Promise (Venture Capitalist Book 2)

by Ainsley St Claire

  I love a woman who isn’t shy about asking questions. “Emerson chose so many of you ladies that I think Dillon asked everyone he knew, and after they all said no, then he asked me.”

  She laughs, the most beautiful sound I think I’ve ever heard, and says, “I somehow doubt that.”

  “CeCe and Emerson were roommates at Stanford, and Michael, Emerson’s brother, and I were both attending Cal. They introduced us and the four of us were tight. Over the years, I think she thought of me as her fifth brother. What about you?”

  “I work with both Dillon and Emerson.”

  “SHN has over seventy-five employees. Is everyone in the wedding?”

  She blushes a brilliant shade of red, and my heart beats even faster. “No. Just the partners.”

  “That’s right, CeCe did say you were a partner.”

  “No, actually. She only told you I was in the wedding party.”

  “Ouch! You caught me.” She smiles, her eyes twinkling. “I asked Dillon about you. I made such an idiot of myself when CeCe introduced us, and I needed to find out more about you.”

  She appears surprised and asks, “What else did you learn?”

  “That you’re smart and I’m not good enough for you.”

  She stands straight, seeming ready to pounce. “He said that?”

  “Not in those words. He’s very protective of you.” Attempting to change the subject, I ask, “Other than work, what else do you do?”

  “Other than work? That’s a thing? We’ve taken twenty-three companies public in the last year and sold almost forty others. I don’t have a lot of time beyond work right now. What about you?”

  “I do some volunteer work, and I run the company my parents started.”

  Most will steer the conversation to my parents' company. The interested people ask me about my volunteer work. I want to jump up and down when she asks, “What kind of volunteer work?”

  My shoulders relax and I smile. “I do a lot with homeless shelters for at-risk teens.”

  “You’re kidding. I know the Catholic Charities Shelter, but I haven’t been involved with them in over a decade. Father O’Connor ran it then. Is he still involved?”

  I’m stunned. “Yes, Father O'Connor still runs the shelter. You really did volunteer there. I’m impressed.”

  “Well, not really. But he was a nice guy. Really had a great way of reaching out to kids and helping keep them out of prostitution and drugs.”

  “If you ever want to come with me, I hope you’ll call.”

  We spend the next forty-five minutes talking about various shelters around San Francisco and getting to know one another. I’m floored when she tells me she likes to play tourist and do the tours around the Bay Area. “I know it’s a bit kitschy, but it’s fun and often educational.”

  As the crowd dissipates, Cameron walks up and talks to us for a moment, then says to Sara, “Are you ready?”

  She nods and turns to me. “It was amazing talking to you. I think we’re paired in the wedding party, so you’ll be stuck with me a lot.”

  I want to jump up and down as if I’ve scored a touchdown. “I look forward to it. Hope to see you soon, and let me know if you want to go with me to Catholic Charities Shelter.”

  “I will.” And she walks away with a small wave and a glorious smile. I can’t take my eyes off her, watching as all the SHN partners retire to my dad’s office.

  Normally I’d take this as my excuse to leave, but instead I talk to my sister and her friends, plus a few others, stalling so I can find out what’s going on. I want to see Sara one last time. An hour later they finally exit the office, my dad shaking hands with Mason. Seems like they’ve made some kind of deal.

  Then I see her. I catch Sara’s eye, and we smile at one another. It’s enough to keep me going for another week.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Sara

  Charles pours the six of us a glass of his favorite cognac, and we all sit around the fire in his home office.

  Mason starts the conversation. “Charles, when we started SHN, we knew we would get to the point where we would need someone to, as Emerson says, ‘help us see the forest for the trees.’ We need someone with your expertise to help us grow to the next level. We were wondering if you would be interested in being an advisor to us. We’re having some issues and would like your experience and knowledge to help guide us through our challenges.”

  Emerson adds, “It’s a paid position, Mr. Arnault.”

  Charles chuckles. “I've shared with Dillon how impressed I’ve been with SHN and the direction of your company. You all seem to have a unique perspective that has served you quite well. I think if you were to allow me to also be an investor, I’d consider being an advisor to you under one condition.”

  We’re all celebrating, but no one seems to want to ask him his terms for fear of the answer, so I take the plunge. “Mr. Arnault, what is your condition?”

  There is a palpable silence before he replies. “Well, maybe two conditions. First, you need to call me Charles and second, we have dinner here at our house every Sunday night for the next few months. Granted, there will be times when some of you won’t be able to make it, but I think meeting regularly to discuss what’s going on and the challenges you’re facing would be a great idea, and we wouldn’t be overheard by someone.”

  Dillon harrumphs. “That’s it?” He gazes around the group as we all nod, then says, “That works for us.”

  “Okay then. I understand you have some immediate concerns, so tell me what’s going on,” Charles implores.

  Mason begins by revealing our concerns about the mole and how we’ve countered it. Cameron shares a client revealed that we were struggling with Dillon’s leave of absence. And the client gave us back a copy of our internal research that had been given to him as proof of our struggles.

  Charles sits back and asks pointed questions but mostly listens. “So, you think Perkins Klein has someone in your organization?”

  Emerson quietly says, “We believe so, yes.”

  Nodding, he turns to Cameron. “How are you tracking your digital footprints?”

  This sets off a conversation that’s heavily technology-driven and right over my head. But from what I can gather, Cameron is going to set up a program that will track and report what people are doing on their computers, and next week we’ll see what he finds. Emerson will bring her laptop with access to our human resources information system, and we’ll be able to cross-check a few things.

  For our meeting next week, Charles will get in touch with an investigator who specializes in business espionage to talk to us after dinner. He also asks Dillon to bring the most recent list of potential investments for discussion.

  Mason then tells him about our plan to feed Perkins Klein our duds.

  “That’s a good idea.” He holds up his glass and, staring at the amber liquid, adds, “I have a few friends I might be able to use to lure them in. Let me think about it this week.”

  We all casually exit the meeting, noting a few stragglers still at the party. Cameron, Dillon and I move over to the food table to snack a little bit and process what happened.

  “I’m excited that he agreed to advise us,” Cameron shares.

  “I know,” Dillon replies. “Without any knowledge, he jumped right in and had solutions and even some ideas. This is going to be the right thing for us to grow to the next level.”

  Finishing the carrot I’ve popped in my mouth, I add, “I’m stunned at how fast this is going. Maybe with Charles’s help, we’ll ferret out our mole fairly quickly.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Sara

  As usual, I’m the first to arrive at the office. I don’t live far, and honestly I don’t have much of a life. I turn all the lights on and enjoy the quiet. At this time of the morning it’s bright, and you can see across the entire office. The partners all have glass offices and the desks in the middle of the open warehouse space all have low cubicles.

  As I settle
into my office and mentally prepare for my day, I see I have a message from a private investigator I hired last year to help find my biological mother. I’d like to meet her. I have so many questions. It has nothing to do with my foster parents, Jim and Carol, who have been amazing and my rock. I’m just hoping my biological mother knows who my father is, and I want to look into the eyes of someone who shares my genetic material.

  I need to attend the partners meeting, but I want to know now. Quickly I call him. “Hi, Phil. Any news?”

  “Well, I’ve located her. Her parents have quite a bit of money, and they seem to be hiding her. I was able to determine that after she left you, she went home for a short time and finished high school, and then they sent her on a gap year trip to Europe, but I don’t have anything beyond that. No passport hits, and no hits on her social security number. She pays taxes on a trust, but as far as I’m able to find out, she’s not using any of the money, but that doesn’t tell us anything. Then something happened, and we found her through her lawyer. She’s up in the Seattle area, married with a few kids.”

  Stunned to think that I may have a few half-siblings, I ask, “Have you seen her?”

  “I haven’t talked to her, but I’ve made a visual identification. You look a lot like her. She uses Catherine instead of Cathy, which is understandable, and seems to be using a new social security number.”

  “That seems odd. How did she get that?”

  “We can’t be sure, but we know it’s in her name. I’ll e-mail you her contact information, and you can figure out how you want to move forward.”

  “Thanks, Phil.”

  The e-mail pops up along with a photo of her. Her name is Catherine Ellington, and she does look like me. In the picture, she’s wearing black pants and a red sweater, her blonde hair is piled high in a chignon and she has a very serious façade. Now that I know where she is, I want to reach out to her. I want so much to show up unannounced, but I need to ask her if she’ll see me. I don’t want to think about why, after keeping me for three years, she suddenly left me and rejected me. I have people who love and cherish me, but I want to get to know my biological mother and, if I’m lucky, my biological father.

  The one-hour meeting feels like it takes over four hours. I’m anxious to get out and when we finally break, I walk immediately back to my office, close the glass door and sit down to write her the note I’ve mentally composed over the years.

  I take out a piece of my personal stationery from my desk, a simple embossed card with my initials.

  Dear Catherine,

  My name is Sara Elizabeth White. When I was three years old, I was left with Father Tom at St. Agnes Catholic Church in San Francisco, California. I believe you may be my mother. I’m not seeking money. I’m an attorney and partner in a venture capital firm in San Francisco. I’d like to meet you and ask a few questions about you and my biological father. I’d be happy to come to you in Seattle. I know this is a lot, but I’d love to thank you for making the ultimate sacrifice. You can reach me at swhite@shn.com, or you may call me at 415-555-1212.

  Sara

  I walk directly to the post office and stand at the mailbox, nervous about her response. Opening the lid to drop my letter in, I close it again, over and over, unable to bring myself to let it go. I’ve thought about how reaching out to her may very well open the door to a relationship with my biological mother. What if she doesn’t want me? What will I do? Then I think, what if she wants to meet me? I’ve always had the what-ifs, but now I’ll know, and somehow that’s scarier than not knowing.

  Finally, a gentleman behind me says, “Excuse me,” as he reaches around me and places an envelope in the box.

  His comment startles me from my thoughts. “Oh. Sorry.” And I drop my letter in after his.

  I walk back to the office, picking up a coffee for me and a chai tea latte for Emerson along the way.

  Once in the office, I hand Emerson her chai. “Thank you. How did you know this was exactly what I needed?”

  “I needed the walk and the caffeine, so I figured you might, too. Any interest in meeting up for drinks after work, say eightish?”

  “Dillon and I were talking about going for a run, but I think after my crazy day I could use a glass of wine. Do you want it to be only us girls, or do we dare invite the guys?”

  “The more the merrier. I was thinking of going to that new wine bar across the street, unless you had something else in mind?”

  “Oh that sounds perfect. I hear they have wonderful fried calamari. I’ll send a text to everyone. Last one to the elevator at eight buys?”

  I laugh. “I’ll be there at seven forty-five.”

  The SOMA Wine Bar carries over one thousand bottles of wine and appetizers. Mason was last to the elevator, so he’s stuck with the first round.

  Examining the menu, Mason says, “I’m putting a limit on no more than a fifty-dollar glass of wine.” He stares directly at Cameron. “That means stay away from the 1992 Screaming Eagle. A thousand dollars for a glass of wine is out of my budget.”

  Cameron lets out a big belly laugh. “You know me so well.”

  The waiter arrives, and we all give our wine orders, as well as six different appetizers. Making small talk before our food and wine arrive, we catch up on the wedding plans. Dillon leans over to the guys and says, “I’ve learned to just say yes. Really it isn’t Emerson who cares. Tina is the ball-buster.”

  “The event planner from our carnival?” Cameron questions.

  “Yes, she’s our wedding planner, and she’s on a mission,” Emerson explains. “You’d think this was the royal wedding. We’re looking at churches in the Colorado mountains. There’s a beautiful one that my family priest is suggesting, and it might be a fun destination wedding. We’re flying to Colorado this weekend with Tina to examine the venues she has in mind. Wish us luck.”

  “But if there’s an emergency, please let me know,” Dillon practically pleads. “I’m happy to let Emerson take over so I can handle what needs to be done.”

  Emerson gives him a sideways death stare. “Not if you know what’s good for you. Remember, I wanted to essentially elope—only the five of us, a few friends and our family. Now we’re inviting over a thousand people.”

  After the food and drinks arrive, we talk in hushed tones, mostly about what’s going on with us in our areas. We’re careful not to disclose anything, but it’s cathartic to talk about it with one another. We do chat about adding Charles to our group and what we think he can bring to our mole issue, and we’re all enthusiastic, agreeing that Charles really brings a large breadth of experience.

  I ask Dillon, “Okay, now that you’re back and you’ve had the chance to consider what’s going on, how do you think Perkins Klein is getting our inside information?”

  Dillon took a six-month sabbatical a few months ago, and since he’s been back, the espionage seems to have lessened. Gazing at his clasped hands, he says, “I do think it’s someone internally, but I also think Perkins Klein used my sabbatical as a means to sway some of our more vulnerable accounts. It’s the internal person I can’t figure out.”

  Mason shakes his head. “We can’t figure it out either. We’ve gone through a list of those we think it may be, but we don’t even agree on that.”

  “Very few even cross over from each of our lists. Hopefully Charles’s guy can help,” Cameron says.

  “Do you think now that Dillon’s back, the mole’s going to be too scared to do anything?” I ask.

  “We can only hope,” Mason replies.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Sara

  As I lie in bed, I run through the party on Sunday. I talked to two of Dillon’s friends from college, one of whom asked for my number, but I fibbed and told him I was seeing someone. I don’t want the complication, and I’m still smarting over my breakup with Henry.

  On the other hand, CeCe’s brother Trey was interesting. I’m sure I caught him watching me throughout the night, and our conversation was easy.
Though I couldn’t tell him that I was a runaway at Catholic Charities. It’s too much to explain.

  It may be wishful thinking on my part, but the two-hundred-megawatt smile he gave me at the end of the night made my stomach flip and my panties wet. Unfortunately, I’m not really his type. He dates high-profile women—actresses, socialites, any women who are famous. Guys like him seem to like girls who are low maintenance in the relationship department, putting up with the lack of privacy thanks to the press. I’m low maintenance in a lot of areas, but not when it comes to dating. I want to see my boyfriend often.

  Thinking about Trey, I glide both hands down my breasts, over my hips and back to my stomach, then trace one cautious hand down my wide-open slit, sending one finger inside. As I arch back, I think of his smile and drift softly off as a new, more intense expression comes over his features.

  I rock my hips rhythmically against my fingers, having no trouble bringing my already-swollen clit to a state of frenzy. I’m so unbelievably tense with pleasure that my entire pussy is spread wide and open, but I bring my knees even closer to my torso to open even farther. I continue circling my clit as fast as I can manage, breathing jagged and shuddering with effort, but avoiding coming.

  I want this to be a mind-blowing orgasm. Pulling at my tender nipples, I think of Trey’s beautiful lips and what I wish they were doing to my pussy, his tongue lapping up the juices running down my legs and coating my fingers. My breathing increases, my nipples pebble, and with one final thought, I explode.

  Yes, it was a fine party. With the weekly visits and the wedding, maybe I’ll be able to see Trey again and can work on my fantasy.

  When I daydream, I wish I had someone who would join me on vacation. Someone to cuddle with and laugh at my silly jokes. I thought I had that with Henry, and I was so hurt when I learned he was married.

  He’s a cheater. Once a cheater, always a cheater. No, thank you.