by Laura Moore
Ugh. “But what about…my dad?”
Piper looked at her blankly. “What about him? And really he’s not your dad or even your father so much as a sperm donor—not that I was in the market for a baby, believe you me.”
The microwaved macaroni and cheese Dakota had eaten for dinner bubbled unpleasantly in her stomach. “So you never found out who he was?” Her voice cracked as she asked.
Piper frowned in annoyance. “Why should I have? That was the whole point. For all I know he was a Mexican millionaire, an Arab sheikh, or a Brazilian diamond mine owner. Who cares? I wasn’t interested in his identity. I wanted the experience. And that’s what you want when you have sex with a guy, Dakota. Pure animal lust. It’s the ultimate. You’ll see. Don’t listen to anything the teacher in that stupid sex ed class tells you.”
Dakota wasn’t going to lie. That ten-minute discourse of her mother’s on “how I met your biological father” messed her up for quite a while. It was kind of tough knowing that the only parent she had enjoyed sexploits with anonymous men, and that her carelessness extended far beyond not bothering to cook dinner. It hadn’t even occurred to Piper to ask this flesh-and-blood sex fantasy for his name in case nine months later a little bundle of awkwardness came along.
It was one thing to live with the knowledge that she’d been conceived in a lavish bathroom, and quite another to come to terms with the fact that the bathroom wallpaper had left a more lasting impression on her mother than the man who’d rocked her world. Dakota supposed she should be eternally grateful Piper hadn’t named her Schumacher.
But being grateful for that—as well as for the fact that apparently Piper’s bathroom tryst was the only sexual adventure she’d had that night—was pretty paltry. It was no match for the anger that ate at her.
Luckily, she’d sorted herself out. Her friends helped. And she learned to take full advantage of Piper’s indifferent parenting, staying away from the house on Dunemere Lane until the fury inside her subsided. Thanks to her buddies who one day drove her out to Ditch Plains, lent her a surfboard, and then taught her how to stand on it, Dakota discovered the best place to let go of the hurt and pain.
Balanced on her board, she learned how to catch a wave, find a path, and cut through the cresting, rolling ocean. She learned how to carve, slice, and roll back as she shifted and balanced on the fiberglass surface. She practiced until she’d mastered how to create something beautiful out of a force that might otherwise have crushed her.
Now she reminded herself of all she’d learned and become as she pulled up in front of Piper’s house. Mimi’s Audi was parked next to her mother’s Mercedes, so she knew she’d be walking into a Hale-brewed storm. She would have to use all her acquired skills to ride this wave, too.
Max Carr picked up the phone on the first ring. “Yes?”
“It’s Roger Cohen on the line, Mr. Carr. I told him you were just about to leave the office for the Hamptons. He says it’s important.”
“Put him through, Fred. And tell the driver I’ll be down in five minutes.” Whatever the lawyer had to say, he could make it brief. Max didn’t want to keep Alex Miller waiting. Miller was one of the few people he actually liked. For some reason, Miller seemed to reciprocate the sentiment. He was giving Max a lift to East Hampton in the helicopter he’d chartered so that Max could visit his new beach house—a property Max had bought thanks to a tip from Alex.
“Very good, sir. I’ll connect you.”
“Thanks, Fred.” He waited a second, and then Roger Cohen’s voice came over the line.
“I have good news and bad, Max. Which do you want first?”
“I’ll take the good news first, but make it fast, Rog.”
“Yeah, Fred told me you’re on your way out. Your administrative assistant looks after you like a mother hen. Going to see the new house? Congratulations, by the way.”
“Thanks.”
Roger got the message. Clearing his throat, he continued. “You were on the money about Chiron. It’s ripe for a takeover. You’ve talked to your partners?”
“We had our investment meeting. I told them we’d put Steffen in charge of the company.”
“That must have made them happy.” Roger’s tone was dry. Chris Steffen was a wunderkind in the pharmaceutical world. “So you’ve got the green light.”
“Yeah, I just heard. They’re sold. I’ll get my team to hammer out a proposal that you can look over. We’ll want to move fast.”
“Got it. Oh, and I looked into that company, ZTron. Hemorrhaging dough.”
Not all of the businesses that Max targeted were big-ticket, splashy ones like Chiron. That deal promised to make Max’s private equity firm, the Summit Group, an even bigger player in the pharmaceutical world, and land Max at the top of Forbes’s “Forty Under Forty” list. But ZTron, a robotics company that specialized in factory automation, while ineptly managed, had a good R&D department. They were working on some innovative designs that had the potential to be used in a variety of fields. With the right kind of restructuring and planning, with the right kind of vision, ZTron could take off. Max wanted in.
“Thanks. I’ll do some more research over the weekend. Let’s plan to meet Tuesday at nine o’clock. And the bad news?”
“Right.” Roger hemmed. “That email you forwarded to me? No two ways about it. Your ex-girlfriend isn’t feeling warm and fuzzy toward you.”
“She wasn’t my girlfriend.” He didn’t do girlfriends.
“And I can only say thank God for that. She fully intends to sell the sex tape she made of you two unless you make it worth her while. She mentioned a million dollars as possible incentive to changing her mind.”
“That’s extortion.” He swiveled in his office chair to stare out the bank of ceiling-to-floor windows that formed the corner of his office. Most people would consider his sleek Park Avenue office as imposing as any stateroom. He supposed it was. At times it also felt like a tempered-glass and reinforced-steel cage.
“Yes, it is. Unfortunately for you, the lady—and I’m using the term loosely—doesn’t seem to be worried overmuch that she’s breaking the law. Fortunately for you, while she wasn’t shy about filming you and her together, it didn’t occur to her that turnabout might be fair play.”
“You’ve got her blackmailing me on tape?”
“I do.” Roger chuckled. “Ms. Ashley Nicholls’s Valley Girl–speak clangs as clear as a bell. Do you want me to turn what we’ve got on her over to the authorities?”
He tried to remember Ashley’s face. Not easy, since he hadn’t seen her in over a month, and after a while the women he hooked up with—even for repeat encounters—tended to blur, one leggy blonde into the next.
The women he dated knew the score. Max wasn’t looking for any kind of commitment or long-term relationship. When he was seeing a woman, he was generous with his body and his wallet, but that would never lead to a set of keys to his Tribeca loft.
He should probably be angry that Ashley had decided that the sex and dinners at Bouley and tables at the 40/40 Club or Marquee weren’t enough, and that she had figured hiding a small video camera—or even her cellphone—in her bedroom to record them fucking would be a better going-away present than the Harry Winston bauble he’d offered when he ended things between them.
But for some reason he couldn’t summon the appropriate outrage at the shakedown. Perhaps it was because he understood that with each business deal he successfully negotiated, he became a bigger target. He was accustomed to that. It wasn’t unlike when the defense had attempted a blitz or tried to bring him down with a humiliating sack.
But the tactics were different now and the stakes higher than when he’d played football. When he met a woman at a bar or club and within minutes of their flirty exchange she excused herself to fix her makeup, he pretty much figured she had her cell out to Google him and calculate to the last penny his net worth before she’d even reached the ladies’ room.
Now Ashley Nicholls had u
pped the firepower.
Not that it would do her any good.
“No police,” he answered. “Who knows what might leak out of a police station. Just explain to Ashley how many laws she’s broken and what kind of jail time she’s facing and how hard we’ll come down on her if she goes through with this. And make sure she understands that this is a threat and a promise that won’t go away.”
As the firm’s leading rainmaker, Max was the favorite of Bob Elders, Summit’s CEO. Max didn’t want that to change. Bob was a pretty rigid guy, still married to his high school sweetheart, and would flip if a tape of Max and Ashley doing the dirty became public. It might put an end to the increasingly frequent hints Bob had been making that Max was his first choice to replace him when he grew tired of the game.
“Will do. And may I make a suggestion?”
Max checked his watch. “Shoot.”
“First, consider installing a metal detector in your bedroom.”
“What, so no phones or video cams can pass the threshold?”
“Precisely.”
“Pointless. Ashley never got an invite to my apartment. She must have set up the camera in her place. Besides, certain metal objects have their use in a bedroom. Handcuffs, for instance.”
Rog made a choking sound. “Ms. Nicholls didn’t seem restrained in any way in that video,” he said once he’d recovered.
“No.” He didn’t think her enthusiasm had been an act for the camera, but hell, maybe thoughts of the million dollars she’d planned to swindle out of him had fueled her sexual hunger. Christ.
“Which brings me to my second suggestion. Try going out with women who are…well, let’s just say nicer than Ms. Nicholls.”
“Not interested.” Nice meant he might end up caring. Nice meant he might feel something, and Max couldn’t do that. “We’ll talk Tuesday.”
—
The helipad was between FDR Drive and the East River. Max carried his leather weekend duffel and his briefcase into the terminal. From the exterior it looked nondescript, but inside it was urban chic, with low-slung leather sofas and chairs, and a stainless steel bar. Industrial lights illuminated the dark-painted walls.
Max had just set his duffel and briefcase down next to one of the barstools when Alex Miller entered. Alex was in his early forties, blond-haired and with piercing blue eyes. He was about six feet, a couple of inches shorter than Max, and his build was lean and wiry. His reputation as a killer squash player matched his reputation as an investor.
“Good to see you, Max.”
“Likewise.” He shook Alex’s hand. “What are you drinking?”
“I’ll take a whiskey, neat.”
“Any particular brand, sir?” the bartender asked.
“Macallan.”
“And I’ll have a Grey Goose,” Max said.
“Macallan and Grey Goose coming right up.”
“Good week?” Alex asked him.
“Yeah, for the most part. I’ve got a couple of interesting deals in the works. Some other stuff…well, shit happens.” He left it at that. Alex Miller was happily married. He had a couple of young kids. Telling him about Ashley Nicholls’s blackmail attempt would be awkward. Embarrassing.
The bartender placed their drinks before them. “You gentlemen will be boarding the helicopter in ten minutes.”
“Thank you.” Max pulled out his wallet from inside his gray flannel jacket and handed him his credit card.
“Thanks for the drink, Max.”
“Thanks for the ride.”
“Anytime. Here’s to your new house.” Alex clinked the rim of his whiskey glass against Max’s.
Max took a healthy swallow. Ice cold in his mouth, the vodka burned a fiery path to his stomach. He hoped that by the time he finished his drink, the odd, sick feeling left in his gut by Roger Cohen’s phone call would be burned away.
“Where are you staying?” Alex asked.
“At the house.”
“You could stay at our place if you want.”
He knew Alex well enough. This man loved his family and hoarded his time with them, a precious commodity in their world. He’d be butting in.
“Thanks, but after I signed the papers, I had the realtor turn on the water and electricity and deliver a mattress and bedding and a couple of towels. My assistant called a local dealership. I’ll have a car waiting for me at the airport.”
“Still, kind of bare-bones. We at least have chairs.”
“I’d kind of like to get a feel for the place. And I don’t mind roughing it.” He gave a quick smile. “As long as it’s temporary.”
“Well, come to Sunday brunch and get a solid meal. We’re having a few friends over. It’ll be a way to introduce you to some of the cooler locals. That reminds me…Here.” Alex pulled out his cell from the side pocket of his navy pinstriped suit. “I’ve got a number for you. You were looking for a concierge service to oversee things at Windhaven? I’ve got someone. She’s a friend of ours and Gen ran into her today. Dakota’s agreed to meet you at Windhaven tomorrow morning at ten.”
“Dakota? Interesting name.”
“Her last one’s even more interesting.” He paused a beat. “It’s Hale.”
Max raised a brow. “Any relation to Elliott?”
“Niece,” Alex supplied.
“Ah.” Maybe this explained why Dakota Hale was comfortable calling the shots. Potential employees didn’t normally set the time for a meeting.
“But she’s refreshingly different from her uncle—and the rest of the Hale family,” Alex said.
He would make his own mind up about that. “Elliott Hale was a real prick.”
“Yeah. I can only imagine what he was like at the closing.”
“He looked like he was sucking a giant lemon. Pocketed the check and left without a word.”
Alex grinned as he brought his drink to his lips. “His own damn fault,” he said after taking a sip. “He must have started believing the BS he was spouting. His Templar Group gambled way too heavily on China letting its currency float up.”
And instead China’s leaders had devalued it. Bummer for Hale, new house for Max. One more shiny possession to show he’d made it…would it be enough?
“This is just the latest in a string of bad bets Elliott’s made,” Alex said. “Word is his investors are bailing. Can’t say I’m going to shed a tear for his sorry ass. He’s not just a prick, he’s a snob of the first order. That’s why you want to hire Dakota.”
“Because, unlike Elliott Hale, she’s not a snob?”
“Exactly. She’s built Premier Service on her own without a dime from the family. After having had the pleasure of Elliott’s company, you can imagine what they think of one of their own running a business that’s grounded in property management and catering to people’s needs.”
Max shrugged. “There’s good money to be made in the service industry.”
“Absolutely. And she’s damn good at what she does. You’ll be lucky if you can get her to work for you, so make sure you give a killer pitch to convince her that taking you on is worth the hassle with her family.”
Max gave him a long look. “You’re giving a pretty good pitch yourself. You by any chance an investor in her company?”
Alex shook his head. “She wouldn’t let me. Dakota’s a self-made woman.”
Another thought occurred to him. “You by any chance playing matchmaker, Miller?”
“God, no.” He laughed. “I like Dakota.”
There must have been vodka in Piper’s liquor cabinet after all.
Mimi, Piper’s older sister, was waving her martini glass as she spoke. “I’ll never forgive Mother and Father for leaving Windhaven to Elliott. He’s never cared for the house. I loved it. I appreciated it. Now the fool has lost it—and who knows what else besides—and sold Windhaven to some nobody from Michigan. He’s lucky I don’t fly to Bermuda and let his neighbors know what he’s done. Of course, it’s all because of Martha. I warned him she’d spend
every last penny he had.”
Dakota wondered how many times Mimi had repeated this story of warning her older brother; it was the type she liked a lot. Deep in their family drama, neither woman had heard the front door opening, and Piper had no dog to bark in greeting, one of Piper’s favorite adages being, “Never buy anything that shits.”
For a moment, Dakota hesitated in the entry by one of Piper’s collages, this one composed of fabric and nails. It would be so easy. She could take four silent steps backward and slip away. But if she did, the recriminations would be endless.
Besides, some habits die hard.
She owed nothing to her mother, but never mind. She was the dutiful daughter.
She let her boots land heavily on the hardwood floor.
Mimi looked over from the sofa. “Oh, it’s you.” She’d adopted the dismissive attitude that Dakota’s grandparents had perfected. “Have you heard?” she demanded.
“That Elliott sold the house? Yes.” Dakota didn’t add that she’d be meeting the new owner in less than twenty-four hours.
Her mother had her feet propped on the coffee table, and was studying her toes. The pedicure was fresh and her legs gleamed. She must have gotten her legs waxed along with her pedicure. Probably a Brazilian, too, in anticipation of her coming date.
“Hi, Piper.”
Piper looked up. “Hi, doll. Oh dear, you do look tired. You’ll never catch a man looking like that.”
“Not trying to.” During the summer months she’d been too busy to date, and now, with Piper fishing in the same pond—Duncan Harding, her latest boy toy, was only a couple of years older than Dakota—she didn’t feel particularly inclined to resume. “I just finished work,” she reminded Piper.