Deal Breaker: Billionaire Bosses

by Tara Leigh

  “Childhood, huh? Is he the only guy you’ve ever been with?”

  “This conversation is getting pretty personal. You sure you’re okay with this?”

  “Am I still on the phone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I am. Go ahead. A truth for a truth. Although if you don’t want to answer, there’s another question I can ask instead.”

  “What is it?”

  “Are you going to answer?”

  “Ask, and I’ll decide.”

  “Who are you running from, Nixie?”

  A trickle of unease dripped down my spine. “Yes, my ex-boyfriend is the only man I’ve ever been with.”

  “Not going to answer the other one, huh?” I clamped my mouth shut. The fewer people who knew about my predicament, the better. “I could probably help, you know,” he added.

  Nash’s offer was undeniably tempting, but it wasn’t worth the risk. I just needed to get through one more year. “Are you always so willing to help strangers?” I asked, shifting the focus away from me.

  “No. But you’ve spent the night in my bed, which is more than I can say for anyone else. Think that disqualifies you from being a stranger.”

  “So what am I?”

  “I don’t know, Nixie. I haven’t figured that one out yet.”

  My voice lowered an octave. “Why are you offering to help me?”

  “That’s a damn good question, Nixie.”

  Silence stretched out. “Well, either way. I don’t need your help.”

  “How about I help by taking your mind off your ex?”

  Now this I needed to hear. “Oh really?”

  “A one-night stand.”

  I couldn’t help the smile tugging my lips upward. “With you?”

  “Of course. I’m the best.”

  “You’re persistent, I’ll give you that.”

  “I’ll show you what else I am.”

  I giggled as a blush spread up my cheeks. “You’re pretty full of yourself, too.”

  “Right now, I’d rather be filling you.”

  My face was seriously on fire. “You can’t always get what you want.”

  Nash didn’t say anything for a minute, and when he finally did, the intensity of his voice took me off guard. “No. You sure as hell can’t.” Shifting from lighthearted banter to deadly serious, the tone of our conversation had changed, although I hadn’t the slightest idea why. “If you change your mind, Nixie, I’m only a phone call away.”

  And then he was gone.

  A groan of frustration bubbled up inside my throat. Nash Knight was crass and cocky, but he made my heart race and my skin tingle. If I was the type of girl to have one night stands, I’d have jumped at his offer in a hot minute. I stared down at my phone, tracing Nash’s name with my fingertip. Wondering if maybe I could be different.

  Just for one night.

  Nash Knight had a face I could get lost in, a voice that wrapped around me like a silken cocoon. What would his touch be like?

  A slow burn started in my stomach and extended outward to my veins. Just thinking about sex with Nash had me overheating. No way could I spend even a night with him. By the time morning came, I would be nothing but a pile of ash smudging the sheets.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Nash

  Even though I didn’t board a plane until I was in my early twenties, I loved flying from my very first trip. By now I’d traveled the world several times over, but the thrill still hadn’t gotten old. Speeding down the runway, my back pressed against the seat as the landscape rushed by. The roar of the engines, the sense of power and momentum building, expanding, until the vibrations suddenly ceased and the plane lifted, airborne. That feeling of loft, of weightlessness, with the ground below and only the sun above—it was exhilarating.

  In a way, flying was a physical representation of my own hard-fought success. Years spent learning, practicing, gathering knowledge and skills and contacts until I could lift up careers and companies, wealth and prestige floating beside me like fat, puffy clouds. But as a venture capitalist, whether those clouds floated by innocuously, just something to marvel at and enjoy, or they caused storms capable of destroying all that lay below, was entirely up to me.

  My brother must have had the same fascination, because he eventually became a fighter pilot for the Air Force. But when Wyatt returned from a mission, he stripped off his uniform, ate off a plastic tray in a communal mess hall, and slept on a twin bed in a barracks, accompanied by the smells and snoring of his fellow soldiers.

  Fighting battles on Wall Street was not nearly as heroic, but it came with a much better set of rewards. I traveled in private planes, lived in a penthouse, drank the finest wine and whiskey, bedded gorgeous women. Wealth had its privileges, and I availed myself of them all. But for me, nothing held a candle to the thrill of my work. Analyzing floundering companies, pinpointing the key components worth saving. Stripping them down to their core, eliminating redundancies and nonessential components that distracted from their fundamental objectives. It was precise and cerebral, with huge potential for risk or reward.

  I’d gotten so good at my job, I could almost do it in my sleep. Really. There were nights when I fell asleep mulling over a new company I wanted to invest in, and by the time I woke up a few hours later, my execution plan was fully formed. Quite frankly, it was becoming a problem. Not for my company, which was stronger and more profitable than ever before, or for my employees, who were making more money than they could have anticipated, even by lavish Wall Street standards. It was a problem for me. Because the challenge was waning. Sure, the money bought some pretty great toys, don’t get me wrong. But the thrill . . . the thrill lay in the struggle itself, not in spending my profits acquiring sports franchises and exotic cars.

  Which was why I had flown to Nebraska this morning, for what had turned out to be a thoroughly unproductive meeting. I should shake it off like a glancing blow to my chin, turn my attention to other opportunities worth pursuing. But I refused to believe that this trip was nothing more than a colossal waste of time.

  A year ago—hell, even a few months ago, I wouldn’t have been interested in NetworkTech at all. It was healthy, vibrant company. There would have no shortage of offers to choose from. Legitimate offers from other venture capitalists with whom, as a rule, I didn’t swim in the same pool. I preferred to hunt for damaged goods, the runts of the litter. I destroyed them and built them back up, stronger and more profitable than they’d ever been before. Then I sold them for many multiples of my original investment. It was risky, but I enjoyed the challenge.

  NetworkTech was profitable and productive, and it was growing at a decent, though not significant, pace. There didn’t appear to be much fat to trim, or excess weight to auction off. Its founder and current CEO, Mack Duncan, had never sought outside investors and until a few days ago, I’d assumed he intended to leave NetworkTech to his children.

  However, Wall Street’s rumor mill was more active and vicious than the meanest mean girl clique at Constance Billard School for Girls. It’s true—Gossip Girls had nothing on Manhattan Moguls. And word on the Street was that Mack Duncan was looking to sell. His wife had recently passed away after a long illness and he wanted to spend his remaining years with his children and grandchildren, none of whom were interested in taking over the company he’d built from the ground up. Again, a few months ago that would have meant nothing to me. But for some reason, the tidbit had piqued my interest. Almost for shits and giggles, I’d assembled a team and begun digging into the Nebraska-based technology firm. What we’d discovered made me determined to close the deal.

  Duncan was a pioneer in the field of complex, integrated networking systems, pre-dating the ascent of Silicon Valley as the hub of all things tech. In the United States, his patented technology was integral to everything from cars and phones to defense operations and wireless routing systems. Because of the closed Chinese market, and their stringent cyber-security requirements, introducing forei
gn products was difficult, if not nearly impossible. Currently, NetworkTech could not do business in China. But if a company I invested in last year, a company based out of Hong Kong and registered with the Chinese, could form a joint venture with Network Tech—the potential was enormous.

  It would be a very delicate negotiation, but well worth the effort. Without a doubt, acquiring NetworkTech was the kind of deal known in my industry as a unicorn. With access to China’s market, NetworkTech would be worth well over a billion dollars and push Knight Ventures’ assets to tip the scales at two billion, or even more.

  It wouldn’t be easy . . . but it was damn exciting.

  Except I’d already encountered a hiccup. More than a hiccup. A goddamn boulder had been dropped in my path.

  Mack Duncan had turned me down—and not in an I’m saying no but help me get to yes kind of way.

  Not that he didn’t want to sell his company. No, he was actively looking for a buyer. As long as it wasn’t me.

  So now I was back in the air. Fucking fuming.

  Duncan didn’t know about the potential I saw for his product because he’d never attempted to enter the Chinese market. Few had. It was like a sealed box, containing the Holy Grail. Everyone wanted to get their hands on it, but no one could crack the lock. If I told him about my idea for a joint venture, one of three things would happen. He could call me crazy, or worse. He could continue as CEO, and attempt to go it alone. Or his price would go up tenfold, if not more.

  I was prepared to pay a fair price for NetworkTech, given the publicly available information about his company. If things didn’t work out, I could always sell it. Likely for about the same amount, give or take, since without tapping the trillion-dollar Chinese economy, there wasn’t much room for growth.

  But apparently my reputation for being more of a vulture capitalist than a venture capitalist had preceded me. Mack Duncan didn’t understand what I saw in his company, nor did he relish the prospect of me ripping it to shreds, like I’d done to so many others. An hour ago, I’d even done something unthinkable—offering to sign a contract guaranteeing that there would be no layoffs for three years.

  Duncan hadn’t budged. Instead he’d removed the thick glasses that had slid down his nose, rubbing at the grooves lining his forehead as he studied me over the width of his cluttered desk. “I’ve had no shortage of potential buyers for my company, you know.”

  I nodded. “I’m sure.”

  “But you’re the only one who’s done his homework.” He left out a hearty guffaw. “In fact, I’d say you know this company nearly as well as I do.”

  Of course I did. If I went after something, I did it full throttle. “I don’t believe in wasting time, either mine or yours.”

  Duncan’s cheeks had dropped, his mouth turning down at the corners. “Then I’m afraid you’ve done both.”

  I blinked, holding back my surprise and disappointment behind an impassive mask. “And why is that?”

  “I’ve done my homework, too. I don’t believe that you intend to treat my company differently than others you’ve acquired, and I don’t feel comfortable leaving NetworkTech in your hands. I’m sorry to say it, but it’s the truth. I was married to my Betty, God rest her soul, for nearly fifty years, and during that time, do you know what I’ve learned is the greatest predictor of promises becoming reality?”

  “Mr. Duncan, I’m prepared to sign—”

  He waved me off. “A good lawyer can get you out of anything, these days. No, what matters to me is the most important commitment of all. Marriage.”

  “Marriage,” I repeated, dumbfounded.

  He nodded. “That, right. Marriage. I’m not selling my company to some Wall Street whiz kid that can’t make up his mind which woman to share his bed with. No, sir.” He stood, extending his hand. “Mr. Knight, you are one hell of a businessman, I’ll grant you that. But I’m not willing to trust my legacy, the company I built with blood, sweat and tears, to a man that’s tomcattin’ around every night.”

  Yeah, not what I expected to hear when I strutted into NetworkTech’s bunker-like offices this morning, the Patek Philippe watch encircling my wrist worth multiples of any car I’d seen in the parking lot.

  The watch was mocking me now. It hadn’t even marked an hour between hello and get - the - fuck - out - of - my - office - you - Wall - Street - hack. Not that Mack Duncan had been so profane. He may as well have, though, because his polite words didn’t sting any less. And if I was being honest with myself, I couldn’t even blame him. My only commitment had been to my company, which excelled at taking other companies, not unlike his, apart limb from limb.

  But . . . marriage. I blew out a heavy breath. Since Eva, there hadn’t been a single woman who had sparked more than just the briefest flare of interest. Except for Nixie. She’d sparked a hell of a lot more than that.

  The pilot announced that we’d reached cruising altitude and I glanced out the window, surprised to realize we were airborne. My head had been in the clouds well before takeoff.

  Thinking about Nixie, I recalled the last words she’d said to me before I hung up the phone. You can’t always get what you want. Well, she was definitely right about that.

  I wanted NetworkTech, and getting my hands on it was proving to be a bitch.

  I wanted Nixie, but going after her would make me one hell of a son of a bitch.

  I turned my head away from the window and caught the attention of the stewardess. Not difficult to do, since I’d felt her eyes on me for most of the flight. She looked familiar. Had I fucked her? I gave a mental shrug. Probably. “Hello, Mr. Knight,” she said in a husky whisper that implied I had. “I didn’t want to interrupt you, you looked so serious. Can I get you something?” She added a wink. “Anything at all?”

  “Tempting,” I lied, her name coming to me suddenly. “But for now I’ll just take a whiskey, Samantha. Neat.”

  She covered her disappointment with the quick flash of a too-bright smile. “Coming right up.”

  I remembered her now. A pre-dawn blow job over the Atlantic, mouth like a fucking Hoover. Normally there was never a bad time to get head, but right now . . . no.

  I pulled my phone out of my pocket. I hadn’t meant to call Nixie yesterday, had been determined never to talk to her again. But for some reason, I couldn’t help myself. I might as well order a new set of business cards. Nash Knight, Son of a Bitch in Chief. Nash: Hi. As I waited for a response, Samantha returned with my drink. I took a sip, letting the liquor burn a slow path down my throat. Maybe Nixie wouldn’t answer after I’d hung up on her so abruptly last night. As my thumb cramped from not tapping out another text, I made a bet with myself. If Nixie didn’t respond, that would be it—I was out. I’d delete her contact information and leave her the fuck alone.

  Finally, three dancing dots appeared. I exhaled a sigh of relief so heavy it left me lightheaded. Nixie: Hi.

  Asshole that I was, her simple answer left me wanting. Nash: That’s all I get?

  Nixie: Isn’t that all you gave?

  Nash: Women tend to use more words than men.

  Nixie: Based on your intimate knowledge of . . . how many women, exactly?

  Nash: A gentlemen doesn’t kiss and tell.

  Nixie: Are you suggesting you’re a gentleman?

  Nash: Are you suggesting I’m not?

  Nixie: There are other words I’d probably use.

  Nash: Such as?

  Nixie: Player. Manwhore. Cad.

  Had she and Mack Duncan been reading the same tabloids? Nash: Cad? A little dated, no?

  Nixie: You object to me calling you a cad, but you’re fine with player and manwhore?

  My lips twisted as I stared down at the screen. Nixie was spirited. Nash: Point taken. Let’s discuss something much more interesting . . .

  Nixie: More interesting than how best to describe your philandering ways?

  I gave a soft grunt. Nash: Yes. Much more interesting. What are you wearing?

  Nixie: You�
��re kidding, right?

  Nash: No. I’ve already reviewed all the documents for my meetings in Hong Kong. I’m caught up on all my emails. And I’ve checked out the scores of all my favorite teams. I’m bored. I didn’t add that the reason I had nothing more to do was the roadblock I’d encountered in Nebraska. I had anticipated my meeting with Duncan lasting longer and requiring a significant amount of follow up afterward. Instead I’d had my cock chopped off and handed to me in a suitcase, the better to send me to the airport quickly.

  Nixie: I’m sure there’s a woman on the plane who would be more than happy to serve as your in-flight entertainment.

  I lifted my head. Sure enough, Samantha was right there. Her face lit up, pretty but . . . not Nixie. “Another drink?” she asked.

  I eyed my glass. Still half full, I shook my head and looked back at my phone. Nash: There is. But what if I want to reform my caddish ways?

  Nixie: Lolololololol!

  My grip tightened as I frowned at the screen. Nash: ???

  Nixie: Sorry, that was just too funny.

  Nash: I don’t get the joke.

  Nixie: That’s why it’s so funny.

  I needed to get our conversation back on track. Nash: You never answered my question . . .

  Nixie: About what I’m wearing?

  Nash: Yes.

  Nixie: I’m still in bed, what do you think I’m wearing?

  An image of Nixie, stunning and sleepy and in my bed, hit me in the solar plexus. I groaned. Samantha was at my side in an instant. “Did you say something?”

  I mumbled a “no,” not even looking up from my phone. Nash: If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking.

  Nixie: Are we sexting?

  Nash: That depends.

  Nixie: On what?

  Nash: You.

  Nixie: Me?

  Nash: Yes. Sexting usually starts off by revealing what you’re wearing.

  Nixie: Ah. So there’s a format to it. Good to know.

  Nash: You’re welcome. So . . .

  Nixie: So . . . what?

  Swallowing a groan of frustration I looked up for Samantha. “I’ll have that drink now.” Nash: Are you always this uncooperative?