Ropes of Lies: A Dirty Liars Novel

by Kathy Noumi

  I knew Sal from Delbarton Prep, our private high school. He was a year ahead of me, but we both rowed, so I met him on the first day of tryouts. What the hell did he want so urgently? I pulled the phone from my breast pocket as I entered through the side door. Kicking off my shoes, I dialed the number Donna had sent in her detailed email.

  “Well, well, well. Look who it is.” Sal’s voice was garish and coarse. If I hadn’t known him, it would cause me to imagine a large mountain man with a full beard, a rifle in one hand, and a beer in the other. In reality, Sal was a lean rich boy, blond and clean-shaven.

  “If it isn’t Sal. How’ve you been?”

  “Good. Yourself? What’s goin’ on? My assistant mentioned you called a few times.”

  “I’m about to close on a development deal with Pryce & Leigh, actually.”

  “And why didn’t you come to me first?” I asked. “You know, it’s funny, we’ve never worked together.”

  “Not really sure why we haven’t. But a friend suggested P & L, and I didn’t think of calling you until yesterday.”

  I grinned into the phone. “Well, let me get in on the bid then.”

  “Exactly why I called.”

  “Great. Send me the info and I’ll work up an offer for you, which I know you’ll not likely refuse.”

  He chuckled. “Perfect. Let’s meet tomorrow around ten?”

  “I’ll set it up,” I assured him. Clearing my throat, I asked, “Who’s pitching the bid over at P & L if you don’t mind me asking?”

  I could practically hear his smile through the other end of the line as he said smoothly, “A pretty little thing. Her name is Eden Black.”

  Fuck!

  Chapter Eight

  Eden

  Two cups of coffee and one sleepless night later, I was barely functioning. After the awkwardness with Jameson, I escaped without anyone noticing and collapsed onto my bed the nanosecond I arrived home. Sadly, my overactive mind had other plans.

  The formatting system in my brain was on the fritz; I’d input data from last night, and out came bupkis. Nothing made sense. One second Jameson was trying to beat me, and the next he wanted to chat? I spent all night struggling to sort out what the heck happened, but instead ended up just ingesting enough caffeine to fuel a large elephant.

  Nothing came close to the high of closing a deal, or the satisfaction that came from breaking new ground on a project. This morning’s meeting with Mr. Thompson, my newest and largest possible project to date, would give me the kick in the rear I desperately needed to stop pouting.

  Arriving at the office ten minutes early, I pushed through the doors and headed straight down the hall to our conference room. Our meeting space had a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows on the far wall that overlooked the Chicago skyline. It gave off a powerful vibe. If a room could possess sexiness, this room would. Someone had already set out fresh bottled water and hot coffee.

  A few moments later, five executives in charcoal suits entered through the double doors. I stood on the other end of the polished wood table while they filed in like a squad of goons.

  “Good morning, Mr. Thompson. Nice to see you again.” I held out my hand to greet the last man through the doors, the tall, blond, and ruggedly handsome CEO of the City Net Group. His suit accentuated his broad shoulders, while the faded scar over his brow was oddly attractive. He had badass written all over him, yet all I could think was, Nail this pitch! Nail this pitch! Nail this pitch! After the debacle at the gala, I wanted nothing more than to close a new deal and have him sign on the dotted line before he had time to think.

  Mr. Thompson thrust his chest out in a clear power stance, one that lacked even a hint of pliability. “Good to see you again, Miss Black.” He shook my hand firmly. “It’s always a pleasure.”

  “Pleasure is all mine.”

  He stared at me for a moment, lingering as if he had considered saying something before choosing not to. I let go of his hand and sidestepped to greet the others, standing tall while I did so to assert my presence. I made sure to commit each man’s name to memory. When we finished the introductions, I walked to the other side of the table.

  “Please, everyone, take a seat. Let’s get this underway, shall we?” I said when I found my chair.

  Mr. Thompson cleared his throat, “Before you begin, we should tell you that, as of yesterday, we’ve received another bid. We came here to compare terms. Our new developer has been generous with their proposed contract.”

  I clenched my jaw. I’d been working on this pitch for weeks now, and yet in the matter of twenty-four measly hours they’d gotten another bid? What the in the hell was going on? And who would want to poach this guy? He’d never mentioned he was shopping around.

  “Are you going to get multiple bids, or just two?”

  Mr. Thompson cleared his throat. “I think a bid from each of the top companies will suffice.”

  Top. He said top. His other bid would be from WSquared. Fuck. Under the table, my fists were so tight I thought my nails would break skin. Thompson proved to be more than I could swallow after dealing with Jameson last night. Deep breath. Smile. Go time.

  Five poker-faced men stared me down. If I didn’t know that powerful men in this business never clowned around, I’d assume all of this to be a great big prank.

  Mr. Thompson intertwined his fingers, and leaned in closer to the table. “Miss Black, is there a problem?”

  I dug my fists into my kneecaps, which were hidden under the table, and slowly breathed through my nose. “Not at all, sir.” I managed a wide grin.

  A crooked smirk pricked the corner of his mouth. “Good. Show me what you’ve got.”

  This crap was horse shit on toast served on a fucking hot plate. Fucking Jameson!

  Inhaling deeply, I said, “We’re proposing a two-hundred-unit development with store fronts on the ground level. It’ll take eighteen months of construction, and we’re positive it will sell out before we even open our doors.”

  I stood, passing around an expense sheet before activating the eighty-inch screen to my left. When it turned on, the sketches and 3-D renderings of the buildings popped up. Modern spaces, complete with sleek eat-in kitchens and beautiful hardwood floors, filled the screen.

  Mr. Thompson raked his fingers through his hair, turned toward his colleagues, then back to me. His voice was firm. “The cost will run upwards of four million, and you’ll need eighteen months for the construction timeline, huh?”

  I nodded. “We can squeeze the budget tighter, but we’ll have to come down on some of the finishes in the kitchens and baths.”

  Thompson leaned back in his chair. “You’ve done an outstanding job on the pitch, Miss Black.”

  I knew no one could beat those numbers. I exhaled, my shoulders relaxing. “Thank you.”

  “But . . .” He paused. “I’m inclined to tell you our other bid delivered the same high-end finishes for less capital up front.”

  My gut roiled. What the fucking hell? My legs were noodles, and I sat before they gave up on me. This had to be a joke. Could I be about to lose a big client only hours after failing to claim the Kaleidoscope? How would my bosses ever take me seriously enough to be the head of development if I couldn’t even manage to close a deal as simple as this one?

  “Let me work the numbers again and see if I can shift some things around for you. The last thing I want is for you to walk away unhappy,” I managed to say.

  Thompson stood, gesturing for his colleagues to stand with him. “We’ll be in touch, Miss Black.”

  I couldn’t breathe. My chest constricted as each gentleman filed out of the room, my dream slipping away with them. Jameson. God damn him!

  “You’re not about to take this one away from me, Winthrop,” I grit out. He wanted to play, did he? Then he’d better put on his big boy pants.

  “Game. On.”

  Chapter Nine

  My head was spinning, and it took everything I had not to scream, yell, and hurl my lapt
op against the far wall of my office. Ever since New York, Jameson had been poaching my clients, and it had to end now. He had another thing coming if he thought I’d let this go. I wanted the City Net deal with Thompson, and I was not about to let all my work be flushed down the toilet.

  I opened the middle drawer of my glaring white desk. As I reached for the stash of chocolate I kept beneath a pile of papers, my fingertips brushed a thick, glossy card. I lifted it out from beneath the junk. The card still had a polished black finish, but the gold script of the hotel name had partially worn off. I cursed myself for keeping the damn thing all these years. Maybe I was a masochist.

  I closed my eyes, sucking in a breath. The key was more worn than the memory of the Miami trip. “It’ll be a great experience,” Mr. Leigh had insisted, dragging me along. But the girl he spoke to no longer existed—she’d disappeared right along with the gold etching.

  Struggling to recall the man Jameson used to be, I let myself drift, remembering how it had all started when my boss and I had stood in the lobby of the Fontainebleau. “We’ve closed the deal, so you can have the rest of the time to yourself, Ms. Black.”

  “Are you sure there isn’t anything else I can do?”

  He shook his head. “You’ve done a great job. Now go enjoy Miami. I’m going sightseeing myself.”

  I smiled. “Thank you. This trip has been a whirlwind, but also an amazing learning experience.”

  Mr. Leigh winked, then strode off in the other direction. I scanned the lobby in an attempt to figure out what to do next, my eyes alighting on the doors of the lounge. They were open, luring me in.

  I took a seat at the bar. A few men drank on the other end of the room while talking in hushed tones, most likely about work. A handsome, sulky stranger sat two stools away. He kept peering over.

  The way his dark irises focused on me, and the subtle appearance of a vee between his brows, had me shuffling my feet. My heels clinked against the metal perch of the barstool, and the brooding man glanced at me again. He was hot, with slicked-back chestnut hair and a crisp white shirt wrinkled to hell. Sinfully fuckable.

  I stared at the leather-bound drink menu trying to convince myself to speak to the mesmerizing spectator. A few minutes and two pep talks later, I scrounged up enough courage to ask, “Why do you look so miserable?”

  “Perceptive.” He ran his thumb over the rim of his glass, watching me.

  I sipped my wine, needing a dose of courage. “Perceptive? Maybe, but I think it’s obvious you’re troubled by something.”

  The man cocked his brow. “My father. He doesn’t think I should run his company.”

  “Oof. That’s rough.”

  He took in my expression, focusing on my eyes while his thumb rounded the tumbler again and again. “It’s expected. He’s not what you’d call a nurturing father figure.”

  That tugged a tiny heartstring in my chest. When you have a parent in your life who can’t make time for you, it hurt no matter how old you got. I would know. “Well, look at the bright side, at least you grew up with a father. Mine left when I was six.”

  The corners of his eyes crinkled as his brow furrowed in a deeper vee than before. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He gawked at me for a few beats before reaching his hand out. “I’m Jameson. What’s your name?”

  “Eden.”

  Jameson waved his hand at the gentleman behind the bar. The bartender held up his finger to signal “One moment,” and then we had a few more drinks. Jameson eased his way closer, taking a seat right next to me as we talked about how we grew up and where we’d gone to school. He told me how after his mother had left his father, he’d been shuttled between New York City and Chicago. “Nowhere felt like home,” he said.

  My phone vibrated in my bag. I glared at the screen. Four hours had gone by. Holy hell!

  I scanned the room. The bar was now buzzing with patrons, but I hadn’t even noticed. Jameson threw his Amex down on the wooden bar. “Drinks are on me.”

  “Thanks, but I’m a big girl. I can pay for my own cocktails.”

  His lips curved into a cute smirk. A tiny tingle fluttered in my gut. Jameson moved his arm in front of me. “I’d like to pay for your drinks all the same.”

  “And if I refuse?” I shot him a playful glare.

  “I’d have to decline your refusal and insist—respectfully, of course.” He lowered his voice. “Although I find your resolve refreshing.”

  “So I’ve been told,” I said, then got to my feet and pulled on the elastic band holding my hair in place, releasing my tight bun and letting a fall of dark hair cascade down my back.

  Jameson crouched down, picking something off the ground. “You dropped this.” A tiny pearl earring rested in his hand.

  I reached for it, pinching it between my fingers by its tiny gold stem. Our hands touched briefly, jolting my heart into hyperspeed.

  “Thank you.” I met his gaze. “Good thing you noticed. These were my mom’s.”

  Jameson dropped his arm. “Then you’re lucky I was here.”

  I laughed. “You’re cheesy.”

  The smile he gave me next had me down for the count. After all, who could reject a front-row ticket to observe a rare flower bloom? Not me. His eyes twinkled. There were no words to describe how sexy he looked.

  “Have dinner with me tomorrow?”

  “I’m here on business with my boss.”

  “It doesn’t have to be early. We can go once you’re done for the day.” His watchful eyes never left mine.

  I bit my bottom lip. The blood in my veins burned hotter than the Sahara Desert in summer. I had no real reason to say no. Despite his dark and dangerous veneer, he seemed kind. Plus, it was only one dinner. What did I have to lose?

  Sucking in a deep breath I exhaled. “Okay.”

  “Tomorrow then? Meet me in the lobby at eight?”

  I nodded, and he brushed a strand of hair away from my face with the softest touch. I briefly considered never showering again.

  I placed my hand over the newly tucked strand. “Tomorrow.”

  “Until then, Miss Black.”

  “The two o’clock staff meeting has been moved to conference room three, and Mr. Pryce would like to meet with you beforehand,” Vince’s voice blasted over the intercom, yanking me back from my daydream.

  I pressed down on the blinking intercom button. “Thank you, Vince,” I said, and tucked the black card back beneath the pile of papers in my desk.

  Not so long ago, Mr. Pryce had offered me my dream job and a huge salary bump as long as I signed City Net and finally worked on a project of my own. Now I wasn’t sure I would even have a job. The meeting Mr. Pryce requested shook me to my core. What in the world would I say? Hey, this guy I know stole City Net to get back at me for a six-year-old vendetta? Anger bubbled up in my belly, quickly rising until it threatened to erupt from the top of my skull. Jameson had messed with me for the last goddamn time.

  Mr. Thompson had never mentioned a secondary bid until the meeting. I rubbed at my forehead and tried to remind myself I happened to be damn good at my job. This would be a minor setback. My middle name was “determination.”

  Game on.

  I grabbed my iPad and headed for Mr. Pryce’s office.

  Gwen, Mr. Pryce’s assistant, gave me a half smile as I approached. She was a curvy redhead with the style of a 1960s office girl. She made me think of Christina Hendricks from Mad Men, except she wasn’t poised enough to be Joan.

  “Hello there, Melanie,” Gwen said.

  Hearing my given name made me cringe—most people called me “Ms. Black” or “Eden,” but some people didn’t seem to grasp things even after constantly being told.

  “Hello, Gwen. Is Mr. Pryce ready for me?”

  Her jaw tightened, turning her smile awkward. “Yes, go on in.”

  I lightly tapped on the wooden trim of the frosted glass door before gripping the knob. “Mr. Pryce?”

  “No. Don’t give me excuses!” he barked w
ith the bite of a Doberman but waved me in when he saw me peeking through the cracked door.

  His corner office overlooked much of the city. The Victorian-style bookcase on the left wall was jam-packed with books on art and architecture, a few arbitrary trinkets, and a vintage pipe on a pedestal.

  Mr. Pryce sat behind his bulky dark mahogany desk, the same desk I sat across the first day I came to work here. It had intricate hand carvings, inlaid gold filigree, lion-paw feet, and looked about two hundred years old. Mr. Pryce gestured for me to take a seat in one of the chairs. He held up a finger, letting me know it would be one more minute. The expression on his face gave nothing away.

  Mr. Pryce kept nodding his head, bobbing it up and down like the person on the other end could see him. Saying it appeared odd wouldn’t cover it, and I wondered who could be on the other end. Abruptly, he barked into the receiver, “No, dammit, goodbye!”

  For a moment, neither of us said anything. An outburst like that was uncharacteristic, and I froze, alarmed. But then Mr. Pryce’s shoulders relaxed, and I knew his anger wasn’t going to transfer over into our little chat.

  “Eden. I needed to talk to you before the staff meeting.”

  I sucked in a deep breath, bracing myself for the worst. “Yes, sir.”

  “The City Net account . . .” He paused, reviewing a sticky note on his desk while seemingly considering what to say next. My heart dropped into my stomach. I’d never been called into his office before for doing something wrong—it was reminiscent of being called into the principal’s office in elementary school. “Do you have a new plan yet?”

  For a split-second I wasn’t sure what he meant. Once I understood, I chimed in quickly, “Working on one, Mr. Pryce.”

  “Good, because I won’t hesitate to make my offer null and void. But I can already see your gears churning, so I have faith you’ll do everything you can to get Thompson back.”

  Mr. Pryce’s confidence in my capabilities gave me a boost, to be sure. Not that I was doubting my skills—growing up with one parent forces you to learn to be your own cheerleader—but things hadn’t been panning out in my favor lately. Still, the problem had never been me, it was Jameson. Privileged kids always have a weakness. My job now? Find out what his was and exploit it.