Miles glanced at Gary. “Asking Gary to keep his mouth shut is like asking a dog not to bark at a squirrel.” Everyone laughed. Gary knew it was his job to take the joke and run with it. He feigned shame and turned the key over his over mouth. “Ruff, ruff… you’re still paying me by the hour.”
“Trust me. I see all your bills,” Miles added for show. “I pay you by the minute.”
The group laughed again. Miles waved them all forward, up a half-flight of stairs towards Gary’s den. “Shall we, gentlemen?”
He said it with intentional chauvinism. He was boxing Gillian out and she knew it. Their eyes locked, but it was Gillian who finally broke their stalemate. When he was certain she wouldn’t attempt to fight him, he ascended up the stairs and followed the group behind closed doors.
Gary’s den was an expansive room, offering an unobstructed view of the jagged bluffs and sandy shoreline from the second level of the estate. With its angled ceiling and walls of glass, the den was both spacious and secluded—the perfect place to execute business without worrying about formalities. Miles settled himself into one of Gary’s leather club chairs and gestured politely for Olson and his wife to do the same. Wendell, their lawyer, circled around the Italian conference table where the seventy-page contract lay on its tempered glass. Miles already knew they had been through it—page-by-page—but still, Wendell paced around it like an anxious bulldog. They were still uncertain about something, Miles noted, even though he felt anything but uncertain.
As promised, Gary moved towards the impressive cherry wood liquor cabinet, unlocked it, and swung open its broad doors.
“Jura Vintage 1977 Single highland Malt Scotch Whisky,” Gary recited, lifting up the unopened bottle from the cabinet. “And that’s before anyone signs anything.” He pulled out tumblers from the stemware rack and poured out the drinks.
He passed the first serving off to Olson’s wife, and the second to Olson.
“That’s a fine aroma,” Olson complimented. “Real fine.”
“Only for the finest occasions,” Gary confirmed, handing off a drink to Miles before serving himself and savoring his own drink.
“You still never told me why you didn’t bother to do the Zale deal,” Miles asked.
“Came close to it,” Olson snapped. “But then Gary called me directly and said he could get me in the room with you, if we still wanted to be in your Fields building. I figured it was worth one more kick at the can. Your buildings are premium properties, Braxton. The only thing Zale’s got is plain vanilla skyscrapers—just a bunch of lofty floors of concrete and glass. I like personality. And I like vintage. But I don’t like being yanked around like a half-dead hog tied to a pickup truck, so I’m glad to see that we finally want the same thing. Otherwise, Gillian was right. You were leaving us with no choice but to shop the deal.”
“Well, there’s no need to shop it anymore,” Gary interjected. “We all want to close it—tonight.”
“Have you looked at the contract?” Olson suddenly asked Miles.
“No,” he replied with a cavalier disinterested that made Olson shift in his chair. “But that’s what I pay Gary to do.”
“Then you know we’re holding firm at eight percent for the annualized rent escalation.”
“Yes, and I’m not happy about it.”
“Well, you realize eight is market.”
“Sure, on Zale’s plain vanilla properties. But not on classic vintage properties with unparalleled history and irreplaceable architectural flare.” Miles rotated his tumbler, letting the light reflect off its amber Scotch. “The Fields building has antique stain glass ceilings designed by Louis Comfort Tiffany. It has one-of-a-kind Louis Sullivan’s terra cotta ornamentation that brings in foot traffic, just by its sheer natural beauty and stunning elegance. That’s the power of style and class. It gets noticed without even trying, and that’s the secret to knowing the difference—not between market and premium—but between premium and priceless. One is worth paying for and one is worth fighting for.”
“I’m not interested in any more fighting, Braxton,” Olson said, tossing back his drink and throwing down his hand. “So you let me know now if we’ve got a deal. Otherwise, Marge and I will call it a night and be on our way.”
“How ’bout we split the difference, gentlemen, and settle on nine percent,” Gary cut in, refreshing Olson’s tumbler. “That’s a healthy bump of a few hundred grand over the twenty-year lease.”
“Three hundred eleven thousand, four hundred and eighty-two dollars,” Miles counter, calculating the spread in his head. “Just to be exact.”
“Calculus major, casual genius, annoying show-off,” Gary joked with a nod at Miles. “Let’s all agree on nine percent—an acknowledgement that Brax is offering you the best of the best in Chicago downtown rental space.”
“I can live with that,” Miles said, tossing the choice to walk away from the deal back onto Olson.
“Nine percent,” Olson chewed on the new terms. “What do you think, Wendell?”
“I think the longer we stay here, the more we give up.”
“Damn straight,” Olson confirmed. “Alright, boys. Let’s sign this puppy before I finish my drink and change my damn mind.”
Olson rose from his club chair and eyed the contract on the glass table. He watched Gary adjust the escalation clause by hand, and pointed out where Olson needed to initial and sign to formally execute the deal. Miles followed behind him. Freedom, he thought. Finally, he would be free of all of them. Gary would get off his back and Miles could disappear with Maribel for a few weeks on his schooner without anyone demanding anything from him. Miles peered over at the seventy-page contract—pages and pages of indemnification clauses and financial legalese. Instead of relief, he suddenly wondered if thirty-five millions dollars was enough… was it enough to commit Miles to this life—a life of real estate deals and petty negotiations about rent escalations and expense charges—for twenty more years?
Then, they all heard the disruption and turned towards the doorway.
Miles saw Timothy panting and flushed at the top of the stairs.
“Sorry to interrupt, Brax…” His eyes fell on the business contract and backpedaled, realizing his ill-timed intrusion.
“What is it, Timmy?”
Timothy wavered. Miles frowned and searched his friend’s face, filled with urgent distress.
“She’s gone, Brax. Maribel’s gone.”
“Ah, the mouse…” Gary said with a snide tease. “Don’t worry, Brax. After you sign the contract, you can go back to hoarding cheese.”
Miles stared at Timothy. Gone…? He couldn’t possibly mean ‘gone, gone’.
“Brax,” Gary leaned into him. “The contract?”
“It can wait.” Miles pushed back on him, throwing the pen onto the table.
“Brax, don’t do this,” Gary lowered his voice with caution.
“Are we going to finish this thing or not?” Olson insisted, the ink of his full signature still wet on the contract’s final page.
Miles glared at Gary, then Olson. Then, he shifted his eyes back onto Timothy.
“Where?” Miles demanded, signaling to everyone in the room that his priorities has changed. Timothy nodded and shuttled down the stairs, beckoning Miles to follow him. Without warning, Gillian crossed into their path and pushed up against Miles like a cat looking for a scratch.
“What’s all the rush? You can’t leave without saying goodbye.”
“Get out of my way, Gillian—”
“What’s the matter, Brax? Did your little schoolgirl leave already?”
Miles glared at her and dropped his voice. “What did you say to her?”
“Nothing she doesn’t already know. In fact, I think she realized how much we have in common.”
“You have nothing in common with her. Nothing.”
“Don’t be so dramatic. She’s barely legal and you’re acting like you’re in love with her.”
“Get out of my
way, Gillian, before I push you across the room.”
Gillian slowly narrowed her eyes. “My goodness, Brax…tell me it isn’t true,” she said with a nervous laugh. “You think you’re in love with that girl?”
“And you think you know how to destroy me,” Miles seethed, cornering her against the wall and wrapping his hand around her wrist. “But you can’t, Gillian. You want to know why? Because every time you try, you’ll only prove that you’re incapable of loving anyone but yourself. And you want to know the really sad part? For years and years, I was the same as you. I was incapable of it, too, until I met someone genuine and caring—someone who only wants to love and be loved, and I realized there’s nothing more important in my life than that, and no one—not even you, Gillian—can take that away from me now.”
Miles shoved her deeper against the wall and tightened his vice grip around his wrist until her artificial smile betrayed pain.
“Miles—” Timothy said, pulling him back.
Miles released his grasp, but not his threatening gaze. When he was certain she wouldn’t follow them, Miles abandoned Gillian in the corner and raced behind Timothy to front door and out into the circular driveway.
“Has anyone seen a young woman leaving the property?” Miles called out.
All the limo drivers stopped their chatting and stared at him. They dragged on their cigarettes and kicked the curb, but their unified silence confirmed they weren’t interested in helping him.
“Maybe she followed the terrace pathway into the gardens,” Timothy offered. “Or maybe she started down the road herself. We can take my car…”
Miles stopped him, and surveyed the motley crew of drivers.
“Let’s try this again,” he insisted, pulling out a roll of cash out from his pocket and peeling off five one-hundred dollar bills from it.
“Has anyone seen a young woman leaving the property?”
Suddenly, all the drivers raised their hands—eager to assist.
Chapter Sixteen
Miles peered out the limousine window as Maribel’s apartment building came into view. This is where they had spent their first night together—this is where it had all started. It had been a long drive back to the city. Along the way, Miles realized he didn’t even have Maribel’s phone number. They had spent almost every moment together since Valentine’s Day. He had picked her up and dropped her off from work and she had slept with him in his bed for the past three nights. And yet, he never bothered to ask for her number. The driver rolled up to the curb. Miles jumped out of the limo before its wheels stopped. No, it was not going to end like this—not before they had a chance to truly explore what was growing between them. Miles charged up to the front foyer of the apartment complex. It was almost midnight and the entire building was quiet with slumber. Miles buzzed Maribel’s apartment number, then stood back from its façade, searching for a sign—any sign—that she was there, waiting for him.
“Maribel!” he suddenly shouted up to her third floor window. He felt consumed with desperation. “Maribel!”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph…” Emma Jean suddenly threw open her window. Her hair was webbed with a net and her face was smeared with nighttime cream. “What the heck are you doing? Trying to get arrested?”
“Please, have you seen Maribel? I need to see her.” Miles stepped back and shouted again, projecting his voice past Emma Jean’s window. “Maribel!”
Emma Jean hushed him. “Jeepers. Stop your hollerin’ for chrissakes, and come up to talk to me like a normal fella…”
Miles heard the vibration of the door buzzer, unlocking the foyer door. He passed through it, shuttled up the stairs to the third floor, then banged on Maribel’s apartment door. “Maribel, please… please open the door.” He was only greeted with silence.
Holding her robe shut with one hand, Emma Jean cracked open her own door and peered out at Miles.
“I truly don’t think she’s there, honey… I haven’t seen her since the night of my party. And if you weren’t so handsome and charming, I’da called the cops days ago. I just assumed she finally found true love and was making the most of it. Is everything okay?”
Miles held his head. Think, think, think… he tried to remember their conversations, somewhere else she might go, the name of a friend, a favorite bar, a special spot in the city. He only remembered the library. The library. And at this time of night, it was closed. But maybe in the morning, he would find her there. And if not there, surely she would be back at work tomorrow afternoon.
“Please, if you see her, tell her to call me.”
Miles felt down his suit jacket. He had a solid gold pen, but no paper. Instead, he pulled out a hundred dollar bill and scribbled out his phone number. He slid the bill across Emma Jean’s door and into her fingers. “Please…” he said with despair in his voice; his eyes begged for mercy.
“I sure will, love,” Emma Jean nodded with empathy, accepting the hundred dollar bill and slowly shutting her door.
Miles trudged down the stairs, withered by hopelessness and dread. He knew he was not a perfect man. He had made many mistakes in his life and there were more indiscretions in his past than he cared to remember. But Maribel had made him believe in the possibility of change—a change in his life which had brought him four days of happiness simply by being with her. Now, as he slipped back into the limousine and watched it rolled away from Maribel’s apartment, that happiness suddenly vanished, leaving only a churning anguish in the pit of his stomach and a salty lump in his throat. He had grown used to her in his life so quickly, and just as quickly, he had lost her. It was an ironic punishment, punishment for all those years he had dismissed love for himself and spurned countless of women in the process. But he realized there was nothing more important in the world than a woman’s love, especially a woman who wanted nothing from him except to be loved in return. No, Gillian was wrong—he didn’t think he was in love with Maribel. He knew he was in love with her.
* * * *
Maribel sat huddled on Emma Jean’s couch, listening to Miles hollering her name through the window. She knew Miles would try to come find her there. She also knew she wasn’t strong enough to resist him. She had been a fool—such a fool—this whole time. She had fooled herself into believing there was something more to their “relationship” than just sex. She had fooled herself into believing that Miles and she had shared a bond through their mutual loss of her mother and his aunt. She had fooled herself in believing that she could assimilate into Miles’ wealthy world without paying a price. But she had paid a price, and now, she recognized that price was too high for her to bear. She had lost her own self along the way, handing over her mind, body, and heart to a man she barely knew—simply because he had asked her to. Yes, her love was free. But her dignity was priceless.
“He’s going to wake up the whole neighborhood…” Emma Jean whispered, peering out at Miles from their dark apartment.
“I can’t see him, I can’t.” Maribel insisted, closing her eyes. “I feel like a fool.”
“Don’t worry, sweet pea. Let me handle him,” Emma Jean nodded before throwing open the window.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph…what the heck are you doing? Trying to get arrested?”
“Please, have you seen Maribel?”
Maribel listened to Miles’ voice ascend up through the cold night air. “I need to see her…Maribel!”
Maribel cringed. He wasn’t going to stop until he had his way. Stubborn. Relentless. Selfish. Maribel had fooled herself into believing that she motivated his determination. Now, she realized that he was always motivated to have whatever he wanted.
“Jeepers,” Emma Jean warned him with a hush. “Stop your hollerin’ and come up to talk to me like a normal fella.”
When Maribel heard Miles bounding up the staircase, she clenched Emma Jean’s sofa quilt and draped it tightly around her revealing sequin dress. Maribel hadn’t been home yet. Seeking sanctuary and companionship, she had come straight to Emma Je
an’s apartment. Emma Jean had let her cry for hours enduring her heaving tears of humiliation. Now, Maribel rubbed the black smudges of mascara off her hands. She was too weak, too fragile, too emotional to face Miles, and instead, she hoped Emma Jean would protect her. Both women shifted their eyes to the hallway. They heard Miles pounding on Maribel’s apartment door and calling her name. There was suffering in his voice—as if he truly missed her. A fool, she thought, a silly naïve fool.
“Don’t say a word—” Emma Jean instructed Maribel before cracking open her front door.
“I truly don’t think she’s there, honey… I haven’t seen her since the night of my party. And if you weren’t so handsome and charming, I’da called the cops days ago. I just assumed she finally found true love and was making the most of it. Is everything okay?”
“Please, if you see her, tell her to call me. Please…”
Maribel watched Miles slip money through the doorway. Typical. In his world, everything could be bought. Everything had a price.
“I sure will, love,” Emma Jean said, accepting the bill and slowly shutting the door.
Love…Maribel echoed the word in her head, and listened to the fading sound of Miles’ footsteps, descending down the staircase and out through the foyer door. He gave up already. Fresh tears welled in her eyes. Emma Jean locked the deadbolt and sat down beside her.
“Honey, he sure knows how to drive a hard bargain.” She tossed the hundred dollar bill into an ashtray, grabbed her cigarette lighter, and lit it with a match. Maribel watched it burn slowly, painfully, reluctantly. For four brief days, she had believed she had fallen in love with a man who could have any woman in the world he wanted, but had chosen her. Now, she realized she had fallen for a man who could have any woman he wanted, and was just as willing to abandon her.
“Do you want to sleep here tonight?” Emma Jean offered. “I can make up the couch real comfy, and you can borrow a pair of my flannel pajamas.”
Maribel shook her head and stood up from the sofa. “Thanks for everything, Emma Jean, but I just want to sleep in my own bed tonight.”
Priceless: Contemporary Billionaire Romance Novel Page 15