by Stephen Frey
Cohen turned to head back to his chair.
“Ben.”
Cohen stopped in the middle of the room. “Yes?”
“Go find Roger Nolan for me.” Nolan was CEO of Blalock Industries, a power-tool manufacturer that Everest owned. “He’s here, isn’t he?”
“Yeah. Why do you want him?”
“Just get him, will you? Tell him to wait outside until I’m finished with Jeremy.”
Cohen turned and headed for the door.
A few minutes later Jeremy Cole limped into the office.
“What happened?” Gillette asked, pointing at the leg.
“Ah, I got hit in practice yesterday,” Cole explained in his heavy Alabama accent, wincing as he sat down.
Cole was big, like Troy Mason. He’d led the Giants to the play-offs as a no-name rookie and quickly become a star in Manhattan.
“We’re going half speed, just running through a couple of plays out at the Meadowlands, you know, and one of the defensive vets with a rookie grudge spears me way after the whistle blows.” Cole laughed harshly. “They cut him this morning at eight o’clock.”
“But, what about the Packers next weekend. You going to be ready?”
“I’ll be okay. If I’m not, one of the doctors’ll shoot me up with something good.”
“One of them?”
“Yeah, it’s like they’re everywhere. Sometimes I think we’ve got more medical people on payroll than players.”
“Well, as a season ticket holder, I’m glad to hear the Giants are focused on maintenance. Always keep the assets well oiled.”
The two men shared a quick laugh.
“Did you want to see me about something specific?” Gillette asked. “Or is this just social?”
Cole took a deep breath. “I hate to bother you, but people tell me you might be my best bet.”
Gillette anticipated the request, already considering what he’d get in return. “You want me to convince the Giants to renegotiate your contract, even though you inked a five-year deal back in July.”
The young quarterback gazed at Gillette, astonished. “How did you know?”
“I hear things, Jeremy.” Gillette was friends with the oldest son of the Giants’ majority owner. They’d gone to college together at Princeton and had stayed in touch over the years. “Tell me about the contract.”
“I was an idiot. I agreed to five hundred thousand per.” Cole banged the chair with his fist. “I should be making five million next year, but I was a sixth-round pick, Chris. I had to take what I could get.”
Gillette considered correcting Cole for calling him Chris, but didn’t. Cohen would take care of that later. “And, even though you’ve had a great year, they won’t give you more money.”
“They told my agent to pound salt. They told him they wouldn’t renegotiate anything for at least two years. Which is crap. Professional football is a brutal sport. My career could be over every time out. I deserve better than—”
“I get the point,” Gillette said, raising his hand.
Cole fell silent.
“I’m willing to help, Jeremy. But if I get somewhere, I may ask you for a favor in return.”
Mason grabbed the young woman’s wrist and pulled her into the guest room, then shut the door and pushed her back against the wall beside the bed. Reaching beneath her dress, he slipped two fingers deep inside her. As instructed, she’d removed her panties before coming downstairs.
“This is crazy,” she moaned, her hands fumbling with his belt buckle, then the button. Unzipping his pants carefully. “We shouldn’t be doing this here.”
“Why not?”
“Someone might find us,” she gasped, leaning back against the wall as his lips came to her neck and his fingers moved in and out. “Jesus, I work for you, Troy.”
“Don’t worry. No one will find us down here.”
“You better be sure.”
“Relax. I know what I’m doing.”
The office door opened and Marcie Reed appeared. She was tall and blond with long legs she constantly accented by wearing short dresses—even at funeral receptions. Roger Nolan followed her through the door.
“Hello, Christian,” she said.
Gillette glanced up from a file he was studying. “Hi.”
“Ben said you wanted to see Roger.” Marcie was on the board of Blalock and responsible for it on a day-to-day basis, reporting major issues to Donovan as necessary. “I’m assuming that you’ll take over as chairman for Bill, but that you’ll want me to stay on the board?”
“Probably.”
“So, I thought it made sense for me to be here.”
Gillette shook his head. “This is going to be one-on-one.”
“Oh.” She’d been about to sit down.
“But thanks for bringing Roger back here.”
“Sure,” she sniffed, irritated.
Gillette nodded at Nolan, then gestured toward the chairs in front of the desk as Marcie turned and stalked out of the room.
“Hello, Christian.” Nolan sat down without shaking hands. He was heavyset, bald, and had dark, thick eyebrows that gave him a naturally serious expression. “Why do you want to see me?” He was tapping his thigh impatiently.
“What’s the matter, you double-parked?”
“Huh?” Nolan gave Gillette a confused look.
Gillette pointed at the other man’s fingers. They were still tapping.
“Oh . . . no.” Nolan crossed his arms tightly over his chest. “I’ve got all the time in the world for you, Christian,” he muttered.
“Having a nice time today?” Gillette asked politely.
“As nice as possible under the circumstances.”
“Good.” Nolan and Donovan had been close. Too close as far as Gillette was concerned. Everest had owned Blalock Industries for three years, and, as CEO, Nolan had never made budget. It was one of those rare instances in which Donovan allowed personal feelings to influence his business judgment. Gillette leaned forward. “Remind me, Roger. What’s your salary?”
Nolan’s eyes flashed to Gillette’s. “What?”
“What’s your salary?”
“I only answer to the chairman as far as those kinds of questions go.”
Nolan must not have heard Marcie, Gillette thought to himself. “That would be me, Roger. Now that I’m chairman of Everest, I automatically take all of Bill’s chair positions at the portfolio companies as well.”
Nolan’s defiance drained away quickly. “Oh.”
“What’s your salary?” Gillette demanded again.
“Two million.”
“And what did Bill give you as a bonus last year?”
“Five.”
“Christ,” Gillette hissed under his breath. “How much did Blalock do in revenue last year?”
“Three billion.”
“What was net income?”
Nolan hesitated.
“Answer me, Roger.”
“Twenty-one million.”
“Damn it,” Gillette said loudly, pounding the desk. “Your salary and bonus were almost 25 percent of the company’s earnings. That’s ridiculous.”
“Hey, we did pretty well.”
“Pretty well? You make $20 million on $3 billion in revenues and you tell me you did pretty well? If that had been the Allies’ attitude during World War Two, we’d all be goose-stepping and eating bratwursts. Look, you’ve never hit your budgets and, given the preliminary reports I saw yesterday, you aren’t going to this year either.”
Nolan shrugged. “Foreign competition is tough. You gotta accept that.”
“I don’t gotta accept anything. My investors don’t. They want results, and so do I. One way or the other, I’m going to get them.” Gillette pointed at the older man. “Roger, you’re fired.”
Nolan recoiled in the chair, grabbing the arms so tightly his knuckles turned white. “You prick,” he seethed, gritting his teeth. “You can’t do that.”
“I just did.”
“Who’s going to run the company? You?”
“I can’t do any worse than you.” Gillette shook his head in disgust. “Your office at HQ in Philadelphia is being packed as we speak. Your personal items will be delivered to your house tomorrow. Under no circumstances are you to go back to the office.”
Nolan took a deep breath. “You still have to pay me two million a year for the next three years,” he retorted, trying to find a silver lining. “That’s how my contract reads. You gotta pay me no matter what.” He forced a smile to his lips. “I’ll enjoy playing my daily round of golf knowing I’ve made fifty-five hundred bucks on you.”
“Fifty-five hundred bucks a day,” Gillette repeated. “Two million a year divided by three-sixty-five, huh?”
“Yes,” Nolan said hesitantly.
As though he hadn’t expected the calculation to be understood so quickly, Gillette thought to himself, easing back in his chair. Taking his time to deliver the smart bomb. “I understand your son just had a nasty little run-in with the law.”
Nolan’s eyes flashed to Gillette’s again. “What the—”
“Cocaine, right? Tough rap for a college kid.”
“You son-of-a—”
“The cops caught him with a bag when they pulled him over for speeding,” Gillette kept going. “Given your personal net worth and, therefore, your ability to hire legal talent, you ought to be able to get him off without too much damage. And I’m impressed with your ability to keep it out of the newspapers. You pay off an editor up there?” Nolan’s mouth was falling slowly open as Gillette spoke. “But here’s the thing, Roger. Your son’s dealing.” Having McGuire & Company at his beck and call was like having the world’s best bloodhound on the hunt. Tom McGuire seemed to be able to find anything on anyone. “We have video. We know who his regular clients are. Believe me, the cops up there would love to find out about him. He’s a big campus supplier.”
“My God,” Nolan whispered.
This was the dirty part of business, but Nolan had brought it on himself. He was playing golf at least three times a week. Mostly at Pine Valley, where you couldn’t talk business even if you wanted to—club rules. He’d totally neglected the company, and now he was going to pay. And he wasn’t going to earn six million dollars for the next three years just to play golf. “There’s no need for this to get nasty, Roger. I’m willing to be reasonable.”
“What does that mean?” Nolan asked, his voice barely audible.
“A hundred thousand dollars a year for the next three years, and you keep your medical and dental benefits. You agree to that, and your son gets off free and clear. You won’t even have to hire an attorney.”
“How can you do that?” Nolan whispered.
“I have friends in Portland who can help. I’ve already spoken to them.”
Nolan’s breathing was labored. “How about two-fifty?”
Gillette shook his head. “No. It’s the deal as offered, or—”
“All right, all right.” Nolan held up his hands. “I’ll take it.”
There was a sharp rap on the door.
“Who is it?” Gillette called loudly, annoyed that Cohen hadn’t gotten back yet to perform his gatekeeper duties.
“Kyle,” Lefors called back. “It’s important.”
“Come in.” Gillette pointed at Nolan. “We’re done.”
Lefors moved to the desk, waiting until Nolan was gone before he said anything. Lefors was tall and dark; physically, he resembled Gillette. “You’re going to love this,” he said, grinning.
Mason kissed the woman deeply for a few moments, addicted to that feeling of her fingers wrapped around him. Then he pulled her dress over her head and tossed it on the floor. He smiled to himself as she sank to her knees without being told to, taking him in her mouth. After three months she knew him so well.
As her tongue flicked up and down, he reached between her breasts and unhooked her bra, watching approvingly as she dropped her arms to her sides to let the lacy garment fall from her shoulders onto the floor next to the wall behind her. Now she was naked, except for those black suede high heels which wouldn’t be coming off. He loved the look of a woman in nothing but heels. Of the five women he was involved with, he enjoyed her the most. She was gorgeous and uninhibited. Willing to do anything.
Mason peeled off his shirt as she helped him step out of his pants. Then he pulled her to her feet and picked her up, carrying her to the bed and laying her down gently on the mattress. Kneeling in between her legs and kissing her again.
“I love you,” she whispered as she spread her legs wide and reached for him.
“Me, too,” he moaned, entering her. Moving gently at first, then harder.
“Yeah, sweetheart,” she urged, her voice turning gravelly. “That’s what I like, Troy. Hard. Real hard.”
“I know, I know.” Mason groaned, pulling her legs up over his shoulders. He interrupted his motion for a moment when he saw the strange look in her eyes. As he followed her gaze toward the door, she let out a shriek and scrambled away. “Oh, Christ,” he muttered.
Gillette stood at the end of the bed, glancing back and forth between the woman’s face and a piece of paper. Then he locked onto Mason’s eyes.
Cohen was by the door, arms folded across his chest, staring down at the floor. Kicking at something on the carpet with the toe of his black shoe.
Mason gazed back into Gillette’s icy expression, the dark features blurring before him as the blood pounded in his brain. Finally, he looked away, too embarrassed to meet Gillette’s stare any longer. “Chris, I—”
“Put your clothes on, Troy,” Gillette ordered, handing the piece of paper to Cohen as he headed for the door. “I’ll be outside.”
Gillette took Faith Cassidy’s hand and smiled. Moments ago he’d fired Troy Mason, his closest competitor in the race for the chairmanship of Everest Capital. Giving Mason a million dollars in severance. Informing Mason that he would never be allowed inside Everest again, and that he would forfeit his equity stake in the firm, a stake Cohen had estimated at sixty million dollars. Sex with a woman who reported to him had cost him fifty-nine million dollars. It was a hell of a price to pay for getting laid, Gillette thought to himself.
“I’ve always wanted to meet you, Miss Cassidy,” Gillette began, subtly motioning for Cohen to move off. “You’re very talented.”
“Thank you,” she said, stepping closer and putting her hand on his arm. “Please call me Faith.”
Gillette nodded, recognizing in her expression that she understood who he was. That, as instructed, Cohen had explained it all before Gillette joined the conversation. While he was axing Mason downstairs.
As Faith smiled up at him, he allowed himself a brief moment to drink in his victory—and revel in his power.
“Christian.”
Gillette’s gaze snapped left, and he peered into the darkness. It was late and the light from the mansion didn’t reach out here. He’d been about to get into the back of the Town Car. “Who’s there?”
Mason appeared out of the darkness. “Can I talk to you for a minute, Christian? Please.”
Gillette let out a quick breath. He needed to be more careful now, he realized, scanning the area as his eyes became accustomed to the dark. In fact, he probably needed a full-time bodyguard. He’d speak to Tom McGuire about that in the morning. “Go on.”
“Thanks. Look, I’m sorry about what happened in the basement,” Mason apologized, running one hand through his tousled hair. “It was a one-time thing. It’ll never happen again. I swear.”
“You expect me to believe that was really a one-time thing?”
“Huh?”
Gillette stepped toward Mason until they were close. “Have you had sex with other women at the companies you chair for us?”
“No.”
“You’re a terrible liar, Troy.” Gillette didn’t know if Mason was lying, but it didn’t matter. One indiscretion was enough. All it would take for a vindi
ctive woman to drag Everest into a nightmare of a lawsuit.
Lefors had given Gillette the tip about Mason being in a basement guest room with the young woman, but Gillette had been careful about using the information. Going on the Internet to confirm—on the company’s website—that a woman with the name Lefors had mentioned really did work in the marketing department there. Then he’d pulled the woman’s picture down off her bio and printed it out. Standing at the foot of the bed, he’d compared the face in the picture with the face of the woman beneath Mason before either of them knew he was there. Deciding, as the woman scrambled away, that she was, in fact, the one in the picture.
“You’re a liar, Troy,” Gillette said coldly. “I won’t have a partner who’s a liar.”
“I’m not a liar. I’m telling you the truth.”
Gillette shook his head in disgust and turned back toward the waiting car.
“Christian!” Mason trotted to the car as Gillette got in, prying the door open when Gillette reached for the handle. “Don’t do this to me,” he begged. “I’ve worked my ass off to get to this point. We’ve been partners for ten years. Don’t leave me with nothing because of one stupid mistake.”
“I told you, Troy. You’ll get a million bucks as severance. Cohen will make the arrangements next week.”
“When my wife finds out I’ve lost my stake in the firm, she’ll divorce me and take every penny the IRS doesn’t.”
“Sounds like she wouldn’t believe tonight was an isolated incident either.”
“I’m begging you,” Mason pleaded desperately, sinking to his knees beside the Town Car. “Don’t do this to me.”
“You should have thought this through before.”
“I’ll be lucky to get a job washing cars.”
“At least in New York,” Gillette agreed.
“Christian.” Mason was beginning to hyperventilate “Come on. What do I have to do?”
“There’s nothing you can do.”
Gillette slammed the door shut, the car lurched forward, and Mason tumbled to the asphalt.