Beholden (The Beguiling Bachelors Book 2)

by Madison Michael

  “Jeez, man. I had no clue,” Alex answered after a long pause. “I thought you were just playing with her because she was so desperate that you could.”

  “Are you saying she is only tolerating me because she is desperate? That hurts, Alex, that really hurts.”

  “Oh crap, that didn’t come out the way I meant it. What I meant was that I didn’t think she would let any of us get close to her after Wyatt. We are all too tight, you know, and she is too proud.”

  “She is extremely proud, which brings me to my second issue – work. I am trying to find a buyer for her company. She won’t go under without a fight. She is surprisingly protective of the HI employees for a woman who pretends she is a tough bitch. I think deep down she is a softy.”

  “So, a buyer,” Alex pondered. “I am thinking that will not be easy at this point. What is left of any value?”

  “Well, that is just it,” Randall explained. “The value is in the major contract holders. If they transfer to a new owner that would be worth quite a bit, plus there is the customer list, patents and skilled employees. That should be worth something, right?”

  “Yeah, you should be able to make a deal with that.” Alex agreed. The two scribbled numbers on a napkin for the next ten minutes, correcting each other’s assumptions until they agreed on the figures. “The key is those seven contracts,” Alex pointed to the names of seven large companies circled on the napkin.

  “That’s what I think too. I want to reach out to the stakeholders and ensure that they remain with HI because of the pending sale while closing the deal because the stakeholders are staying.”

  “It’s risky playing one against the other, Randall. But you might pull it off.”

  “Could Maria Canovalli? I have her pushing to get a deal done.”

  “Yeah, she could. Maria’s impressive. She might need a little hand holding, but this may work. You might have to use your influence to sweeten the pot a little for one side or the other.”

  “I could do that by promising a PPHP contract as part of the deal. That should work, don’t you think?”

  “Oh yeah, but if PPHP does any of the financing for the deal they can’t suddenly be a customer and you know that. Besides, even if you could, the board is way too conservative to invest in HI now.” Alex was right, as usual.

  Okay, I will just strong arm Wyatt into signing a contract with them instead. I can use my personal funds to back him if the deal goes south. That would work. I know he would agree. He may not like how Sloane treated him, but he still thinks she got a raw deal when her dad went down. And he wouldn’t want to see all those people out of work.”

  ”You would throw in some cash? He doesn’t need it you know. And I could invest instead. I am not suggesting you risk your money.”

  “I want to do this, and I will, if it is what is needed.”

  “I hear you, and if you need a bigger contract than you feel comfortable with, count me in. I can certainly afford it. But note, I am doing this for you, not for Sloane. I am not convinced about how adorable she is, yet.”

  After giving Alex a sneer for his last remark, Randall - moved by Alex’s generosity - thanked him profusely.

  “One more thing, Randall.” Alex stated reluctantly. “You have got to watch the booze, man. If you want Sloane to take you seriously, you will have to toe the line. She will not tolerate a single slipup from you. The first time you lay a hand on another woman, she will throw you out on your ass.”

  Pushing away the half-full bottle of beer in front of him with a broad grin Randall bragged, “I can do that easy, Alex.”

  “You better be sure.”

  “Oh yeah, I am sure. You know why? It’s because this woman is worth it.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Sloane returned from her spin class exhausted. In the last week, she realized that if she didn’t go to exercise class, she didn’t leave the house. She was having junk food delivered and avoiding the office by calling in with increasingly feeble excuses. Currently, she was ‘nursing her aging and ill border collie, Lucy.’

  Everyone in the office was appropriately sympathetic. Running to and from the vet with a sick dog while facing the prospect of euthanizing your beloved pet must be heartbreaking. They understood how devastated she must be after ten years of devoted companionship. Only one or two intrepid souls had dared to mention that she had never spoken of Lucy before, or any pet for that matter – not even a goldfish.

  When did I become this sniveling coward?

  Sloane knew exactly when she had lost the last vestiges of her pride. It happened only moments after she was sandwiched between the implacable body of an incredibly sexy man and an unmovable brick wall. In that moment, she experienced an emotion she had never felt with Wyatt. She felt tenderness and desire, heat and heart.

  Once she dropped her guard and allowed Randall in, she also allowed herself to feel something she had not felt for months and months before that moment. She allowed herself to feel something she feared she would never feel again.

  She felt hope.

  If Randall, of the staid proper Parker family, scion of PPHP, was willing to be seen at her side, she believed she could hold her head up proudly no matter what. He was incredibly intelligent, witty – in that annoying way of his. He led her to believe that she could dig the company out and show all those nasty former “friends” that she was back in action.

  Besides all that, he had put a chink in her armor, broken some ice that had encased her heart for years. He made her laugh, he made her think and he made her feel. She liked how he made her feel.

  Ooh baby, baby, did I ever like the way he made me feel.

  Then he turned his back on her, disavowed her at the first sign of a challenge, yanking the ground out from under her feet. Only now it was worse because he had stolen her hope, taken it with him.

  Now he was back because he felt sorry for her. Her. Sloane Huyler. How dare anyone feel sorry for her! Just the idea that she had sunk so low was mortifying. It shook everything Sloane believed about herself to the core. She had been raised an only child in a loving home. Every wish was granted, every desire fulfilled. Her father never ceased telling her that she was smarter, more beautiful, better. The Huylers rose to the top. There were members of a small elite group destined to be served by those around them. That is what her daddy told her, and her daddy never lied.

  She had been a beautiful little girl with thick dark hair, luminescent white skin and bright blue eyes. Her mother considered a modeling career for the tall slim girl, and again for the coltish teenager but they didn’t need the money or the notoriety. Therefore, Sloane occupied herself with ballet lessons where she excelled, cheerleading squad where she excelled, and student body vice president. She was a straight ‘A” student matriculating at her father’s alma mater, Yale, then at Northwestern University’s Kellogg School of Business where she studied, apprenticed in her father’s business and met the highly eligible Wyatt Lyons Howe IV. With the fulfillment of her wedding plans, her privileged life would have been guaranteed to continue.

  Sloane’s parents orchestrated her life. They hand picked the right friends, so that she could volunteer on the right charitable boards, meet the right people for lunch or drinks and vacation either on the right islands or on the right ski slopes. And never once did she question or doubt that this would last forever, because it was her due, her God-given right to be at the very tip-top of the food chain, part of the top of America’s top one percent.

  Sloane’s father was a brilliant executive, starting a company from almost nothing with just an old family name to open doors for him. He did whatever was necessary, and legal of course, to assure his family would never want for anything. He mentored her in the business, treated her as the son he never had and she stepped up and delivered. She would never dream of doing less.

  She still had the right Gold Coast address, and a gorgeous vintage apartment that she purchased for a large fortune three years ago when the building w
ent condo. The three bedrooms had ten-foot ceilings, custom-designed crown moldings and beautiful hardwood floors, two front parlors, both with fireplaces, and an oversized rustic kitchen.

  With the help of the most sought-after decorator, Sloane had created her oasis. The parlors had a lovely archway between them and floor to ceiling drapes hid the old-fashioned radiators. A green velvet, Baker sofa that she could sink into after a rough day dominated the larger room. She had styled it with a gorgeous oriental rug in a muted palette, a large wing chair in a green and white herringbone and floral pillows to provide a pop of color against the dark green. Rosewood nesting tables were carefully placed in front of the sofa and a wall of etched mirror reflected a Gustavian chandelier hanging from the ceiling. A modern painting beyond it had been a gift from Wyatt. A small conversation area with a loveseat in the floral fabric beckoned from across the room.

  Sloane used the second parlor as a library, with shelves of books and artifacts from art fairs and her extensive travels. Her designer had done an outstanding job of creating a different feel in this room, yet it flowed easily from the other parlor. Small green barrel chairs sat under the draped windows and a large chesterfield sofa sat under the modern painting. An antique secretary sat against the remaining wall tucked between the floor-to-ceiling shelves. With the addition of a small wooden library ladder, the space was reminiscent of Henry Higgins’s library in “My Fair Lady”, but on a smaller scale

  Halfway down a long corridor was her sunny dining room and the back of the condo was comprised of a completely renovated kitchen, butler’s pantry and laundry. There were heavy wooden doors along the corridor for her bedrooms, two and half baths and two good sized closets, and behind the building was a garage with an indoor parking space for her Mercedes.

  It was a perfect place for her, which was fortunate since she hid in it almost 24/7 now. She had sent her report to Allyson and skipped the last Hospital board meeting. She phoned into the office daily for conference calls, and she met Maria in an out of the way coffee shop to discuss the acquisition, when Maria insisted that they needed to meet face to face. With the exception of exercise class and her lunch with Regan, Tyler and the infuriating Randall, she had left the house only twice in the last month.

  So, she had gone to spin class and then stopped at Starbucks for a skim latte. She walked to and from a small local gym, jogged or did yoga from a DVD, having dropped her costly East Bank Club membership during the trial. She had expected to rejoin the club when her father was exonerated, as he certainly would be. She had thought so at the time, and had planned to rub everyone’s nose in her renewed position. That was unlikely to happen now that he had no plans to appeal.

  Meanwhile, she went to the spin class just a few blocks from her home. It got her a bit of fresh air, saved her money and she could be assured of anonymity at the facility. None of her old acquaintances would go to a place like that. In the old days, she would never have set foot in the run-down facility.

  Now safely back in hibernation, she grabbed a carton of yogurt from the Subzero and, after knocking all the decorative pillows to the floor, dropped onto her plush sofa, kicking off her sneakers and tucking her sock-clad feet under her. There were no phone messages; there never were. She only kept the landline because her mother could remember the easy number and it was more convenient for long conference calls.

  She had binge watched Hallmark Channel movies, read a few novels and was running out of ways to entertain herself. She seriously considered making an appointment with a psychologist; she knew she was suffering from depression. Marianne had gone on medication immediately after the arrest and it certainly seemed to be helping her. But Sloane did not know a doctor and was too proud to call anyone for a recommendation.

  When my father is free, when the house is sold, or at least when this acquisition is over, this depression will go away.

  Sloane knew she was depressed because there was just over one week until the Children’s Hospital Benefit and she hadn’t even bothered with a new dress. She should have done that months ago. Not that she needed one, of course. She had three large closets full of designer clothes that represented several years’ salary for the average worker, but she usually bought a new dress for every occasion. She was often photographed and it just would not do to be seen in the same dress twice.

  Besides, she knew she would have no opportunities to wear any of her formal gowns after next week. There would be no more invitations, no more board positions. It had taken a while to absorb, but she finally understood that nothing would improve until things changed for her father. If he didn’t appeal, how could things change? Sloane couldn’t understand why he accepted a plea deal. Unless his sentence was overturned she would be subjected to this deep-freeze for at least six long years,

  She was shaken from that morose thought by the buzzing of her lobby intercom. She was curious, but too lethargic to bother answering. Less than a minute passed before it buzzed again. She rose gracefully from the couch, padded to the wall in her little white socks and hit the button.

  “Yes?”

  “Ms. Huyler, sorry to bother you. There is a man here to see you. He said he is your financial advisor, Mr. Parker. Shall I send him up?” Even the doorman had that shocked voice, as if he understood no one came or went from her apartment anymore.

  Sloane hesitated while her heart rate revved into a rapid, staccato beat. She thought her chest would explode. She was sweaty already, so the sweat that broke out now went unnoticed. Her hair was pulled into a high messy ponytail, she was wearing no makeup, skintight workout pants and a tiny, cropped t-shirt over a fraying sports bra.

  How could she let him up looking like this? How could she let him get away? Oh, God. Oh, God, what do I do? Listen to yourself, Sloane Huyler. Get a grip. Where is that smart, decisive woman you used to be?

  “Tell him I am not at home, John.”

  “Very good, Ms. Huyler.”

  Less than a minute passed before the buzzer broke the quiet again, the noise urgently repeated like someone was laying on the button.

  “Yes, John?” Sloane answered with annoyance in her voice. “What it is now?”

  “If you are going to say you aren’t home, Sloane, you should make sure I can’t hear your voice. Tell the doorman - John is it? Tell John to allow me up. Now, Sloane.”

  Sloane heard that no-nonsense tone in Randall’s voice. It was the tone that said ‘I will get my way, so just give in.” It irritated the hell out of her. It also turned her on immensely.

  “Send him up, please, John.”

  Sloane knew she had less than 90 seconds to pull herself together. She kicked off her socks, ran to drop the yogurt container and spoon in the kitchen and rinsed her face quickly over the kitchen sink, drying it with paper towels. It was all she had time for before she heard the imperious knock at her door.

  Taking three deep breaths to steady the heart she feared would explode through her chest, Sloane moved slowly from the back of the deep apartment toward the front door. An impatient Randall was already thumping more forcefully. His hand was still in mid-air when she grabbed the heavy crystal knob and yanked open the door.

  He looked so handsome standing there, expensive suit fitting his powerful body to perfection, dark hair combed back from his chiseled face. He had grown a close-cropped beard since she had seen him last week and although she missed seeing his square chin, she had to admit it suited him extremely well. He looked both rugged and polished, and sexy as hell. His eyes looked deep turquoise in this light, his dark brows thick above them, his eyelashes the envy of any woman.

  “Are you going to leave me standing in the hall?” His accusatory tone was just what Sloane needed to pull herself back together.

  My god, the man mesmerizes me. I have got to stop looking into those eyes or I am a goner.

  “Of course, how rude of me. Please come in. As you can see, I was not expecting company,” she waved her arm to indicate her attire. “Perhaps a phone call a
sking to stop by would have been appropriate.” Sloane’s voice and demeanor dripped with disdain.

  There, that should put the insufferable man in his place.

  “Oh, cut the crap, Sloane,” Randall retorted snidely, walking past her into the living room and plopping down on her sofa like he owned the place. “We both know that if I had called first, you would have told me not to come.”

  Damn him and his too-sexy-for words face. He’s right of course.

  “Well, if you knew that, perhaps you should have respected my wishes and stayed away.”

  “Are you just going to hibernate and hold the world at arm’s length forever?” Randall’s words were cutting and they hit Sloane in the face. “I think it’s time for you to rejoin the living, Babe,” he added more gently, coaxing her with his words and the use of the endearment. Sloane bristled for a brief moment before capitulating. She know Randall had just signaled that he had the upper hand and he was keeping it,

  “Well, you’re here now, so I guess my hibernation just ended,” Sloane had given up fighting with him – for now.

  She watched as Randall surveyed the space, quickly taking in the empty cookie box, potato chip bag, the soda cans, the stack of novels on the coffee table, one laying facedown and open, and the heavy velvet curtains drawn over the windows.

  “Do you ever go out anymore?” he finally queried. Without an invitation, he rose from the sofa and began walking through her apartment as if it were his right. He yanked open the curtains, flooding the room with light. She was so astonished she just stood there, saying nothing, allowing him to go wherever he chose.

  Randall walked into the library, did a quick circle, running his fingers over the bindings of books placed carefully on one long shelf, reading the titles on other shelves. He turned without a word and moved down the hall, looking through the large open archway to see her computer and papers scattered over the regency table in the dining room. He walked past the closed bedroom doors and with barely a glance into the bathrooms, continued down the long hallway to the kitchen.