But when she’d ducked out of the event a half-hour later, he was in the hall.
Waiting for her.
“I hate this shit,” he’d said. “Want to grab pizza?”
She hadn’t stood a chance. Pizza had turned not into the frantic groping she’d become accustomed to in the five days she’d been on campus, but into a warm, chaste hug at the door to her room. He appeared the next day to take her to breakfast, texted her regularly after that, minus the cool indifference she’d come to expect from guys her age.
He’d made it clear he wanted to see her as much as possible. Losing her virginity to him had felt natural, a continuation of what was by then beginning to feel like destiny. He’d set her soul on fire, had opened her body to all the possibilities of its pleasure. Sex with him had been erotic, tantric even. She couldn’t think about him without remembering the flicker of candles, his hands rubbing oil on her naked flesh, his movements languid and deliberate when he moved inside her.
They’d been inseparable for two years — right up until the moment her father had a heart attack in the middle of his battle with Hathaway Holding for the lease on Matheson and Matheson.
But it hadn’t been the heart attack that had ended her love affair with Lachlan — it had been the realization that Hathaway Holding was owned by his parents.
She’d known intellectually that it wasn’t his fault, but after that, all she saw when she looked at him was the bookstore, her father’s ashen face as he lay dying in the hospital.
The nail in the coffin was the lie; Lachlan had known what was going on as soon as she mentioned the company trying to pull the rug out from under her parents. He’d known and he hadn’t said a thing until after her father’s death.
She’d left school against her mother’s protestations, not wanting to see him on campus. Not wanting to be near anything that could remind her of him. It had been a lost cause.
Everything had reminded her of him.
It still did.
It wasn’t fair; the Buddha statue had been a fixture in her parent’s shop long before Lachlan. But somewhere along the line it had come to feel like an extension of their passionate two years together, their mutual interest in spirituality one more thing that bound them.
She hated him for that. For stealing the small amount of peace that was actually within reach.
She looked through the bookstore’s front window, her eyes on the behemoth across the street. It was harder than usual to ignore it; today Malcolm Glover was visiting to ensure final preparations for the bookstore opening were in place. As soon as she’d read the press release, she imagined herself confronting him, asking him to consider the ramifications on small businesses like hers and the Bean. She knew from what she’d read about him that he probably wouldn’t care. By all accounts he was a cold-hearted bastard.
But that didn’t stop the fantasy from rolling in her mind.
She tapped the computer that operated as their Point of Sale system and clicked to the article she’d been reading the day before, her eyes skimming the text she’d already memorized.
… which Daniel Taft says put his family’s 100-year-old grocery out of business.
The Glover estate is sprawling, set above San Diego…
… Glover denies his predatory reputation.
Her eyes lingered on the words, anger filling her chest like a balloon until she was afraid she would burst wide open.
She closed the computer, took a couple deep breaths while she looked at the Buddha. Then she reached for her keys and headed for the front of the store.
Two
Locke Montgomery pulled into a spot next to the curb and stepped out of the car. The October sun was warm on his shoulders, and he was instantly transported back to that morning’s surf session, the water cool, sweeping under him like a breeze. It was his favorite time of day. The one place when everything else fell away without effort.
The one time of day when she still felt close to him.
He forced his eyes away from the row of stores across the street as he made his way up the block. It wasn’t easy. He knew she was probably there somewhere, standing behind a counter with a Buddha statue, ringing up books, lighting the place up with her green eyes.
Finding out about the grand re-opening of Matheson and Matheson had been an accident. He’d been true to his word, hadn’t contacted her, had resisted the urge to use his now-considerable cyber resources to find out where she was, what she was doing.
But the announcement had been right there in the community newspaper he picked up every week at Mason’s Coffee Shop. His eyes had located it immediately, the last name screaming at him from the black print.
He’d ducked out of the coffee shop after that, his insides in turmoil. There was admiration, although he hadn’t been surprised. Eleanor Matheson was nothing if not determined. But after that he’d been swept up in shame and guilt and even, absurdly, hope. As if the re-opening of her family’s bookstore would somehow nullify the past when he knew that would never, ever happen.
Still, he’d kept his word, had avoided that particular street in the Gaslamp District, had been alert when anywhere near it.
But today he had business that couldn’t be avoided. He would make it quick, get out as quickly as possible, reject the pull of her presence, the temptation to walk into the store across the street and down the block.
He consoled himself by allowing thoughts of her as he approached Bolton’s.
There were certain things about her that were as vivid now as they’d been back when she’d been with him every day: the way she brushed aside the long red hair when the wind blew it across her face, the faint spattering of freckles across her porcelain skin, the way her body moved under his like liquid fire.
Elle…
His memories of her were shadowlands in his soul. He had to be careful how often he visited, how often he allowed himself to cross the borders into their darkness. There was always the possibility he might not make it back.
After six years, she was still everywhere. In the water when he surfed. In the wind when it blew across his face. In the sun, the only thing that came close to warming him like her smile.
He hadn’t contacted her after their last big fight. The one where she told him to get out of her life. That she never wanted to see him again. She’d meant it. He’d felt it in the sheet of ice she’d built between them, could hear it in the deadness of her voice, usually so filled with life. He’d tried anyway. Had apologized for his parents. Asked forgiveness for his unforgivable lie.
None of it had been worth a damn.
She didn’t blame him. She’d made that clear. Had made it clear that he shouldn’t be held accountable for the business decisions made by his parents in their ongoing quest for wealth that never seemed to make them happy anyway.
But her father’s death had doomed them. She couldn’t look at him after that, not without seeing the loss of her parent’s business, the loss of her father’s life. So he’d finished school, built his company, sold it quickly, and started over with a new name and a new line of work. It hadn’t helped him forget her, but it had given him something else to focus on, some semblance of atonement for what his family had done to her.
He was relieved when he finally approached Bolton’s big glass doors. He had slipped into the past too easily. Elle had been close for a moment. Close enough to touch, to hurt him when he realized it was yet another dream.
Now he could concentrate on one of the only things that kept her at bay.
Business.
He stepped into the cool, sterile air of the store, walked past the cash registers up front and started toward the back. He was careful to keep his pace moderate — a man with something in mind, but not so purposeful as to draw attention.
It wasn’t that he was here to commit a crime. He had no intention of doing anything illegal.
Not today anyway.
But you never knew when things would start to come undone. When they
did, the past would be there — security cams, video feeds, digital footprints, text messages. He went to extraordinary lengths to make sure none of it ever came back to haunt him, but some things were unavoidable. He refused to be a captive to the work he’d chosen. It was meant to free him, not imprison him.
He passed by the toiletries and household supplies, casually scanning a couple of aisles. It was Saturday and the store was crowded with people running their weekly errands. He serpentined through a couple kids running out of the toy section, mothers hurrying past him with tired smiles, and he continued to the back of the store.
The new bookstore was tucked into one of the back corners. Behind the gate that had been pulled down to section off the area, employees stocked shelves from boxes of books stacked on the floor, consulting merchandising maps as they went. He slowed down just enough to get a better look, watched as a young woman behind the refreshment counter filled a glass container with cinnamon.
He wasn’t here to case the store. This time there would be no plan to circumvent security, no marking of guards or cameras. They wouldn’t need a getaway car or ski masks, a way to transport money or inventory.
The impending operation wasn’t so much about the company as the man behind it.
Malcolm Glover.
Locke had been doing background on Glover even before the announcement that Bolton’s would be expanding their offerings to include full-service bookstores. But there was no denying that the development made the job even more enticing.
He didn’t even try to convince himself it wasn’t about making reparations to Elle and her family. She would never know it was him — would never know that he’d used the billions from the sale of his tech company to finance an organization of mercenaries that specialized in balancing the scales of justice when traditional processes failed.
But he would know.
It would have to be enough. Maybe it wouldn’t allow Elle to stay in business — small businesses had a tough time of it in the era of big-box retailers — but he could at least make Malcolm Glover pay a price for what he took, from Elle and the others he’d plundered on the way to the good life.
He passed the soon-to-open bookstore (GRAND OPENING SATURDAY OCTOBER 12th!) and continued to the other side of the store, stopping in the current book section, his eyes on the big doors at the back of the store. He knew from his research they led to the executive offices. Not all the store’s locations had them, but San Diego was a flagship store, and Malcolm Glover spent more time here than any of the others.
Locke stopped in front of the magazines, picked up the latest issue of SNOWBOARDER magazine. There was no real point to his being here, but this was part of his process: case the place, get a feel for the vibe, check out the staff and the layout. That those things would be irrelevant when he went after Malcolm Glover didn’t matter. Leaving it out felt like an omission.
Like bad luck.
It had nothing to do with the fact that Elle’s bookstore was across the street.
Nothing at all.
He put the magazine back on the shelf and made his way down the aisle. He hated this fucking place, but as long as he was here, he might as well pick up a few things. Then he’d make his way back to his house on the cliff above the sea. Back to the water and sky and the memories of the one woman he couldn’t forget.
Three
Elle waited in the lobby of the executive office, the decor surprisingly plush given the generic nature of the store. She was surprised she’d gotten this far, and her stomach twisted at the thought of the confrontation that lay ahead.
She’d assumed she would be turned away at the outset. That someone would make excuses for Malcolm Glover, claim he was in meetings or had already left. Instead she’d given her name, said she was from the bookstore across the street, and had been promptly escorted to the back of the store by an employee whose name tag identified him as the Store Manager. The manager — a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a paunch that overflowed the store’s regulation chinos — had unlocked a steel door at the back of the store and deposited her in a wood-paneled waiting room.
She fidgeted on the waiting room chair, her eyes catching the gold sandals she’d chosen to wear with the Moroccan print dress that flowed around her knees. She should have planned better. Should have worn something more appropriate. How did she expect someone like Malcolm Glover, someone who ate competitors for breakfast, to take her seriously? She felt like a child posing as a grown-up, wearing her mother’s clothes.
“Eleanor Matheson?” She looked up to find a smartly dressed young man in a suit staring at her from the doorway. “You can come with me,” he said.
She got up, followed him down a carpeted hall past several closed doors and an open one that seemed to be the conference room. They stopped at a set of wood-paneled double doors at the end of the hall. Her escort knocked.
“Come in.” The voice was deep and authoritative.
The young man opened the door, stepped across the threshold, and stood to the side so she could enter. She hesitated, then walked into a huge office lined with rich mahogany paneling. Several pieces of fine art hung on the walls, each illuminated by a tiny brass light. The wood floor was covered with a massive, intricately patterned carpet.
“Please, come in.”
She followed the voice to the man standing behind a massive desk, its clean lines a perfect foil to the more traditional furnishings scattered around the room.
Malcolm Glover was tall and slender, his expensive suit tailored to fit his lanky frame. He was younger than he’d looked in the pictures online, although still quite a bit older than her. She placed him in his late-forties, his dark hair just starting to gray around the temples, the lines around his eyes making him look dignified rather than old.
She walked toward the desk and extended her hand. “I’m Eleanor Matheson. I own Matheson and Matheson, the bookstore across the street.”
There was no warmth in his smile but he shook her hand, nodded at the young man who had escorted her to his office. The assistant stepped back into the hall and closed the door quietly behind him.
“It’s a pleasure meeting you, Eleanor.” She felt silly hearing her given name spoken aloud. She’d used it to give her presence weight, but now it just felt like part of the sham. No one called her Eleanor except her father. “Please, sit.”
She lowered herself into one of the chairs opposite his desk and waited as he did the same, unbuttoning his jacket in one motion the way men like Glover seemed born to do.
“I’m always happy to meet our neighbors,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
She hesitated. What could he do for her? Shut down the bookstore initiative that had probably already cost Bolton’s millions? Give up all that profit so she could keep hers?
She drew in a breath, tried to center herself.
“I’m here to discuss the bookstore initiative,” she said. “I know you’re opening soon — ”
“A week from today,” he said, his eyes gleaming. “We’re all very excited.”
It felt like an unnecessarily mean thing to say, like he was twisting the knife, and she blinked back her distaste.
“I’m sure.” She hesitated. “I guess I’m wondering what sort of initiatives the company is taking to offset damage to indie businesses in the vicinity.”
His mouth turned up at the corners. Was it meant to be a smile? It didn’t feel like one.
He lifted his eyebrows. “Initiatives?”
“To offset the loss of business.” She hurried to explain. “Don’t get me wrong, I understand that Bolton’s is in the business of profit. At the end of the day, we all need money to stay in business. I get that.”
He turned his hands over, raised his palms to the ceiling. “So?”
She drew in a breath. “I’ve been reading up on Bolton’s corporate policy, and it does seem like you have green initiatives to offset your impact to the environment, labor initiatives to ensure your employ
ees are treated fairly…”
“Those were put in place by my predecessor,” he said. “They’re under review.”
“Under review?” She hated herself for repeating him, but she was too surprised by his response to do anything else. She needed time to get her head around what was happening, because she was beginning to have the feeling that the person sitting across from her was no ordinary man.
And not in a good way.
He leaned back in his chair. “As you said, we’re in the business of profit. It is my intention to follow the letter of the law, beyond that…”
“You don’t feel a responsibility to your neighbors?” she asked. “To the community that supports your business?”
His mouth turned down in a sneer. “Customers don’t support our business. They spend their money here because we make it affordable and convenient. It's a mutually beneficial business arrangement. And one of the ways I plan to keep things affordable is to do away with unnecessary policy.”
“But surely you know how strongly this community feels about corporate responsibility.” She hesitated over her next words. She wasn’t a confrontational person. She preferred compromise to conflict. “They might not appreciate a company like yours taking advantage of the small businesses in the area, not to mention the elimination of the other initiatives you mentioned."
He smiled, and for the first time it seemed sincere. “Are you threatening me?” He almost sounded pleased by the prospect.
“I… no.” She sighed. “I’m not threatening you. I suppose I was hoping we could come to some kind of agreement. There’s plenty of business for everyone. 100% of your current book business is based on bestsellers. Of course, that will inevitably expand into other areas with the opening of your full-service section, but surely there are certain genres you’d be willing to steer clear of to benefit indie bookstores like mine. Perhaps I could expand my offerings in those areas, create a niche in some of the less popular sub-genres.”
Rogue Love (Kings of Corruption Book 1) Page 18