5
“Clinical tests need to be pushed back.” Saanvi removed her glasses and polished the lenses, her movements small and precise. “We need more time. We’re not where we hoped we’d be.”
If Weston had a penny for every time a research team asked for more time, he’d be able to end world hunger. “The investors need specifics, not generalities. Give me something to keep them on the hook.”
Saanvi slid on her glasses. “Tell them the inhibitors are cleaving the APP proteins into fragments, limiting beta-amyloid deposits, as hoped, but results are inconsistent. We still believe in the treatment’s viability.”
With the millions they’d sunk into the research, she better believe in it. Not that Aldrich Pharma was alone in their unending quest to cure Alzheimer’s. Every pharmaceutical company in the world had teams trying and failing to develop treatments. Except Biotrell, who was trying more than failing. Karim Farzad’s company was closer to success than any of them. If their merger went through—no, when their merger went through—the life-altering breakthrough would belong to Aldrich Pharma. Hence tonight’s date with Rosanna.
Weston left Saanvi to her work and rode the elevator to his office floor. He should be thinking about the board meeting he had to arrange, the words he’d need to finesse. Instead his mind was stuck on tonight’s impending date and all he stood to lose.
He left the elevator as Duncan emerged from the conference room.
Duncan nodded. “How’d the R&D chat go?”
“Frustrating as always.”
“You need me to help with damage control?” Duncan matched Weston’s brisk stride.
“We might have to arrange a last-minute meeting in Chicago. Sweet talk those investors into loosening their wallets.”
“Say the word, and it’s done.” Duncan slowed as they neared Weston’s office. “I haven’t heard from Annie since our nice chat. What’s she been up to?”
Weston stopped dead, his chest rising and falling too fast. He knew some of what Annie had been up to the past three weeks. She’d been at all four of his last DJ shows, by herself, dancing in front of him, trying to catch his attention. An effort she didn’t need to exert. When she rocked her hips and tossed her long blond hair, he couldn’t look anywhere else. He just didn’t know why she was so intent on Falcon.
The anniversary of Leo’s death wasn’t far. Hitting clubs and partying could be her way to forget. She wasn’t a hardcore drinker, but dancing and music were powerful distractions. None of it explained her infuriating attempts to corner him after the shows.
Her persistence was troubling. Hearing her name on Duncan’s lips was doubly distressing. “I thought I told you she was off-limits.”
Duncan held up his hands in mock surrender. “I was asking about her, not asking for her hand in marriage. And, if I remember, she was the one who answered my call.”
Because Annie lived to exasperate Weston. Even now, her antics were infecting his office. They were standing near Weston’s secretary. Marjory hadn’t glanced up from her work, but he’d guess she was eavesdropping on their conversation. She was gossip central at Aldrich Pharma.
Weston lowered his voice. “If you value your pretty face, you’ll forget Annie’s name.”
Duncan laughed. “It’s sweet how protective you are of her. Unless…” He made a show of leaning back and studying Weston’s face. “Is there something going on with—”
“No,” Weston barked out the word, his voice ringing off the marble floors and glass-walled offices. So much for discretion. A few employees stopped mid-stride. His secretary did glance up, Marjory’s eyebrows disappearing beneath her bangs.
Duncan looked amused as hell. “I’m glad you still spend time with her. If you won’t go for drinks with me, I hope you at least talk with Annie. The merger stress must be taking its toll.”
Everything was taking its toll these days. He had another gig this weekend and couldn’t handle seeing Annie again. Last weekend, the urge to dance with her had blindsided him. Along with a kick of attraction. Impulses he couldn’t indulge. Annie was off-limits, and she could never know he was Falcon. Weston also had another woman to wine and dine.
He had to find a way to keep Annie busy, away from his shows.
Away from Duncan.
“Like I said,” he told his executive assistant, “I suggest you forget Annie’s name.”
“As you wish.” Duncan winked, purposely antagonizing him.
Weston glared at the man’s back as he walked away.
Marjory poked her head around her computer. “You make it too easy.”
Weston slid his scowl to his secretary. “I make what too easy?”
His disgruntled tone was far from pleasant, but she stared back, placid as ever. “You’ll know when you know,” was all she said.
Infuriatingly typical. The fifty-three-year-old woman had answered to Victor S. Aldrich before working for Weston. She had been present for most of their personal and professional highs and lows, often stepping in when others turned a blind eye. Marjory had been the one to insist Weston seek counseling following Leo and his mother’s deaths. The feisty woman had faced his father and said, “He goes or I quit.”
It took more than one hard look to fluster Marjory Edelstein, and Weston hated how she always seemed to know something he didn’t. “Shouldn’t you be working right now?”
She held his gaze while typing. “I never stopped.”
Infuriatingly typical.
Weston tried to forget Duncan’s impish smirk and Marjory’s cryptic comment as he closed his office door and exhaled.
Annie was a big girl. She’d always been able to handle herself and would never date a guy like Duncan. The bigger issue was her obsession with his Falcon alter ego. He couldn’t avoid her during a set, and giving her the slip afterward was getting tricky. That left ensuring she never showed up, something he’d deal with before his next gig. Tonight was all about winning over Karim Farzad’s daughter, hopefully an easier task than avoiding his late best friend’s little sister.
As it turned out, dating Rosanna was as tedious as avoiding Annie. Weston cleared his throat—a feeble attempt to draw Rosanna’s attention away from the phone glued to her hand. “Our waiter wants to know if you’d like dessert or coffee.”
She peeled her eyes off her device, casting a derisive glance at their patient waiter and her impatient date. “Coffee. Black.” She returned to texting or tweeting or whatever it was self-obsessed women did.
She’d paid more attention to her phone than Weston all night, blatantly ignoring him at times. She hadn’t smiled once. Since she’d agreed to this setup, her rudeness made no sense.
“An espresso for me, thank you,” he told the waiter kindly.
The man gave Weston a pitying look as he left, and Weston’s temper flared. “I know tonight’s date wasn’t our idea, but you could at least make an effort. Put your phone down for half a second.”
Rosanna’s dark eyes shot up, her hands still clutching her precious device. “Talk to me once you’ve lived under my father’s thumb for a while. Until then, I suggest you keep your thoughts to yourself.”
An absolute treasure, this one. “And you think my father’s all hearts and rainbows? You think you’re the only person whose life isn’t perfect?” If she’d walked a day in Annie’s shoes growing up, she’d be shaking in a corner.
Rosanna rolled her eyes. “What I’m saying is I’m my own person. I like my alcohol hard, my men dangerous, and my parties loud. Monogamy isn’t my game plan, and neither is dating a trust-fund boy who’s sucking up to my father.”
“So why’d you agree to this date?”
Her narrow shoulders sagged slightly, her gaze flitting as though people might listen in. Not a stretch. Rosanna was beautiful and notorious. He hadn’t realized how in-the-news she was until he’d googled her. Her pictures were splashed on tabloids and gossip blogs. Tonight, the second she’d walked into the restaurant, people had pointed and whisp
ered. It could be her dark hair flowing enticingly around her shoulders, the deep-V plunging down the front and back of her pink mini-dress. With what he’d researched, odds were these gawkers were after juicy gossip.
“I owe my father money for an…incident,” she said. “But I’m thinking I’d rather be in debt than do this.” She gestured vaguely between them.
Her open distaste for him wasn’t subtle, but parental blackmail was something concrete he could handle. “How much do you owe him?”
She leaned into her chair and re-crossed her legs, her phone momentarily forgotten. “One hundred million dollars,” she said smugly. Like she was proud of the astronomical amount, no hint of joking on her face.
Weston tried not to cough up his sip of wine. “What the hell did you do?”
“I threw a party on his yacht, which is now at the bottom of the Atlantic.”
“You sank his yacht?” She was more off the rails than he’d thought.
She shrugged. “It was an epic party.”
Weston looked at this unapologetic woman, who kind of hated him and didn’t give a damn about consequences, and he laughed. Under his breath at first, then harder, covering his face with his hand as he shook. The only person who made him laugh like this was Annie when she danced around her chaotic apartment singing into her hair brush, trying to loosen him up.
This was a different kind of laughter—defeated, tired.
By the time he recovered, Rosanna had her elbows on the white tablecloth, her lips quirked into a half-smile. Her phone was face-down on the table. “I guess you won’t be offering to pay my debt.”
He scrubbed his hand over his mouth as their waiter returned with their coffees. Paying off that monstrous screw-up was a hard no, and nothing about Rosanna would be easy. But she was in a pickle, as was he.
“Why haven’t I read about the incident?” Weston asked.
She traced the lip of her mug. “No one was hurt, and my father called in some favors. Then he called you.”
“Actually, he didn’t call me. He called my father. It seems we’re both pawns in their game.” It was Weston’s game as much as his father’s, but the softening of Rosanna’s mouth meant he’d said the right thing. “Can I make a suggestion?”
She blew on her coffee, took a sip, then licked her lips. “Depends on the suggestion.”
“How much do you know about your father’s business plans?”
“I know he wants to retire in the next few years and has a tentative merger set with your company.”
“That he does, and everything was going full-steam ahead, until you, apparently, sank his yacht.” He held up a hand as Rosanna shot him a scathing look. “Problem is your father’s entertaining another offer. I’m not sure if you’ve heard of DLP?”
“Davis-Lane Pharmaceuticals.” She watched him intently now, leaning slightly forward, a spark in her eyes. Another tidbit he’d learned while googling Rosanna Farzad: she’d built her cosmetics company from the ground up. With her father’s money likely, but she helmed the growing business—avant-garde makeup geared toward bold men and women. Her accolades proved Rosanna was as shrewd as her father, her wild ways notwithstanding.
“You may not want to date me,” Weston said, “but I can assure you Aldrich Pharma is a business built on integrity. If we make promises, we keep them, which includes keeping Biotrell’s employees on our payroll. DLP has offered the same, but I’ve seen them break agreements. They also have a reputation for underhanded dealings.”
“That’s all well and good, but I have no intention of settling down and living behind a white picket fence for a business deal.”
“What if we make our own deal?”
She straightened on her seat and gave her hair a flirty flip. “I’m listening.”
“We pretend to date. Make sure we’re seen together enough to make it believable. Your wild parties would be on hold, and there could be no social media stunts, but you could still date your dangerous men, as long as you keep it quiet. After the merger’s signed and your father’s over your yacht stunt, we call it quits publicly.”
She tapped her fingers on the table. “What if marriage to a steady guy is the only way to appease my father?”
“Marriage is off the table.” A line drawn in permanent ink. “It’s up to you to sell him on your changed ways. Convince the man you’re happier and won’t cause him more grief.”
“And if my father signs with DLP?”
“Then we part ways having done what we could.”
She scanned the room, brazenly making eye-contact with onlookers, who glanced away quickly. Her attention finally dragged back to him. “You seriously won’t care if I date other guys behind your back?”
“It won’t be behind my back if I know about it. And I’m free to do the same.”
Another flash of Annie dancing caught him off-guard. It had been voyeuristic, observing her from a distance while in disguise. Her moves, the music, the secrecy—it had awakened something in him. Uncomfortable thoughts he wished hadn’t surfaced, not when his track record with women was painful. There was also the small fact that he’d lied to her about how Leo had died.
Rosanna smiled genuinely for the first time all night, her natural beauty impossible to deny, when she wasn’t obsessing over her phone. “Then, Mr. Aldrich, I think we have ourselves a deal.”
He breathed easier, one step closer to finalizing this merger. Next on his list was keeping Annie away from his DJ gigs.
No matter his late nights, his daytime focus had been fine before she’d started showing up at clubs, and quitting the DJ scene wasn’t an option for him. Not yet, at least. Since that cabbie had asked him about the rush of wearing a mask, he’d been thinking more about using his Falcon status to provoke change. But he’d need time to figure it out, and Annie had recently borrowed money.
Significantly more than needed for covering rent in Queens.
She was using the rest for something else. He wasn’t sure to what end, and he hadn’t questioned her about it. The obstinately independent Annie asking for help was a small miracle. It also meant she owed him a favor. He sipped his espresso as an idea bloomed. Not a long-term solution, but it could buy him time. Keep her away from his next gig at least. The more he spun the thought, the more ridiculous the idea seemed, but Annie was all about ridiculous and only so many things would occupy her late at night.
6
Teaching piano wasn’t all roses. It was more like half-dead tulips struggling to live while sucking water from the bottom of a crusty vase. Granted, Annie’s one and only client was a tone-deaf eighty-two-year-old determined to cross piano off her bucket list, not a child prodigy, but it kind of hurt her ears.
“That was lovely, Joyce,” she fibbed with gusto. One tone-deaf client was still a client, and Annie was nowhere near ready for an experienced student. “You’ll be playing Beethoven by next week.”
Joyce patted Annie’s thigh. “You don’t get paid extra for lying, dear.”
“Okay, not Beethoven. But your sitting position’s much better. We’ll work on fingering next week.” Joyce raised a penciled-in eyebrow, and Annie’s cheeks flamed. “I mean finger work. Hand positions. Not fingering, fingering. We’ll work on positioning your fingers. On the keys. On the piano.”
Joyce cackled, and Annie dropped her head forward. She’d just told her client they’d work on fingering. Thank god it had been a senior with a sense of humor, not a snarky teen.
Joyce left with a promise to return next week, but Annie’s embarrassment lingered. Her dry spell must be affecting her brain, or maybe it was her lusty dreams as of late, all of them centered around a certain masked DJ.
The more out-of-reach Falcon felt, the more determined Annie had become. She was desperate to talk with him, learn from him, but she hadn’t expected to develop a growing crush on the mysterious man. Some nights she’d swear he was watching her as she danced, his music sliding over her damp skin, dominating her body. She’d wonder if he
was feeling this strange connection, too. Then he’d point at another guy or girl, raise the beats, and she’d feel foolish.
Of course he hadn’t noticed her. She was fixated.
For the first time in her adult life, she had a goal.
As annoying as Wes’s Squirrel nickname was, he wasn’t completely off the mark. She often got bored and switched tracks. Planning and thinking ahead weren’t her fortes, but this impulse felt different, purposeful. A vision of herself on stage, blasting music, her vibrations shaking the floor. She wouldn’t let Falcon’s elusiveness, or her hefty crush on him, throw her off. She’d even debated telling Pegasus about her plans, asking her online friend to help pin down the mysterious DJ, but that would mean breaking their fourth wall. She’d lose the easy anonymity their friendship provided.
One way or another, she’d do this on her own. She’d be Falcon’s apprentice. He just didn’t know it yet. She might even corner him at tonight’s show.
With a quick glance at the clock, she knotted her long hair on her head and chose a patchwork purse from her collection. Wallet, phone, and sunglasses shoved inside, she hurried for the door. As pumped as she was to see Falcon play tonight, Thursdays in general had become her favorite day of the week. No waitressing to exhaust her. She practiced piano all morning, taught her one client, then headed to her DJ lesson, thanks to the Bank of Weston Aldrich.
His cash donation had paid for eight sessions. This would be session three, but it had only taken one minute with her hands on the equipment and Leo in the back of her mind to know this was what she was meant to do.
Her cell phone rang as she closed the door. At the sight of Wes’s name, she almost didn’t answer. He hadn’t needled her about the sum of money she’d borrowed. Large to her, a drop in an ocean-sized bucket to him. Still, he’d been quick to help her out, and she felt guilty for lying about the circumstances.
The Beat Match Page 5