by Tara Wylde
I still miss Sully every single day. His portrait hangs on the wall behind my desk as a constant reminder of why we do what we do.
Pearce pulls a USB drive from his briefcase and slides it into the projector on the table. A few seconds later, there’s a proposal beaming onto the screen on the boardroom wall.
“I think the offer will speak for itself,” he says matter-of-factly.
To him, this is a done deal. He’s got another think coming.
54
6. SARA
Thank God they’re all looking at the PowerPoint now instead of at me. My hands are shaking so badly, they might think I’m suddenly going through drug withdrawals or something.
Two hours ago, my biggest worries were dealing with my hangover and making my rent. Now I’m sitting in a boardroom with a $150,000 contract to investigate Chance Talbot – who just happens to be the high school boyfriend whose heart I broke fifteen years ago.
I drop my hands under the table and pinch the skin between my thumb and forefinger hard enough to make myself wince. Shit – the pain is real. This isn’t a nightmare.
“As you can see, Empire is prepared to be aggressive in our acquisition,” Quentin drones beside me. It barely registers with me, though, because all I see is Chance. This isn’t the boy who used to nibble my neck in the storeroom of the old rec center and promise me that we were going to make it big someday.
This is a man. Tre was always a beefy football player, but Chance is something else now. He must live in the gym, the way he fills out that golf shirt. The fabric clings to his shoulders and chest and arms, but billows down at his waist where it’s tucked into his khakis. There isn’t an ounce of fat anywhere on him that I can see.
Then why is it I can’t stop staring at his eyes? Those flinty, ash-colored eyes that always used to light up whenever they saw me.
They’re not lighting up this now. In fact, he’s been avoiding eye contact with me since Quentin started talking. And I can’t blame him.
“Our offer is $25 a share,” says Quentin. “Obviously I don’t know exactly how your shares are structured, but that price should be enough to make each of you a millionaire about a hundred times over.”
Across the table, Mrs. Sullivan plays it cool, but the interest in her eyes is plain to see.
“You’re assuming we’ll each sell all of our shares,” she says.
“That’s a condition of the deal,” he says flatly. “It’s all or nothing. You either agree to give over control, or the offer goes away.”
“Then you might as well go home right now,” Chance says, arms crossed. “There’s no way I’m selling.”
“We don’t need your shares,” says Quentin. “The rest of the board makes up the controlling interest. If they sell and you don’t, Empire will simply replace you as chairman and CEO. You’ll be a shareholder, nothing else.”
Chance looks over to the board’s side of the table, shaking his head.
“Agnes,” he says. “Tell him what you think of his offer so we can all get on with our days.”
Typical Chance. Wears casual clothes when everyone else in in suits, calls the shareholders by their first names, and just assumes he’s right. He may be a lot more powerful now, but he’s still the same little thug I fell in love with all those years ago.
I pinch my hand again, just in case. No such luck – still not a bad dream.
“Mr. Chairman,” says Mrs. Sullivan, sounding like a lecturing mother. “We’ll follow proper procedure, if you don’t mind.”
Chance rolls his eyes. “Fine. Any discussion on this ridiculous offer to tear down everything Sully and I built?”
What they built? The investigator in me is buzzing with questions: how did a kid from the streets of Philly end up as CEO of a multi-billion-dollar security company?
“That’ll be enough of that,” she snaps. “I may love you like a son, Chance, but don’t go thinking you have a monopoly on Patrick’s legacy.”
Then I see something that makes me pinch my hand yet again: Chance Talbot apologizing.
“You’re right, ma’am,” he says, eyes on the table. “I’m sorry.”
This is definitely not the same cocky kid I used to know. Back then, it was his way or the highway.
A blond man – one of the Sullivans, I assume – clears his throat.
“I get where you’re coming from, Chance,” he says. “I mean, Atlas is you and the family, always has been. But to be honest, if Dad were here and he saw the opportunity for all of us to make this kind of money in one fell swoop…”
He doesn’t have to finish the thought. Seriously, who would pass up a hundred-million-dollar offer? I’m selling my soul for a thousandth of that.
A wave of nausea crashes into me as I realize what that means: Pearce wants me to dig up dirt on Chance. Shit. I knew it had to be too good to be true.
God, why can’t anything be simple?
55
7. CHANCE
Sara suddenly looks a little green for some reason. But I can’t focus on that right now.
Desmond is right: Sully would have called his family crazy if they passed up that kind of money. I used to joke with him that he was the only Scottish Irishman I ever met.
But at the same time, he was as invested in Atlas as I am. We built it with our own hands, and he of all people understood how important the company is, not just to the Sullivans but to the entire world.
He also knew something about the company that none of his family knows – something I can’t tell them. That’s going to make this more difficult than I thought. I never would have believed Pearce would be offering this kind of money.
I have to convince them not to sell. There’s no other choice.
“I get that, Des,” I say. “It’s like winning the biggest Powerball jackpot in history. But really, are you doing so bad right now?”
Dory, Sully’s oldest, winces at that, and I realize too late that I’ve set her up to say something I don’t want Pearce to hear. Shit.
“That’s the thing,” she says. “We’ve got all these shares, but we’re not getting much out of them. I know we’re not poor, but we’re not exactly rich, either.”
God damn it. Now Pearce is going to smell blood in the water. But Dory’s right – the dividends from the shares have always gone back into the company, particularly the last five years as we expanded. The Sullivans might clear half a million a year each after taxes. Sully left them each an inheritance, but that’s their savings. The shares are their only income, outside of investments.
I know half a million a year seems like a fortune to a lot of people – hell, even to me, since I grew up dirt poor – but Pearce is offering them enough to buy a private island.
Tre chimes in: “There’s an easy fix for that. The board can vote to increase the dividends. Everyone gets a raise.”
That’s why he’s the president of Atlas. Like I said, he’s smarter than me.
“Yes,” says Pearce, pouncing like a cat. “But those dividends are tied to profits. The minute your profits go down, so does your income. Sell to Empire and you know exactly how rich you’ll be for the rest of your lives.”
God, I hate this prick. What the hell is Sara doing with a clown like him?
Des turns to Agnes. “What do you think, Mom?”
“I think we all need some time to think,” she says. “This obviously isn’t a decision we’re ready to make today.”
God bless you, Aggie. I knew I could count on you. Of course, it would have been better if you’d told Pearce to go pound sand up his ass, but I’ll take what I can get.
Across the table, Pearce’s eyes narrow. He obviously thought he had a slam dunk with the Sullivans. He thought wrong.
“This offer isn’t open-ended,” he snips. “I told you, it’s all or nothing.”
“You said we all had to sell, Mr. Pearce,” says Agnes. “You didn’t give us a timeline.”
Pearce turns to Karen, the secretary who’s been silentl
y taking notes on the meeting.
“I want this clearly in the minutes,” he says. “This offer expires in thirty days.” He checks his watch. “At precisely 8:43 a.m. on the 17th of September. Until then, my due diligence team will need access to Atlas’s offices.”
Jesus, the guy doesn’t even try to ingratiate himself to the board. The only language he speaks is money.
Agnes stares at him for several long moments. I’d like to think the fucker is squirming inside, but somehow I doubt it. Beside him, Karen just sits there with her hands under the table, wincing every now and then.
“All right, then,” says Agnes. “I’ll make the motion that Atlas allows Empire’s team access to our offices for the next thirty days. All in favor?”
All eight of the Sullivans raise their hands. I don’t, just to make sure Pearce – and Sara – know exactly where I stand.
“And we’ll schedule another emergency board meeting for 8:00 a.m. on September 17th,” Agnes continues. “You’ll have your vote then, Mr. Pearce.”
I glance at her and she nods.
“Meeting adjourned,” I say.
Pearce and Sara pack up their things as I step over to Agnes. I keep my voice low so they can’t overhear.
“We need to talk about this,” I say.
“Well, duh. I may have been a housewife instead of a hotshot super solider, Chance, but I’m not stupid.”
I wince inside. She wasn’t a housewife, she was a Dartmouth grad who stayed at home to raise her Irish brood. At times like this, I still feel like a punk kid around her. I suppose it’s only natural – she’s one of the two women I consider a mother. The other is Tre’s mom.
She must see it, because she takes my hand.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “This whole thing has me on edge. Obviously, this is life-changing and the stakes are high.”
“Agnes, I can’t lose Atlas to someone like Quentin Pearce.”
“At the risk of being blunt, dear, you have more shares than any of the rest of us, plus a very lucrative CEO’s salary, plus an expense account, the company jet…”
I hold my hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay, I get it.”
“I know you earn every penny, but the fact remains that you’re making a lot more money than we are. You can’t blame us for being tempted.”
She’s right. But that doesn’t change the fact that I can’t lose the company to Pearce, or let anyone dig too deeply into Atlas. There’s too much at stake.
“What if I came up with a better offer?”
The words just come out of my mouth, independent of my brain. What the hell am I talking about? How am I going to come up with a better offer?
“Better than a hundred million each?” Agnes asks, eyes round. “If you can do that, I say bring it on. But if you can’t, I’m afraid we’ll have to sell. If that happens, I’d advise you to do the same, before Pearce can fire you.”
I nod, trying to look confident despite the fact I have absolutely no idea how to follow through on this.
“I’ll see you in thirty days,” I hear myself say.
She leans in to give me a peck on the cheek.
“Good luck, sonny boy,” she whispers. “I’m rooting for you.”
Across the room, I see Pearce scowl. At least I have that much satisfaction.
56
8. SARA
I’m beginning to wish I’d dropped my phone in the toilet at the Toad & Turtle last night.
“Time for you to go to work,” Quentin says in the hallway outside the boardroom. “Obviously it would have been better if they’d accepted the offer, but that’s not realistic. You have thirty days to bring me something that will make Chance Talbot back down.”
My head is still spinning, and so is my stomach. Being hungover and meeting up with your high school sweetheart on the same day as being offered the biggest contract of your life can be a little overwhelming.
“What exactly are you looking for?” I ask as Chance emerges from the boardroom.
“That’s exactly what I was wondering,” he says with a sardonic grin. “Great minds think alike, I guess.”
Ouch. I can hear the venom in his voice.
“So you already know Ms. Bishop,” says Quentin. “That’s good. It should make things easier.”
“How do you figure that?”
Quentin smiles. He really shouldn’t – he obviously doesn’t realize how fake it looks.
“Sara is the best investigator in the business,” he says. “She’ll find whatever you’re hiding.”
You told me I was the first one in the phone book, I don’t say.
Chance’s eyes flash. I’ve seen that look before, years ago. It was followed by two other guys ending up in the emergency room.
“What the hell are you talking about?” he snarls.
“Rumors,” Quentin says. “Blackmail. War profiteering. All sorts of nasty talk.”
“You’re full of shit.”
Is he? I may not be the “best investigator in the business,” but I think I can sense when someone is being defensive. Chance is hiding something.
Quentin leans in closer to Chance. I’d warn him not to, but I don’t like him.
“What do you think the Sullivans would say if they found out the truth about their dear old dad?” he whispers.
Chance grins, but those smoky gray eyes are smoldering.
“Anyone who says anything bad about Patrick Sullivan in my presence will regret it,” he says coldly.
“Is that a threat?” Quentin asks.
“No, this is a threat: stay out of my way or I’ll fucking hurt you.”
They glare at each other for a second, ramping up the tension in my belly.
“Excuse me,” I mutter, heading for the room with a stick figure in a skirt on the door.
Inside the bathroom, I run the cold water and splash it on my face with trembling hands. This is too much to take – how did I end up in the middle of a war between the guy who’s offering me a life preserver contract and the man I’ve been dreaming about since I was a teenager?
In the mirror, I’m amazed see a woman who’s still remarkably together. All the stuff roiling around inside me isn’t showing on the surface – for now, at least. My hair is still in place, my face is about as good as it can look without makeup, and the suit I picked out actually matches and isn’t wrinkled.
Take a deep breath. Don’t puke. You can get through this. I mean, it’s only thirty days. How hard could it possibly be?
Yeah, right. All I have to do is spend thirty days digging into the privacy of the man whose heart I shattered years ago, so that he’ll end up losing the company that obviously means everything to him.
But what choice do I have? Like the Sullivans said, money is money, and Bishop & Associates needs money. Chance has to understand that.
Sure. He’ll understand being betrayed again by the girl he fought so many times to protect. The girl who practically owes her sanity to the love he showed her as a teenager.
The girl who slammed the door in his face on the night when he needed her the most.
Would he possibly understand if he knew the truth? Would he even care? It’s been fifteen years.
We’re both completely different people now. Or at least he is – chairman and CEO? Who could have imagined it? Meanwhile, I’m still the same screw-up I’ve always been.
I make one last pass over my face with a paper towel and smooth out my hair in the mirror. You can do this. Just power through. You’ve been doing that all your life, Sara. Just keep powering through.
Then I open the bathroom door and walk directly into Chance.
57
9. CHANCE
“Oof,” I hear as Sara walks right into my chest. Her lips graze against my neck as her breasts press against me.
“Sorry,” she mutters. “Should have been watching where I was going.”
Shit! I’m angry, but now I’m distracted by her lips. And breasts. And scent.
&nb
sp; “You should have been watching where you were going before you got into bed with Quentin Pearce,” I say. “I guess you’re not as cautious about who you get into bed with as you used to be.”
It’s a low blow, but it’s out of my mouth before I even realize what I’m saying. Her eyes tell me I’ve made a direct hit, and as much as I’m sorry for it, I’m also not sorry.
Jesus, she’s got me all tied up in knots!
“You don’t understand,” she says. “I didn’t know – ”
“Seriously? You didn’t know who you were meeting here this morning? You weren’t hand-picked for this?”
Her eyes dart around the hallway.
“He’s gone,” I say. “You’re on your own now.”
“Chance, you’re wrong. Quentin didn’t know about us. How could he? We haven’t been … together in fifteen years, and that was in another city.”
“I wouldn’t put anything past that piece of shit,” he growls. “But at least I know where you stand if you’re working with him.”
“Chance, please…”
The look on her face pulls a sudden memory out of the depths of my mind – that night at the farmhouse, when she told me she never wanted to see me again. It’s like a rusty knife to the heart all over again.
I hold up my hand to let her know I don’t want to hear it.
“Look,” I say. “I have to allow you access to the offices, but I don’t need to be near you. Talk to whomever you want, just stay away from me. Is that clear?”
Those sea-blue eyes seem to be searching for the right words to say. It’s too late. It was too late a long time ago.
“I don’t think you can avoid me entirely,” she says. “There are some things we have to do face to face.”
I pull a pen and a Post-It pad from the table in the hall and write down my cell number.
“Here,” I say, handing her the little yellow note. “When you get the urge to talk to me, let your thumbs do it for you.”
She looks down at the note, then back at me with a wounded look. I’d hoped the hurt in her eyes would give me some satisfaction, but in the end, it’s just making me miserable.