by Sarah Andre
“The restoration firm is gaining a remarkable reputation,” Harrison said. “Next subject.”
Devon sank into the cushion, a warmth settling in him at Hannah’s accomplishments. Followed instantly by the warmer memory of her soft lips, perfecting the art of French kissing. He inhaled unsteadily. What the hell? He was engaged. All that grand passion, roller-coaster crap was well left to his teens.
A discreet cough captured everyone’s attention. Joseph stood in the doorway holding a white, frosted cake piled high with strawberries. “Don’t sing,” Harrison ordered, and nobody did.
Devon reluctantly shook off the remaining Hannah-daze as his father’s girlfriend cut and plated the perfectly proportioned wedges. Honey had the kind of finishing school grace even Nicole and her aristocratic friends couldn’t pull off. An aura of mystery surrounded her—someone so flawless suddenly appearing in his family. He made a mental note to Google her, because although he shouldn’t care whether she’d snagged a sugar daddy, and Harrison was gullible enough to fall for it, something wasn’t right. The father he’d left behind wasn’t that stupid.
Honey passed Devon his slice, and although Harrison didn’t make eye contact, the old man smiled grimly. This wasn’t an innocent cake choice on his father’s part, and they both knew it. Harrison had been aware a month ago that Devon would arrive on their birthday to sign the requisite papers; the Wickham executive secretary had even insisted Devon stay for the small dinner party. And yet eating even one of the strawberries would cause Devon’s throat to swell up. Part of him felt the intended insult like a shank to the gut, while another side was amused at the calculated lengths Harrison had gone to tonight to ensure his complete discomfort. So much for the sapling olive branch.
With scalpel-like precision, Devon separated the berries and any frosting that even remotely came into contact with them, keeping his expression carefully blank. He was certifiable to even engage in this double dog dare to eat the cake, but he wasn’t going to give his father the satisfaction of refusing the slice. Besides, he’d been so busy working throughout the private flight, he was freaking ravenous. He waited for Honey to lower the cake knife and raise her fork, and then all but shoveled the dessert into his mouth. And felt no remorse helping himself to seconds while his father opened presents.
When Harrison lowered the Jag XKR keys Honey had given him back into the little heart-shaped box, Devon shot a look at George Fallow, who had his briefcase by the clawed leg of his armchair. Good. Devon swallowed the last bite and slid the plate onto the cocktail table.
“I have several announcements,” Harrison’s said, his cup hitting the saucer with a clinking flourish, “which will cumulatively affect everyone here.”
Rick jerked like a puppet on strings, almost spilling the new glass of wine he’d poured. The birdlike clutch returned to Devon’s arm, and when he glanced at his sister, her profile was a study in dread. He frowned at his siblings and redirected his attention to the supremely smug man across from him. What the hell was his father up to?
Harrison smiled at Honey as his gnarled hand reached for hers. Her return smile held the contentment of a purring cat. “First, Honey has agreed to become my wife.”
Devon blinked at the pair. The simmering gut reaction of something not being right boiled over. Why the rush? Jesus, if he had another half-sibling on the way… But maybe he was looking at this all wrong. Maybe he should feel sorry for Honey. Welcome to the circus, wife number four.
As he added his congratulations to the subdued chorus, he covered Frannie’s hand and squeezed.
“Second,” Harrison continued, “she’ll inherit all the cash, stock, and property I own except for the trust I set up for my grandson.” His gaze flicked to his fiancée, before focusing on Francine. “Provided you both remain under this roof until you finalize that disastrous divorce.”
At her audible inhale, Devon clenched his jaw and stared into the crackling fire. Clearly Harrison was still a smothering control freak with Frannie. It was one thing when their mother died, but his sister was an adult with her own child. To force her and Todd to live here with the soon-to-be newlyweds was downright offensive.
“Third, I plan to retire immediately. Wesley here will be promoted to CEO of the Wickham Corporation tomorrow.” Pretty Boy gasped. “Fourth. Once I’m gone, the entire empire is his to run. None of my three children has ever shown the slightest interest in my businesses anyway.”
Devon heard Rick’s weight shift on the creaky floorboards, somewhere behind him. “Why?” his brother sputtered. “Why would you disinherit us?”
Those arctic eyes focused like laser beams over Devon’s shoulder. “It’s time for you to make your own way in this world, son. It’s time for you to stop gambling on every sport game or horse race, and using my money to pay off your debt. Your credit cards are one big bar tab. You want to engage in those debasing activities, fine. Pay for it yourself.” Harrison sipped coffee without breaking eye contact with Rick. He set the cup in the saucer. “You’re welcome to stay in this house while you make other arrangements, but by our wedding date…when is it again, sweetheart?”
“A week from Saturday.”
He kissed Honey’s hand, his demeanor relaxing. “I expect you to find a job and vacate the premises.”
Rick didn’t respond. The fingers on Devon’s arm had him in a death grip now. He hurt for Frannie, even poor Rick. God knew he recalled the shock and terror this speech evoked. That his father would repeat it now with his last two children, when the old man was the richest son of a bitch in Chicago, was infuriating. Surely the old man could spare some change for his offspring. Honey wouldn’t be able to spend a fraction of it, even if she lived fifty lifetimes.
“George is here to amend the will tonight.” Harrison picked up his coffee cup. “Thank you for the presents. You’re all excused.”
“Come to bed soon,” Honey said in a sultry tone, kissing Harrison’s withered cheek. As inappropriate as the thought was, Devon caught himself wondering how the old man hadn’t died of a coronary already.
It took the others several seconds to rise, and once upright, they moved stiffly, like sleepwalkers, except for old George, who lugged his briefcase as if it held gold bricks. Devon stepped forward, the offer to carry it on his lips, mentally running through room options where they could go to sign over the trust.
“Stay behind. I need to speak to you in private,” Harrison said, and for a moment Devon assumed it was directed at George. But no, his father looked right at him.
“I have to meet with George. I’ll return when I’m through.”
“You’ll sit down.” The old man cocked an eyebrow. Devon was prepared to ignore him and follow George out, except for the warning on the lawyer’s face. He was not prepared to defy Harrison and work on Devon’s rightful inheritance tonight after all.
At the door, a teary-eyed Frannie threw Devon a troubled look, and he winked. The decision on his eighteenth birthday to change his last name had been the catalyst for getting tossed out on his ear. No announcement could possibly apply to him, unless his father was about to extend the olive branch after all and put him back in the will.
How fast could he get out of here and make sure she was all right? She needed to buck up until they could figure out how to get her out from under Harrison’s thumb. Her smile was tremulous, and then the door clicked shut. He sucked in a breath and spun around. “What’s up?”
“I’m surprised you haven’t heard.” And that was how fast his father could switch from wrecking ball to cat-and-mouse.
Devon glanced at his watch. “I’ve wasted enough time watching you play these twisted mind games. Just blurt it out.”
Harrison shrugged, smiling slyly. “You’re right. It’s late and there’s too much to go over. Profit and loss statements, marketing forecasts… I’d like to get an early start tomorrow. Eight o’clock, my home office.”
Devon frowned. “What?”
“Late this afternoon, the
Wickham Corporation tendered an offer to acquire Ashby Enterprises. At a surprisingly low cost—I didn’t know your assets were so tied up until I looked into the situation.”
Tendered an offer? Getting the privately held company’s financial information? “Wait a minute.” What an imbecile, letting his father get him all worked up like this. “Eric and I hold fifty-one percent—”
“Held fifty-one percent.” As Harrison took a leisurely sip of coffee, Devon fought the impulse to snatch the delicate cup and hurl it into the fireplace. This was just a psych-out, and he wasn’t going to take the bait.
“Meaning?”
Harrison gestured with his cup. “Did you even think to draw up a contract between the two of you?”
“We have a contract.”
The hard stare was so familiar—part condescension, part questioning how his offspring could possibly be this stupid. “And you didn’t stipulate an agreement giving each of you first rights to any liquidated shares?”
Moisture beaded Devon’s lip. No. He hadn’t. This was Eric Ashby, his cousin on his mother’s side, his best friend…soon to be his best man. He was family, for Christ’s sake! Surely Eric, the CFO, would have told him if he’d sold shares. “You’re bluffing.”
“Am I?” Nothing in those hardened features indicated so.
Devon kept tight control of his expression, aware that any shock or panic was an added bonus for the bastard. “Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself, old man? My board and major shareholders are loyal friends. They’ll never accept your offer.”
“Wesley is expediting the deal and assures me your friends are quite unhappy with your leadership. I expect to own your company before my wedding. Thank you for the birthday gift; I’m sorry I have none in return.”
Devon gripped the back of the loveseat as the icy reality of his failed night of triumph cut through him. All the blood, sweat, and toil that had gone into creating his company… Just to be snatched by Harrison, who had as many international irons in the fire as Donald Trump. Christ, there was no way Devon could return to Manhattan and face Nicole with this news. “Why are you doing this? To any of us?”
“How tediously dramatic. If you’ll excuse me, I have a fiancée waiting.”
Yes. This was how he could get his father to see reason. “I have three words for you: Anna Nicole Smith.”
Harrison stiffened and set his cup down hard. “Honey’s an heiress in her own right.”
Scoffing would be too immature. If only Nicole were here, sporting “that look.” No man could stand up to her frosty disbelief and derision. Devon spread his hands, willing his voice calm. “Then why disinherit Frannie and Rick? You didn’t during your other engagements. Why is wife number four winning the lottery? And what if, a year down the road, this marriage ends in the dumpster like your last two? Please tell me you had her sign a prenup.”
Harrison’s lips quivered into a snarl. “How dare you speak to me like this.”
“How dare you force Frannie to live here.”
“That’s none of your goddamned business—”
“How dare you give Rick a week to find a job and a place to live—”
“You presume to come into my house and tell me how to run it?”
“And you presume to take over Ashby Enterprises?” Their volume had grown louder with each exchange. Devon clenched his jaw. This was beneath him. “You’re not getting my company, old man,” he said softly. “All you did was declare war.”
Was it his imagination, or did his father’s hand tremble ever so slightly? When he refocused on the gnarled fingers, Harrison clenched his fist, but the illusion of invincibility was broken. His father suddenly resembled exactly what he was: a seventy-year-old man, trying desperately to remain the fire-breathing dragon in a broken-down castle.
Devon spun on his heel, suddenly ill with shock or the lack of food followed by a ton of sugar. He had to get out of here while he could still stand.
He stalked the length of the room but hesitated when he reached the door. He swung around and met Harrison’s glower. The question he’d ignored for so long resurfaced with the blinding intensity of a neon light. He didn’t care; he just wanted to know—ever since he’d been a small boy. “What did I do to make you hate me this much?”
The glare turned to disdain rather than surprise or shock. “Let’s start with you dropping your God-given name like you were ashamed of it. If you didn’t want to be a Wickham, then you weren’t getting a Wickham cent. And you damn sure weren’t living under my roof.”
“Frannie and Rick want to be Wickhams, yet they got the same treatment tonight, so I call bullshit.” Devon groped blindly for the doorknob, blood boiling. “And you know exactly why I’m an Ashby. I’ll never share a name with the man who murdered my mother.”
Harrison huffed a breath. “I expected the histrionics when you were nine, but I didn’t tolerate them twelve years ago, and I won’t now. Your mother committed suicide. Grow up.”
A haunting sense of powerlessness sagged Devon’s shoulders. “You’re lying.” But the words were barely audible and steeped in resignation. Harrison had been powerful enough even back then to shut down the investigation and get a suicide ruling. Devon would go to his grave knowing his mother had loved her children too much to take her own life. But he’d never be able to prove it.
Chapter 2
Devon slipped into his mother’s old painting studio, which was now a drab sitting area, stuffed with more grandiose relics and artifacts. No lingering scent of oil paints or turpentine remained. He closed the door softly behind him and dug out his cell phone, his fingers shaking so hard it took several tries to scroll down and tap Eric’s number.
“Tell me the good news, Renegade,” his cousin greeted cheerfully, and the pop of a champagne cork followed.
“Did you sell shares?” Devon said through clenched teeth. The background sitcom laughter stopped abruptly, the ensuing silence a yawning pit of hell. He groped for the nearest marble statue as disbelief threatened to take him down.
“A few. Why?”
“And you didn’t think to tell me? Or give me first offer?”
“This was totally temporary, Dev. I sold last week, and I’m about to purchase them back. What the hell’s going on?”
Devon wiped the sweat from his upper lip. “We no longer hold the majority of shares, and somehow my father just launched a hostile takeover. We’re officially at DEFCON 1.”
“Wait…takeover? I’m the damn CFO. I haven’t heard anything. Why? How?”
“I don’t know.” He paced to the window, the whole evening blitzing through his mind. Something wasn’t right. The timing was too odd. Too convenient. “I know my old man, Eric. He’d have figured out a way to destroy me long ago, when we were a fledgling upstart. This isn’t his idea. I want to know who’s behind it and why.” He started for the door. “Wake up a damn private investigator. Get as much information as you can on a Honey Hartlett and a Wesley O’Brien.”
“Will do. Did you sign for the trust at least?”
“No.” He stopped in his tracks. “Jesus fucking Christ. It’s already pledged to secure the bank deal. What happens to my money if we’re taken over?”
The abrupt silence on the other end was his answer. He’d just lost millions. He’d left twelve years ago, penniless and unemployed, and in the space of twelve minutes tonight his father had done it to him again. Devon’s breath came in short bursts. His shirt clung to his back.
“I’ll check with our lawyers,” Eric finally answered. “Surely they can try to find a loophole to get some of it back.” The words held hope, but the tone didn’t. “What are you going to tell Nicole?”
Devon closed his eyes. Shit. She’d said she’d wait up by the phone, and he doubted it was with any semblance of patience. Nicole was the kind of woman who rewarded brilliant business acumen. They both had high expectations of each other and were well on their way to staggering influence. Or had been. What could he possibly say to
her about tonight? She didn’t suffer failure, and despised excuses. Until now, it’d never been a problem. He wasn’t ready to watch his demise in her esteemed regard; there were too many unanswered questions.
“I’ll text her that the birthday reunion is turning into a late one, and I’ll call her in the morning.”
His cousin’s grunt held a distinct warning, which Devon ignored. He could handle Nicole; it wasn’t any of Eric’s business. He ended the call and made his way upstairs and over to his sister’s wing. Outside her door, he took a couple of deep breaths and refocused on her problems. Harrison rolled over others without mercy, and she’d never stood up to the old man like he had. She’d never hardened through their torturous childhood, so if tonight had been a shellshock for him, it must have been an atomic bomb for her.
He knocked softly, and Frannie answered in seconds, blotting her puffy eyes with a tissue.
“Hey.” He drew her into a bear hug. “I came as soon as I could.”
“What did he say to you?”
“Nothing important.” He’d come to talk her into defying the old man’s blackmail, not burden her with more horror. “You got a raw deal, Frannie—”
“At least she isn’t homeless like me,” Rick called, sinking onto the floral sofa in the suite’s living room. He tilted his wine glass and finished the last drop.
Devon bit back a harsh reply at the pity party. Twelve years ago he’d left for New York that very night and never looked back. Granted, he’d smashed Hannah’s heart in the process, and the guilt sometimes still rendered him sleepless… But he hadn’t sat moping, even when he was dirt broke and sleeping on Eric’s spring-less sofa. “Put the glass down and sober up,” he said. “I’m here to help you guys figure something out.”