by May Sage
"Future commercial use?" he asked, a brow raised.
"Yes."
"Ah. To be entirely honest, I intend to purchase it for personal purposes, and I don't intend to allow large vessels to dock there in the future. But I am willing to pay a lot of money, enough for you to buy another harbor—a better harbor, larger, closer to Venice."
Hester's brows hit her hairline. It made absolutely no sense.
"Why?"
The man laughed. "If I told you, you wouldn't believe me."
"Try me," she replied.
Ed observed her closely without a word.
"You're not getting that harbor unless I know what you're going to do with it, Mr.—" she caught herself in time, "Ed."
He laughed. "All right. But I'm about to give you a sob story, and you're going to think I'm just giving you the sob story to get the harbor. Which, of course, is entirely accurate. It doesn't change the fact that the sob story is, in fact, true."
"I'm fairly confident that you could have explained what's going on in fewer words."
Ed laughed, and looked around her office. "Is there anything to drink around here? I just came out of the most tedious appointment with some relatives. If we're going to discuss this now, I'd rather do it with Scotch."
Rolling her eyes, she sent a message to Chris, asking him to come in. Her assistant popped his head in seconds later.
"Do you mind stealing Desmond's Scotch for me? Just one glass."
"The boss's stash?" Edmund whistled, impressed.
"He won't mind."
"But I couldn't possibly drink by myself."
"You'll have to. I can’t stand Scotch."
Ed smiled like he relished every no coming out of her mouth. She knew his kind. He was taking it as a challenge.
Chris came back shortly with a crystal bottle of amber liquid and a delicate glass.
"Rock, water, sir?" he asked.
Edmund noted, "The man knows his Scotch."
Chris shrugged. "I worked as a bartender to put myself through school. Sorry to say, I'm with Hes on this one. Whiskey is gross."
Ed sighed dramatically. "I'm surrounded by philistines.
"At least there're no sycophants in this room," Hester retorted.
"I'm good without water, or ice, man. It'd be a crime to ruin such a good Scotch. Your boss has great tastes."
She let Edmund take a sip and moan appreciatively, before prompting, "Well?"
"Well," he said, "it all starts with a British lady on a holiday to Italy, walking along a harbor…"
Chapter 6
When he was done telling her about his parents, Hester laughed good-heartedly.
"All right. I'll admit it, it's a good story."
"And you don't believe a word of it," he anticipated.
Hester shrugged unapologetically. He couldn't blame her. It was far too romantic and even had a dead father to top it off.
"I see I'm going to have to be convincing."
After checking the time on his phone, he went to his contacts and called his mom, putting the call on speaker.
"Eddy!" said Lola, cheerfully. "Still alive? I would have thought the Trents had set a bounty hunter on you by now."
"With what money?" he asked, snorting. "Mama, I need you to indulge me right now. I have a lovely lady with me and I've just told her about how you and Dad met. She thinks I'm bullshitting her; you mind relaying the story?"
But Lola Ashworth wasn't interested in her story right now. "A lady?" she repeated. "And a lovely one who calls you on your bullshit, at that? Who is this, Edmund dear? You know Cici is desperate for great-grandchildren."
He winced as Hester giggled.
"Ah, what a lovely voice."
"Hello, Ms. Ashworth," Hester said. "I'm afraid I'm unlikely to provide those great-grandchildren. But I am rather curious about your meeting with…was it Roberto?"
Lola needed no further prompting. She sighed before sharing her story, with a lot more flourish and details than he had. When she was done, Hester laughed.
"All right. So it seems your son is no liar."
"Eddy? Oh no. He never lies. He will manipulate, threaten, and bully people into having his way, but lying is beneath the Ashworth name."
"Well, I believe that's quite enough of that. Thank you, Mama."
"Will I see you for Cici's birthday?"
"I'll move heaven and earth to make it."
"Wise man. Talk to you soon!"
He hung up and returned his attention on Hester, who was now genuinely smiling. She'd been tense and antagonistic when he'd first walked in, now she'd relaxed.
"Well, see? I wasn't lying."
"No, you were just manipulating me. I should feel flattered there was no threatening or bullying."
Edmund shrugged. "It's business. I'll use whatever tool I must to get what I want."
"I thought the harbor was a personal matter?"
She was never going to let him get the last word.
"Which makes it even more important."
Hester tapped her fingernails on her desk, thinking.
"I'll contact a team, check the area, see how much another harbor suitable for our needs would cost us, and I'll get back to you with a figure by the end of the week."
She got up, extending her hand to invite him to shake it. Edmund remained in his seat, watching her, for a beat too long, genuinely confused.
This was a dismissal. She'd decided the conversation was over, and that was that. He couldn't recall ever having been dismissed.
Getting to his feet, he shook her hand.
"Very well, Hester." Inclining his head, he asked, "Old-fashioned name, isn't it?"
"You're one to talk."
Fair point.
"It was my great-grandfather's. Has yours been handed down?"
It was a fairly innocent question, but he saw her eyes flare.
"No, it wasn't."
He'd touched a sore point. A wiser man would have let it drop.
"No?"
"I was left in a church as a baby. I don't know if the nuns, social workers, or someone in the group home named me, but it certainly wasn't handed down. Not all of us are nobility, Mr. Ashworth."
He was still holding her hand.
"Sorry. I blame the size of my feet. Hard not to stick them in my mouth occasionally."
His poor attempt at humor did succeed in making her smile, and roll her eyes.
"No harm done. I'll be in touch."
He finally let go of her hand, and started walking toward the exit. Thinking better of it, he turned back.
"Doesn't it bother you? Being called an assistant, when you clearly run the show?"
Hester tilted her head.
"It only affects me when I have to deal with men like you, Mr. Ashworth."
"Ed," he insisted. "And men like me wouldn't be quite so hard on you if you had a proper title under your signature. Chairmen don't like to deal with assistants."
No point denying it.
"Fair," she admitted. "But that will cease to be a problem shortly. My running the show, as you call it, is a trial. If I pass it successfully, I'll get a nice shiny title that'll prevent chairmen from acting like sexist pigs."
She definitely wasn't holding her blows.
"Believe me when I say that I would have acted the exact same way toward a male assistant."
"Fantastic. An equal opportunity jerk then." Catching herself right away, she cleared her throat and apologized. "Excuse me. That wasn't professional."
True, but it hadn't bothered him. He didn't want her to be professional. Ruffling her feathers was a delight.
Ed was hesitating between pushing her a little further and inviting her for dinner when his eyes caught something that made him frown and advance toward a side cabinet.
"What is this?" he asked, his fingertip extending over a set of personalized stationery.
On top of it, there was a stack of large envelopes embossed with an embellishment that struck him as fami
liar.
Pulling the small metallic key out of his pocket, he compared it to the design. They were exactly the same, with a stylized K on top.
Hester's eyes closed in on the key and she gasped.
"What does this mean?"
She said nothing, her mouth shutting in a determined line.
"My uncle just died, and he left me this key. You will tell me what it's for. Does the K stand for King?"
His voice had lost all trace of friendliness now.
Glaring, Hester straightened her spine.
"That has nothing to do with King Construction or King Technology."
"But it has something to do with the Kings?" he prompted again.
She looked away. "I'll get someone to contact you. Now get out."
Fist curled around the key, he itched to ask for more, demand to know what it was all about, but her tone had invited zero argument. Staying now would trespass on her boundaries, something he'd never done to a woman. It wouldn't start today.
"Very well. Looking forward to your email, Hester."
Chapter 7
The rest of the day passed in a blur. Hester managed her tasks on autopilot.
She should have known. At first glance, she should have looked at him and realized that he was Tower material.
Hes wanted to punch herself in the face for not seeing it. It wasn't the end of the world; she hadn't embarrassed herself by flirting with Ed or anything. But she'd liked him well enough. Hester never smiled, laughed, or discussed novels with any business associate or friend of the Kings. She'd made an exception because Edmund wasn't acquainted with Desmond, and she'd believed he was different for some reason. Dammit, of course he wasn't. From this point onward, their interactions were going to be purely professional. No jokes, no stories, and certainly no Bronte. Better yet: there would be no interaction at all. She didn’t have to deal with him directly again. They'd discussed the details of the property he wanted to purchase, now it was just a matter of coming up with a number and drawing up a contract. Another team could take over.
Hester realized she was freaking out, but it was with good reason.
She still remembered the first time she'd stepped foot in the Tower. It had terrified her. Not because of the sex; she wasn't a prude, and she wasn't one to judge other people's kinks, but seeing all those rich people indulging in each other's flesh had made her realize that Desmond King and the likes of him weren't just wealthy, they lived in another universe.
There were rooms where celebrities, politicians, and well-known businessmen writhed with models and actresses, for heaven's sake. People like that didn't take women like her seriously; they were just toys, tools for their pleasure, like the whips or manacles they used on their partners.
That early lesson had served her well. Many a time, an acquaintance of the Kings had flirted with Hester, or asked her out. Each time, she'd remembered the Tower, and firmly shot them down. She'd faced enough ridicule and rejection in her childhood and teenage years; as an adult, she was careful to only associate with her peers, people who wouldn't think of her as beneath them.
She was pissed at herself because not once during the hour she'd spent with Ed in her office, had she even thought about the Tower, or thought to keep him at arm's length. All it had taken to forget her principle was a firm ass, a panty-melting smile, and Italian-British charms.
"Damn him," she muttered bitterly a couple of hours later, when she was done with work for the day.
Checking her calendar for last-minute surprises, she was glad to find it empty of meetings and phone calls. But there was one conversation she couldn't avoid. Firstly, because for what it was worth, she'd promised Ed she would get someone to explain things about the key, and secondly, because Desmond would want to know.
She dialed her boss's cell phone and when that failed, tried his home. His wife answered on the fourth ring. "Ryn King."
"Hello there. How are you doing?"
"Very well, although I wish you'd kept Desmond out of my face a few more weeks. He won't let me do anything. If it was up to him, he'd strap me to a bed until I pop his kid out."
Hester laughed. She could see that. "Are you surprised?"
"Not in the slightest. I suppose you want to talk to the man?"
"Please, if you don't mind."
Desmond was evidently close by, as he took the phone within moments.
"You used to take a hint when I ignored your calls," he said grumpily.
"I hope I haven't interrupted anything." She winced, imaging just what she might have interrupted. "Sorry, I should have called Cal or Mav."
Generally, she had no problem contacting the two other Kings, but she didn't know them as well as Desmond, and talking to them about the Tower would be too embarrassing for words.
"Never mind. What's the matter?"
She told him about the small key in Ed's possession. "I've only seen four people with one of those before: your brothers, yourself, and Lily. Aren't they the keys to the Tower's front door?"
She didn't think she could have confused it, the design was too specific.
Desmond was silent on the other end of the phone. Then he cursed. "Shit. Malcolm."
Hester was a little lost, but she decided she didn't need to know. "I just figured I should inform you."
The Tower, like all of the King ventures, belonged to all three brothers, but Desmond was the one truly invested in the day-to-day running of things.
"I'm glad you did, thanks, Hes. Do you happen to know if that man is related to Malcolm Trent? He said the key had come from an uncle, is that right?"
She thought it out for a moment. "I could be wrong, but I think that the Trents were mentioned during our conversation. I can look into it tomorrow."
"No need," said Desmond. "You're not a Tower employee. I'll handle this."
She was ever so grateful to hear that.
Hester walked home and poured herself a gin and tonic and ran a large bubble bath in an attempt to wash away all thoughts of Edmund Ashworth, King Industries, and the Tower. She ordered her food delivered and read a few chapters of a good fantasy novel before falling asleep.
Hester had always been great at controlling her body, her mind, her thoughts, her likes and dislikes. She did what she wanted to do, and was who she wanted to be. The one thing she had yet to succeed at was controlling her dreams. And so, while she slept, thoughts of Edmund Ashworth, her desk at King Industries, and a dimly lit private room at the Tower invaded her mind, polluting it with the filthiest dreams she'd ever had.
She woke up panting, wet, and very, very pissed off. Mostly at herself.
Chapter 8
Lying down on his bed, Edmund absentmindedly tossed the key in the air and caught it, observing it before tossing it again, until room service arrived at nine on the dot. He stuffed it in his pocket and eagerly started on his omelet with a side of bacon, when someone knocked on his door.
He checked his food, but nothing seemed to be missing at first glance. Slightly irritated at having to abandon his breakfast after just one bite, he headed to open the door, and froze.
Ed lifted a brow, watching the man who’d just knocked on his door with a certain degree of amusement and also some suspicion.
“May I come in?” asked the handsome blond guy, wearing an impeccable suit, hair neatly combed and parted.
Ed had spent one whole month asking to meet Desmond King, without success. He showed a strange little key to his assistant and a day later, the man himself was in front of his suite.
He stepped aside.
“Please do. I was having breakfast. Shall I call for anything?”
"I'm good, thank you." The man walked in, and took the room in with one glance. "Nice suite."
"It is."
"Great. Let's consider the small talk over, shall we?"
Edmund chuckled.
It wasn't the first time he'd met Desmond; they'd come across each other once or twice at a party, but they'd never interacted until
now. Ed was suddenly delighted about that. The other guy was too calculating, his cold eyes taking in everything and analyzing it. It was lucky that he was dealing with Hester rather than her boss, after all.
"The key. May I see it?" he asked, ignoring Ed's gesture inviting him to sit.
Straight to the point, then.
Edmund returned to his sofa and took another bite of his food.
"No, I don't think so. Not until you tell me what it is."
The omelet was delicious, although it was, sadly, not cheesy. Edmund had itched to ask for some cheddar on top, but remembering the way Hester had criticized him the other day, he'd stopped himself. Ordering off the menu blew. At least he had bacon on the side.
"I'll need to see it to know that for sure," Desmond countered.
Edmund knew that there was a distinct possibility that they might glare at each other until the end of time if he didn't give in.
He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, removed the key, and held it up for about ten seconds, ignoring Desmond's outstretched hand.
"There," said Edmund, stuffing it back in his wallet. "You've seen it."
Desmond's jaw tightened.
"Possession is nine-tenths of the law—isn't that the American saying? This stays in my hands."
"You should take better care of it. Put it somewhere safer."
"Oh?" Ed asked.
"Mine is in a safe."
So, Desmond had one of those, did he?
"Tell me what it is, and I'll see that it's suitably guarded."
Desmond started to pace the room, slowly, like a wolf circling an enemy. "So, you're Malcolm's nephew?"
"That's right."
"It's my understanding that Malcolm had many nieces and nephews. I'm going to have to verify that he gave this to you."
Desmond was starting to get on Ed's nerves.
"We seem to have started on the wrong foot. You're under the impression you can waltz into my suite and run the show. Now, here's the deal. Given the fact that I have no idea what this thing is, and your assistant blanched when I showed it, I'm guessing it's secret. You either tell me what my uncle gave me, or I'll look into it, and shove everything I find under a journalist's nose for fun. How about that?"