by JC Harroway
I hold my ground. ‘I admit Brent’s has been on the back burner for me for a few months while I’ve been busy with higher priority companies, but I assure you that it’s received considerable investment since I purchased it from Marcus.
‘The merger will remove any lingering trace of the previous owner and turn the company around. A simple solution for us all.’
Even while she hates what I plan for her company, she must acknowledge that my instincts are correct. The merger will succeed.
Her mouth hangs open in disbelief. ‘It’s far from simple. I can’t suggest measures that will turn around years of neglect and infrastructure underinvestment in one visit.’
‘I can. I have the resources, expertise and industry contacts. By the time I’ve finished creating Lombard Logistics it will make a highly attractive proposition for some shrewd buyer. You can retire a wealthy lady, do anything you want in life.’ Surely she can see the benefits, not only for the company she loves, but also for her personally.
She could start her own restaurant...
At her exasperated expression my blood starts to simmer. I asked for her input with Brent’s, and I value her insight. She knows logistics, but I know business. Investing and turning a profit is my bread and butter.
Ava grows more agitated, rising from the bed and covering up with the hotel robe. ‘I understand why you’d want to rid yourself of his business, but you can’t just make a patchwork quilt with these companies and hope it holds together long enough for some poor schmuck to take the bait.’
Her censure takes me back in time—a stomach tightening reminder of helpless times when I couldn’t defend myself. But now I can. ‘I find your insinuation patronising. Give me some credit. Don’t you think I’ve done my research? Even if you can’t see it, there’s massive potential here with the right person at the helm. Sadly for both you and Marcus, the right person is me.’
I snatch up my jeans and tug them on, tired of justifying my actions. ‘I know what I’m doing, Ava. This is my livelihood and I’m damned good at it. Bold is consistently in the Fortune five hundred list, year after year.’ Why am I explaining myself to her? If her opinion of me is so low, why the fuck am I wasting my time?
There’s no hint of concession in her demeanour as she fists her hands on her hips. I’m sorry I opened up to her about Marcus.
‘You’re so driven by the past,’ she says, ‘and I understand why. But I’m concerned that you can’t be objective. You may not care about Brent’s, but I care about Hamilton’s.’
Of course I’m not impartial where Brent’s is concerned... But her judgement stings. It’s too reminiscent of Marcus’s chastisement to sit comfortably with me.
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence. Fortunately, I don’t need your permission or your blessing in order to do whatever I like with my companies.’
She huffs in frustration. ‘I may not be able to stop you selling Hamilton’s, but I’ll be damned if I watch you turn my years of dedication and my grandparents’ life work into part of your—’ she splutters then spits out the final words ‘—revenge plan.’
I snort with disbelief that for a moment there I allowed her to get under my skin, then jerk into my T-shirt. The sex is mind-blowing, but I know better than to trust anyone, especially someone who’s adept at subterfuge and manipulation. Someone who’s no more interested in seeing the person I am than he was.
I make sure my voice is icily calm when I speak again.
‘Thank you for explaining what you think of me. Your emotional attachment to Hamilton’s is understandable, but this is business. I think if you could be objective, you’d see the benefits for all concerned—you, Bold, and the employees of Hamilton’s and Brent’s, who rather than face redundancy will still have a job in six months, thanks to me.’
I grab my shoes and head for the door, pausing only to dispense my parting shot. ‘But if you’re struggling to see any good in my motivations and you don’t want to watch the end of Hamilton’s and the beginning of something bigger, better and more prosperous, then I suggest you close your eyes.’
CHAPTER TEN
Ava
IT’S BEEN THREE days since we returned from Chicago. Three days since I last saw Sterling. Three days in which I’ve had time to think—about our last serious conversation, about the future of Hamilton’s, and most alarmingly about the direction of my life.
Rather than provide clarity, everything he does and says confuses me.
When we arrived back at JFK, he’d had another of his cars delivered to the airport—this one a spacious Audi SUV that felt as secure as a tank. He’d even given me the vehicle’s safety statistics before he pulled out of the airport and then dropped me home. I’d been too choked up and overwhelmed to do more than utter my thanks and then watch him drive away feeling as if my stomach was somewhere on the sidewalk.
Sterling’s shocking confession about his stepfather’s cruelty haunts me. I can’t stop thinking about a younger Sterling and how powerless he must have felt. For an intelligent, masterful and compassionate man like him, being under someone’s control and destructive influence must have felt like slow and painful torture.
Of course he wants to dispense with Brent’s—a company associated with negative memories and a reminder that, despite what he’s achieved, he was once a defenceless boy at the hands of a bully. He’s trying to make a positive change by eradicating Marcus from his life. I can even begrudgingly admit that he’s right: it is sound business to amalgamate all three companies, combining their strengths, customers and resources under one umbrella instead of competing in the same marketplace.
I’ve been consumed with how his plans affect me, overlooking the fact that, when incorporated into a larger company, the success of Hamilton’s will safeguard the jobs of my loyal staff for the future.
This is bigger than me.
But...
That’s the sticking point. Aside from betraying my family, losing Hamilton’s threatens my sense of belonging. Where will I work? What will I do?
I take a shaky sip of my cocktail and try not to glance at my phone for the time. I shouldn’t have arrived so early. I’ve asked Sterling to meet me at the Brooklyn Heights Hotel, not far from my apartment, to show him my grandmother’s grand piano, the instrument that started the Hamilton’s journey. It’s my favourite place to come and remember happier times—sufficiently impersonal that I can forget when I want to, but close and public enough that I can pop in any time I feel lonely.
Sterling arrives just then, striding into the bar with his trademark confidence and purpose. Nerves make my breathing erratic as he scans the bar in search of me. It hurts between my ribs to see him so composed and handsome and vital when I feel as if I’m falling apart. Broken. Incomplete.
Except for when you’re in his arms, when you’re driving him wild.
No—I can only rely on myself for strength and create my own safety net. People I care about have a horrible habit of disappearing.
And our last conversation left me wondering if I knew him at all. Can’t he see that selling everything his stepfather touched won’t bring him the peace he craves? Can’t he see how important Hamilton’s is to me?
He spies me, his piercing eyes landing on mine. For a second his expression shifts from searching to relieved. The same emotion pulses in my veins, a part of me renewed, blossoming at the fact he showed up, when we left things so tense and resentful between us three days ago.
I stand, flutters attacking my stomach at the gorgeous sight he makes. He strides my way, determination in his green eyes as if he’s a predator and I’m prey. My body softens, heat building the way it does when we’re naked and connected on an intimate level.
‘Thanks for meeting me,’ I say, breathing in the spicy male scent of his cologne and trying not to succumb to the unexplainable sting behind my eyes as he presses his lips to my chee
k.
‘I’m glad you called. We left things unnecessarily hostile between us.’ He takes a seat next to me in the booth facing the view and signals to a waiter, ordering his favourite bourbon.
My tongue feels clumsy in my mouth. ‘I hoped meeting here would diffuse some of that. Did you see the report I emailed you on Brent’s?’ It’s easier to talk business than to dissect why I’m so comforted by seeing him.
I watch for the vulnerability that mentioning his bully’s name might cause. All I’ve come to expect from Sterling is ruthlessness and orgasms, but he’s a complex and haunted man. His motivations for selling his stepfather’s company are completely justified. I might even support his plan if it didn’t involve Hamilton’s.
Yet it gives you a chance not many people get—to change direction and chase your dreams...
No, I’m not ready to give up yet. That’s why I’ve brought him here, to this particular piano bar. To show him exactly what my legacy means to me.
‘I did, thank you. You very professionally produced what I asked for and I...’ He scrubs a hand through his dishevelled hair, making my fingers itch to do the same, to feel its silkiness as I draw his mouth to mine and become lost in his kiss. ‘On reflection, I should have given you all of the information up front,’ he says.
‘It wouldn’t have made any difference to my recommendations. I’m afraid I tried to be objective about the merger, but, as you saw from the report, I also presented a case for keeping Hamilton’s out of the sale. Brent’s Express and SeaFreight together make an attractive proposition. But Hamilton’s is different. We’re specialist. I hope to persuade you to keep it separate.’
‘I see.’ His mouth tightens and I drag in a bolstering breath. I don’t want to fight. I just want to appeal to his humanity.
The server returns with Sterling’s drink, gifting me a moment to catch my breath and regroup my defences.
‘What you said in Chicago—’ to give my restless hands an occupation, I twirl my glass on the table ‘—you had a point. I am emotionally invested in Hamilton’s, but I wanted you to understand why. That’s the reason I suggested this bar.’
His stare shifts over my features intently. ‘Without conceding that it will change anything, I’d like to understand.’
I nod, respecting him more than if he’d offered false promises. ‘I want to tell you a story about Hamilton’s.’
Curiosity is intense in his eyes. ‘Okay. I’m listening.’
‘Do you see the piano?’ I point to the far corner of the bar where a man dressed in a tux plays soft, mellow piano music on a Bösendorfer grand.
A smile plays on his lips. ‘It’s a stunning instrument—I have a grand piano at my apartment.’
‘You play?’
He nods. ‘Do you?’
I shrug, my stomach turning hollow at the memory of another part of my life that fell by the wayside after I lost my parents. ‘A little—I’m not very good.’
I continue my tale, battling the lust and confusion that seems to be my constant state around him. ‘That piano dates back to 1899. It belonged to my great-grandmother, who passed it on to her daughter, my grandmother, Nonna Hamilton.’
He raises his brows, impressed.
‘Nonna emigrated to the US in the fifties, but she had to leave her beloved piano behind in Italy because she couldn’t afford to ship it. She met my Pops shortly after arriving in New York. They were married four months later. As a wedding gift, he had her precious instrument shipped here. That was how Hamilton Logistics began.’
I pause, glancing at the piano while nostalgia hijacks my breaths. I tinkled with those keys as a toddler. My mother played a halting rendition of the happy birthday song to me every year while my dad, Nonna and Pops sang along. I’ve kept a lot of my family’s personal items but had to part with the piano for practical reasons.
‘I see.’ His lips compress but there’s only understanding and regret in his eyes.
‘There’s no room for such an impressive instrument at my apartment, so I loaned it to the hotel indefinitely. It should be played and cared for and enjoyed.’
‘As a player myself, I’d have to agree with you.’ Out of nowhere he leans close and cups my cheek in his warm palm. ‘I’m sorry that you can’t have the piano at home.’
My heart lurches as if it’s trying to close the distance between us.
I shrug. ‘Maybe one day. You wanted to understand what Hamilton’s means to me.’ My voice shrinks, small and hesitant, because a part of me, the part too scared to trust feelings, wasn’t expecting his compassion and sensitivity after our fight in Chicago. Now it feels as if I’ve committed an underhand tactic—emotional blackmail. My sentiment and nostalgia shouldn’t influence his decision.
‘It’s always been more than a business. It’s about love and family and...’
My voice cracks and I look down, away from the empathy and threads of desire in his eyes.
‘And belonging?’ His fingers squeeze mine.
I want to sob that he’s so perceptive. That he gets me.
‘I do understand, Ava. Hamilton’s is your life. Your family’s heritage, just like the piano.’ He sighs, as if momentarily defeated.
I nod, overwhelming sadness filling me up. ‘Yes, it is.’ I laugh, a humourless sound. ‘That seems pathetic all of a sudden. At least you’ve been married. You tried to build your own family and create a legacy you can pass on.’
What am I without this final tie to my loved ones? Can I really do anything else? Can I let go of the past and find myself somewhere new to belong? Somewhere that’s more...me?
‘No more pathetic than trying to outmanoeuvre a dead man.’ Sterling winces, his expression slashed with uncertainty. But he recovers quickly. ‘And I’ve been around a few more years. Plus, my marriage turned into a failure, so I don’t boast about it.’
We share a sad little smile.
‘Thank you for sharing that story,’ he says. ‘You had a point, too...in Chicago, I do struggle to be objective when it comes to certain aspects of my past. I’m very protective of my mother. Dissolving Brent’s will help us both move on, I hope.’
‘I don’t blame you for wanting that.’ I say as something unexpected, tender and promising buds inside me. ‘We all struggle with objectivity when our emotions and loved ones are involved. I can even see how you must have felt manipulated when you discovered my identity and our shared business interest. I never planned to use you. The minute I looked into your eyes in that elevator I became distracted and a more pressing urge to seduce the sexiest man I’ve ever met took hold. You do believe that, right?’
It’s suddenly imperative that his impression of me improves, and I can’t say why.
He reaches for my hand. ‘I do.’
Two simple words. But they’re enough.
‘The feeling was very much reciprocated.’ He raises my hand to his lips. The way he looks at me from under his long lashes all but melts my bones. I’m not certain where we are professionally, but right now I’m struggling to recall that it matters. ‘Have you eaten dinner?’ he asks.
I shake my head. I was strung too tight with nerves, although I spent the afternoon cooking—my proven calming technique.
‘Clearing the air has made me ravenous,’ he says. ‘Would you like to grab some? I’ve had a rough couple of days, and seeing you has lifted my spirits.’
My pulse pounds in my throat at his admission. Raw emotion loiters in the depths of his stare, and I want to decipher it. Perhaps when this is over we might stay friends.
Warning bells sound in my head. My feelings are at risk with him. I need trust like oxygen. I need the security that trust brings. I’m careful who I date—I’m careful about everything. Life has taught me to be that way. Whatever happens businesswise, one of us will lose. One of us will feel betrayed. And yet that obstacle isn’t enough to
deter me; I don’t want tonight to end yet, either.
I take a bolstering breath that feels as if I’m finally putting myself out there, emotionally after years of hiding in my shell. Years of being the dutiful granddaughter, but not knowing who I am. Years of having no idea where I belong.
But I do know what makes me happy, and for now, that includes being in his company. ‘I have a better idea, if you’re up for a short walk.’
He quirks a brow. ‘Back to yours?’
I laugh and nod. ‘Yes. I was thinking I could experiment on you...’
‘A sexual experiment?’ His eyes light up. Sterling in this flirtatious mood is dazzlingly hot.
I roll my eyes. ‘For some classic recipes I’m trying out.’
He jerks to his feet with amusing eagerness. ‘Lead the way. I’m starving and happily submit myself as a subject. You have excellent taste in food and sexual partners.’
His wink sends shivers through me, but I’m grateful for the shift in atmosphere. As we leave the bar, he takes my hand and that’s where it stays for the four-block walk to my brownstone apartment. It feels good there. It reminds me of his display of old-school, gentlemanlike manners the night we met.
We hang up our coats and head for the kitchen, the only room—the only part of my life, in fact—that’s organised and clutter-free. I’m conscious of his every move, anticipation fluttering in my veins that he’s in my home, the place where I can be myself.
‘Whatever you’re making already smells delicious.’ He lounges against my kitchen bench, watching me over the glass of wine I’ve just poured him.
‘Wash your hands,’ I say with mock seriousness, to hide the fact that I’m jittery with trepidation. ‘There are no observers in my kitchen. You’ll have to earn your dinner.’ I don my apron, take a sip of my own wine and try to ignore his intense observation. It’s as if he, too, feels every second of the three days since we last touched. As if the hand-holding on the way here was an appetiser—delicious but merely whetting the appetite.