Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
About the Author
Winner
Takes All
***
Jacqui Moreau
potatoworks press
new york
COPYRIGHT © 2015 BY JACQUI MOREAU
ISBN: 978-1-942218-06-7
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
All Rights Reserved
Published 2015 by Potatoworks Press
Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or my any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without prior written permission of the copyright owner and publisher of this book.
The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrightable materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
CHAPTER ONE
Eva Butler stared at the gray-haired woman behind the mahogany desk and bit back a sigh of frustration. There’s always a gatekeeper, she thought with annoyance. And they’re always as fierce as a lion protecting a cub. Why did these blue-blood scions always have to inspire intense loyalty in the breast of their employees? Just once she’d like to deal with an executive assistant who resented her boss.
This gatekeeper was the familiar sensible type: sensible glasses, sensible hair, sensible shoes, sensible nose for looking down on upstart visitors who didn’t have appointments.
“But I have an appointment,” Eva said, taking out her phone and double-checking. Although she was fairly certain she had the correct date and time, she didn’t think it would hurt her case to appear fallible. “Yes, I set it up for today at one-thirty. Would I have spoken with you, Ms.”—Eva squinted her eyes and tried to read the words on the nameplate on the desk, but the tiny letters rendered it completely useless—“ah, with you?”
“Most likely,” the woman said through pursed, impatient lips, “though that would depend on when the alleged appointment was made.”
“The alleged appoi—” Eva broke off, annoyed with herself for falling into the woman’s trap. “The appointment was made two weeks ago Monday, the twenty-third.” She recalled the date clearly because it had been her birthday. At the time, she’d thought getting a chance to win the Hammond account was the perfect present. Now she wasn’t so sure.
“Monday, August twenty-third.” The woman flipped through the heavily annotated calendar, which she kept centered on her desk, and stopped on the correct page. “Can you recall the precise time?”
The precise time? The request was so ridiculous, Eva had to close her eyes and count to ten quickly. It wouldn’t do to lose her temper. “No, I cannot recall the precise time. It was probably in the morning,” she said, since she’d been given the assignment during the Monday A.M. meeting. It would follow logically that she’d made the appointment as soon as she’d returned to her desk.
One eyebrow raised, and Eva felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. The vagueness of her answer would count against her. “Probably?” the horrid woman said.
“Did I say probably?” she asked, backtracking quickly. “I meant definitely. The appointment was definitely made before noon.”
But this was too little too late. The woman closed the large leather-bound calendar, unconvinced. “I can’t say if I made the appointment if you can’t be more specific than that. But either way, the appointment isn’t in the book.”
Realizing there was no way to get around this essential truth—no matter what the circumstances or the muddled miscommunication that caused it, her appointment was not in the book—Eva settled on another tactic. She smiled her pep-squad smile she dragged out for meetings with her boss and said, “All right then, let’s move on. How do I get in to see Mr. Hammond?”
“Have your assistant call me to set up a time,” she said.
Eva, who didn’t have anything as luxurious as an assistant, wasn’t in the mood for Appointment Making 101, but she held on to her temper. She’d suspected something was up when she’d gotten the prestigious assignment. Old and respected auction houses didn’t rely on people like Eva Butler to court multimillion-dollar deals. Davidge’s didn’t send a bottom-runger to talk to Elton John nor did Brooks’s send a lowly associate to court the Prince of Monaco’s heirs. It simply wasn’t the way business was conducted at the highest level.
And, she thought, as she looked at the dragon guarding the door to the inner sanctum, with good reason. Getting past the gatekeeper required the patience of a seasoned professional. That didn’t necessarily describe Eva, but she was smart enough to pretend it did. She didn’t understand why she’d been given the extraordinary opportunity to win the Hammond account—a coveted, priceless collection of Impressionist masterpieces. Yes, she had been promoted two months ago from junior associate to senior associate, but nobody lower than manager had ever been sent out to court a sale. Furthermore, her specialty was eighteenth-century furniture, and yet here she was making a bid for turn-of-the-twentieth-century paintings. As unexpected as the assignment seemed, she knew it could mean only one thing: Her employers were impressed with her skill and savvy and thought she could handle the challenge.
She would not disappoint them—or herself. Perhaps Impressionism wasn’t her specialty, but she’d spent her junior year in college studying Monet and Degas from a Parisian garret and retained enough information, after a quick refresher, to speak confidently on the subject.
All she had to do was get past the gatekeeper first.
“Why don’t I just make that appointment now,” Eva said, “since I’m already here.”
The woman’s brow crinkled. “I’d prefer we did this by phone.”
Eva flashed her pep-squad smile again, even though it had been completely ineffectual the first time around, and wondered how the woman would react if she called her line while standing directly in front of her.
No, she thought, that would be too provoking.
“I’d prefer to watch you write the appointment in the book,” she said calmly.
With a moue of annoyance, the woman flipped through the calendar. “The opening I have is the sixteenth of next month.”
Eva blinked several times. This was obviously an act of reprisal. “October sixteenth is five weeks away.”
The woman smiled. If she had been anything other than a cool and dignified executive assistant, Eva would have called the look smug. “Perhaps you would like to phone later and try again. Dates open up all the time.”
Eva narrowed her eyes. “I’ll take it.”
As the gatekeeper reached for a silver Cross pencil that was lying on her desk, Eva shook her head. “Uh-uh.” She dug into her bag and extracted a thin felt-tipped black pen. “In ink.”
The woman huffed and stared at the p
en for several long moments as if it were some sort of evil wand she didn’t want to touch.
The man who had been discreetly listening to this exchange from the doorway decided now was the perfect time to interrupt. “What seems to be the problem, Mrs. Hemingway?”
“Nothing, sir,” said Mrs. Hemingway as she tugged the pen out of Eva’s grip.
“Nothing,” muttered Eva under her breath as she entered the new date, “just the abuse and torture of an innocent woman.” When she was done updating her calendar, she looked again at the nameplate and shook her head. Even knowing what the tiny letters spelled, she still couldn’t make out anything sensible.
“Perhaps there’s something I can help you with?” the man offered.
His voice was deep and rich, and Eva felt a small shiver travel down her spine. She usually wasn’t susceptible to sexy-sounding men and, impatient with herself for indulging a completely inappropriate reaction, she turned to assure the helpful interloper politely but firmly that she had everything under control.
But then her eyes met his eyes—deep blue velvet eyes that looked like sapphires glinting in the sun—and she found herself breathless. Breathless and oddly incapable of coherent thought.
“No, sir, I have everything under control,” said the prosaic Mrs. Hemingway to Eva’s annoyance.
He wasn’t talking to you, she wanted to say, but Eva wasn’t completely lost to reason—yet.
The realization was sobering, and Eva shook herself loose from the strange fascination he held for her. So he was devastatingly handsome, with his strong cheekbones, a carved-from-marble jaw, thick black hair and those full red lips. She had seen handsome men before. Of course, none had ever struck her dumb with his appearance, but she recognized and accepted the experience for the anomaly it was.
And moved on.
“Everything is under control,” Eva said, her voice unusually husky. She coughed once to clear it and continued. “But thank you for your offer.”
He nodded and stuck his hands into his pockets. He was wearing a dark-blue pinstripe suit that was well made and expensive. After five years at Wyndham’s, Eva could tell well made and expensive at a glance. He gestured with his head to the door that led to the inner sanctum of Coleman Hammond Jr. “Got an appointment?”
“No,” said Mrs. Hemingway.
“Yes,” said Eva at the exact same time.
His lips curved and he raised an eyebrow.
“I had an appointment,” Eva explained, with a dogged look in Mrs. Hemingway’s direction, “but it seems to have been misplaced.”
“So you have time to get lunch?” he asked Eva.
Eva was putting her phone back in the front pocket of her shoulder bag. “I had a salad an hour—Oh,” she said, when the nature of the invitation penetrated her thick skull. Eva felt herself blush and wondered how she should handle this. The offer itself was very tempting, but there was no way she could take him up on it. It wasn’t just that she had to get back to the office, which she did, of course. It was also basic business sense: Aspiring young executives did not get picked up by handsome men in the offices of potential clients, especially not under the watchful gaze of a dragon-gatekeeper. She already doesn’t approve of me.
Eva, deciding that the only sensible response was refusal, politely declined his offer. “I have to get back to the office,” she said, tempering her rejection with an explanation.
“But they’re not expecting you,” he said, with a charming smile.
Eva felt herself falling under his spell again. “They’re not?”
“You’re supposed to be in a meeting with Cole Hammond. I’ve been in one or two of those myself, and they tend to run long.” He paused and focused his intense blue eyes on her. “Very long. I’m sure your boss isn’t expecting you back until at least three. That gives us plenty of time for lunch.”
Mrs. Hemingway coughed. “Sir, I don’t think you should—”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine,” he said, tossing a wink at Eva. “What do you say?”
“I’m not sure—”
“I’ve got some pull with Cole. Why don’t you discuss your business with me, and if I think your cause is worthwhile, I’ll help you out.”
This offer gave Eva pause. If he really had any sort of pull with Hammond, then she couldn’t afford to turn him down, not with her next appointment scheduled for five weeks away. “All right,” she said cautiously, not at all convinced she was doing the right thing. His interest in her obviously had nothing to do with business, and she feared she was being taken in by an expert. Still, it was a risk she had to run. “But I’m putting the tab on my expense account.”
He smiled, not at all put off by her declaration. “I have no objections to a beautiful woman taking me out to lunch,” he said. Then he directed her to the elevator, where he pressed a button.
Eva, knowing it was best to make the ground rules clear from the very beginning, reiterated the professional nature of their lunch. “This is a business meeting.”
His eyes gleamed innocently. “Of course,” he agreed but with little conviction.
“Really, it is.”
He smiled mysteriously as the elevator doors opened and he followed her into the waiting car. “Good-bye, Mrs. Hemingway,” he called with a wave.
Mrs. Hemingway stared at Eva with stern disapproval until the doors swept shut. “She doesn’t like me,” Eva said, as they rode down the twenty-seven floors.
He shrugged. “She’s just protective. She was Coleman Hammond Sr.’s executive secretary before he died. She’s been with the family for almost thirty years.”
Although this information was news to Eva, it didn’t surprise her. “I figured it was something like that,” she said, as the elevator came to a stop on the first floor and the doors opened. “The gatekeeper is always an old valued family retainer.”
“The gatekeeper?” he asked as he followed her out of the elevator.
“You know, the intimidating woman who controls access to the inner sanctum,” she explained, stepping onto the sidewalk. It was a lovely afternoon in Manhattan, with the late-summer sun still brilliant and warm.
Once they were on the street, Eva confronted the tricky problem of where she should take him for lunch. There were many excellent restaurants in the Rockefeller Center area, and after reviewing several silently, she decided on the Sea Grill. Her business suit was certainly respectable enough, and nobody could take issue with her companion’s appearance. She turned right at the corner of Fifth and Fifty-first, wondering how concerned she should be about getting a table at the height of the lunch rush. They didn’t have a reservation, which was a huge strike against them. Perhaps they would get lucky.
“I don’t know,” he said, as he walked next to her, carefully avoiding street vendors selling their wares and other pedestrians. “You didn’t seem all that intimidated.”
Eva smiled wryly. “I didn’t?”
“Stronger men and women than you have crumbled when Mrs. Hemingway starts tossing around the word alleged in that accusatory tone of voice. I myself have slithered away a time or two.”
Even though she was in the middle of a busy sidewalk, Eva stopped. “Just how much of the conversation did you hear?”
“Some of it.”
Eva looked at him through eyes that were narrow slits.
“All of it,” he admitted. “I was standing in the doorway.”
Digesting this information, Eva tried to recall if she had said anything particularly inappropriate to Mrs. Hemingway. Nothing came to mind. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you that it’s rude to listen in doorways?”
“Actually, no. But I don’t make a habit of it.”
“Well, it is rude,” she said, wondering why she was so disconcerted by the thought of his watching her without her knowledge. “Please make a note of it.”
“Let me make it up to you then. Have dinner with me at my apartment. You can eavesdrop on conversations between me and my housekeeper
,” he said, laying a hand on her arm and smiling endearingly.
Eva stared at him for a long moment, completely unaware of the pedestrians jostling by. Have dinner with him at his house? The man must be insane. They’d met not ten minutes before and already he was trying to get her back to his place. And the frightening thing was, she was interested enough to consider it. She was very interested indeed. The man before her had a good sense of humor and keen, intelligent eyes—two traits that were hard to come by in New York City. And this was leaving his other, more obvious attractions out of the equation.
She gently freed her arm and started walking again in the direction of the restaurant, deciding to ignore his invitation. They were going to have a respectable business lunch whether he liked it or not. “I thought we’d go to the Sea Grill,” she said, her tone cool and professional.
“I’d rather not.”
Eva was disappointed but not completely surprised. This is it in a nutshell, she thought, glad that she’d had the good sense to turn him down. Handsome men in impeccably tailored suits either got what they wanted from the world or they lost interest. “Thank you very much for your time.” She held out her hand. “It was very nice meeting your, Mr.…” For the second time that afternoon she was at a loss for a name. Great, she thought, it’s becoming a habit.
“Reed,” he supplied, with an odd light in his eye. “And you’re not getting rid of me that easily. It’s not the company I object to; it’s the restaurant. I thought we could go somewhere a little more relaxed. There’s a wonderful French bistro on Fifty-fifth that I love. Why don’t we go there?” He saw her hesitation. “It’s still your treat. A business lunch, I believe you called it.”
Eva wasn’t used to having her preconceptions shot down, and she enjoyed the novelty. He had more depth than she gave him credit for, and suddenly she was looking very forward to the next hour or so. “All right, Mr. Reed, French it is.”
He gave a relieved smile. “It’s just Reed.”
Winner Takes All Page 1