemed to sense that and blanched. “Ryan. Ryan Upton, sir.”
“You’re fired, too, Ryan. When you took on a position here, you became my employee, not his.” He pointed to Grant’s door. “And I should have been informed of the situation from you, not one of my waiters.”
“But, sir . . . he threatened me. I’ve tried. Really, I have but . . .”
Vaughn squeezed his eyes shut in aggravation. When he opened them Ryan stood up and swiveled his computer screen toward Vaughn.
“I’ve been trying to keep a handle on things, keep things running smoothly. He hired Kacey, the chef, against my advice. There was another chef far more qualified but Kacey is a friend of his girlfriend. I have the list of other chefs we interviewed here, if you’d like to see.” He clicked a document up on the screen. It contained a list of chefs, their qualifications, previous employment, and Ryan’s comments on their suitability. From what Vaughn was reading the young man appeared quite astute.
He looked up at him. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-six, sir.”
“How did he threaten you?”
“To fire me. And I can’t lose this job. I have a wife, a daughter.”
This was getting more and more maudlin. “If you’d told me, I could have assured your position here.”
“No offense, sir, but I don’t know you, and I do know you have a longstanding history with Mr. Fo
ster.”
“You didn’t know if I’d believe you,” Vaughn surmised, biting off a curse.
“Exactly. Mr. Foster has stood in my way about a lot of things. The housekeepers have been slacking with no supervision. I’ve tried to enforce some authority but I’m just the PA.”
“Fine. You’re not fired, Ryan.” Vaughn turned his computer back toward him. “I’m staying until I have the hotel under control again and a manager that I trust in place. You are now my PA while I’m here and you’ll be the new manager’s PA as long as I’m happy with your performance.”