Wanted: Wife 4 Navy Seals: A Sizzling Hot Military Romance (Wanted Series Book 1)
Page 35
The final screen from my presentation illuminates part of the long side of the boardroom wall. The rest of the room is in muted darkness with the blinds closed over the external glass wall and only soft spotlights around the edge of the large room providing any light. Most of the faces around the table are in shadow, and even throughout the relentless questioning, I haven’t really been able to pick out any distinguishing features of those present, except Morris, and that’s more from memory. I’m feeling a buzz when I finish. I don’t think I fucked anything up, and I answered every question fired at me. Morris helped with some of the financials, and I’m a hairsbreadth from packing up and patting myself on the back for a job well done when the figure in complete shadow at the end of the table speaks. His accent is faint and clips his English with a crisp curt intonation and immaculate pronunciation of the Queen’s English. I’d almost forgotten about him.
“This is all very interesting, but property development and catering to the super rich really isn’t the remit of BlueSky.” His dismissive tone renders the soft, deep, husky timbre of his voice more obnoxious than sexy, especially since his declaration effectively pisses on my bonfire.
“Um, excuse me?”
“Oh good, I get to repeat myself,” he snarks. “I said, Ms Williams…” He leans forward, and light from the presentation screen reveals penetrating eyes too dark to distinguish the colour and an expression where I can’t quite tell if he’s angry or bored. He continues to speak, and his tone quite rudely confirms the latter. “Property development—”
“I heard what you said, Mr. Jensen. I’m just a little confused.” Since my face is lit up like a fucking Christmas tree from my own screen, I keep my expression a tight-lipped accommodating smile as I try and temper the irritation bubbling in my veins. I wouldn’t mind if, at any point, I had been ambiguous about exactly what the investment is for. It’s frickin’ crystal clear from the opening Mission Statement on page one of the proposal. Forty minutes of presentation and a further full hour of grilling, and now…now he raises this!
“Then I’ll paraphrase and use small words so you can understand. What else have you got, Ms Williams?” Snapping shut my dropped jaw, I mentally count to ten and more. His contempt, not to mention his patronising manner, makes forcing even a semi-civil response a much greater challenge than raising the damn money in the first place. Still, right now, I don’t need the aggravation of an assault charge or more likely, a murder charge to add to this rapidly downward spiralling day. I start to gather the few documents in front of me and decide to cut my losses. I see where this is going, and as much as I need the money, I don’t need this.
“You have the proposal in front of you, Mr. Jensen, and I’ve been talking for over an hour. If there is nothing of interest here, I believe we are done.”
“Hope.” Morris’s tone urges caution, but it’s too late for that. Even with little light in the room, all I see is red.
“No, Morris. He’s barely said one effing word.” Morris cringes, but he should be thankful I’m censoring at all. I lean close to his ear in an attempt to retain a modicum of professional courtesy. Not that I feel Mr. Jensen deserves any, but I do respect Morris enough not to completely embarrass him. “Morris, I’m sorry but no-one patronises me like that and in front of everyone. Be lucky I’m just packing up my things and not ripping his bollocks off, arrogant fucking arsehole.” Okay, I hissed that last part a little too loud, but it’s out there now, and it’s the truth.
“The supplements,” Mr. Jensen says, and I snap my response.
“What about them?”
“You hold the patent?”
“Yes.” Schooling my temper, the replies are more clipped than barked.
“You produce them in this country?”
“They are licensed to a small independent pharmaceutical company on the coast. It is all in the appendix of the proposal, Mr. Jensen.”
“Why is distribution limited to the salons?”
“Because that’s our only point of sale.” I’m more confused than ever with the direction of the questions, and I can’t help feeling this is just another fatuous hoop to jump through and a big fat waste of my time.
“Why?”
“Because the broom up my arse chafes.” My irritation and waning patience collide. In my periphery, I see Morris drop his head in his hands.
“I don’t really see the relevance.” Mr. Jensen brushes off my analogy, and although it was crude, it’s still an accurate description of what my life has looked like getting this idea off the ground.
“One mountain at a time, Mr. Jensen, and Greycoat Manor is my Kilimanjaro.”
“Why settle for a foothill when you can scale Everest, even with the broom up your—”
I cut in. “I don’t understand.” Either his cute repeat of my metaphor or what he’s getting at.
“The products you created work, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Then why the hell are they only being sold in London, why not the world? This is your problem; you have no scale.” He slams his hand on the desk, making everyone jump. Everyone except me. I’m more curious what’s got him all riled up when, only two minutes ago, this felt like a dead deal. He’s got passion; I give him that.
“I will get there, Mr. Jensen. These things take time.” His eyes fix on mine, and he rises slowly from his chair. My breath freezes in my lungs as he slowly walks around the end of the table and right up to me. He stops, standing a not so respectable distance away, so I have to tilt my head back.
“Time is the luxury of fools, Ms Williams, and that means you are clearly wasting mine.” There’s an explosive charge of something firing between us, and if the blood pumping in my ears wasn’t so loud, I might be able to identify what that is exactly. One thing is clear, though, there is absolutely no recognition on his part and certainly no ‘moment’.
He’s looking at me like he hates me, and I’m already way ahead of him in that race. Still, he’s casting doubts on my business acumen, and that’s a challenge I will relish proving wrong.
“If I have international licensing agreements in place by the end of the week, will we have a deal?” He steps back and raises a curious brow, surprise lifting the pitch in his voice.
“You think you can do that?”
“That broom isn’t just for sweeping. Do we have a deal?” I jut my chin high, holding his curious and mesmerising gaze and hoping my confidence is justified. Because I’m beginning to wish I was a witch, since I’m going to need more than a little magic to pull this off.
“Yes,” He offers his hand, we shake, and sparks fly.