by Tara Wylde
“As far as anyone knows, you’re the lead on Empire’s due diligence team,” Quentin tells me as the elevator climbs toward the thirtieth floor. He raises a hand to cut me off when I try to speak. “I know, you don’t have any experience in examining a company’s financials. It doesn’t matter. I’m not looking for figures on Atlas; I’m looking for dirt on its CEO, who’s also the chairman.”
That actually sounds like it might be kind of fun, assuming this CEO of theirs is like the ones in the movies: sucking up huge bonuses while shipping jobs overseas and putting people out of work, lighting his cigars with hundred-dollar bills, yadda yadda yadda. I don’t know for sure that this guy is like that, but it makes the job easier if I believe he is.
The elevator dings as the doors open on the offices of Atlas Security. They aren’t huge – it’s just a single floor of the building – but they’re really cool. They remind me of The Good Wife, with lots of wood and glass, low ceilings. Classy, but not ostentatious.
Ugh. I’m too hungover to be using words like “ostentatious.”
A young woman in a power suit meets us in the reception area with a practiced smile.
“Mr. Pearce,” she says. “They’re expecting you in the boardroom, if you’ll please follow me.”
She leads us down a hallway to a room with frosted glass walls. Inside is a group of eight people sitting at a long walnut conference table. They range in age from thirtyish, like me, to a lady who looks to be in her late sixties. Several of them have hazel eyes with an almost golden hue, which makes me wonder if they’re related.
The older lady rises and extends a hand to Quentin.
“Mr. Pearce,” she says. “Good to see you again.”
“Mrs. Sullivan,” he says, taking her hand. “Always a pleasure.”
“You know the rest of the family,” Mrs. Sullivan says as the people seated behind her nod.
He flashes them a painted-on grin. If I had just met him, I might fall for it, but after spending the last hour with him, that smile looks about as real to me as a Barbie doll’s cooch.
The money, I remind myself. Picture yourself filling the tub with hundreds and bathing in it.
Quentin waves a hand in my direction.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is my associate, Sara Bishop of Bishop & Associates. She’s the tip of my due diligence spear, and I’ve invited her to sit in on our conversation in the hopes that you’ll consider Empire’s offer.”
Mrs. Sullivan shakes my hand cordially before sitting back down. The rest of the people nod again without offering their names. I guess they figure Quentin will fill me in later.
He takes a seat opposite them at the table and opens his briefcase. After a few moments, he impatiently motions for me to sit down, too. What, was I supposed to read his mind? I’m kind of out of my element here.
“I believe you’ll find the offer very generous,” he says, drawing a stack of papers from the case and laying them on the table.
Mrs. Sullivan smiles, but it doesn’t reach all the way to her eyes. I get the sense she’s not my new associate’s biggest fan.
“You know we have to wait for the chairman,” she says. “Starting the meeting without him would be improper. And quite possibly illegal.”
Quentin’s grin turns sheepish. “Of course,” he says. “What was I thinking?”
Mrs. Sullivan’s expression tells me she knows exactly what he was thinking. I like her already.
An awkward minute passes in silence as we wait. Quentin taps his pen on his legal pad while I work furiously to keep my hangover from showing in front of these people. It’s not easy, but I manage to pull it off. I think.
Then the frosted glass door opens, and I see a pair of iron gray eyes enter the room, as familiar to me as the ones I see every day in the mirror.
Suddenly my head is spinning, and I’m clutching the arms of my chair to keep from falling to the floor.
42
5. CHANCE
I grew up an orphan on Philadelphia’s meanest streets. I’m a trained Marine with extensive experience in combat, counter-intelligence and other things I prefer not to talk about. I built a multi-billion-dollar company with a combination of sweat, brains and sheer willpower.
I’ve always believed I was prepared for anything that might come my way.
Turns out I was wrong.
I expected to see Quentin Pearce. What I didn’t expect to see was the girl who carried my heart in her back pocket in high school sitting beside him.
Beside me, I see Tre’s eyes widen as a grin spreads across his face.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he says, walking over to her. She stands up to greet him and he pulls her into a hug. “Sara Bishop! How the hell are you?!”
Sara smiles back, but I can tell by her eyes that she’s just as shocked as I am that Tre and I walked through the door. Tre lets go of her, giving me an unobstructed view of the swimmer’s body that I used to hold onto for dear life during our epic make-out sessions in the storeroom of the rec center in Hunting Park.
“Not nearly as good as you, Mr. Tre Carter,” Sara replies, pinching the sleeve of his suit and rubbing the fabric between her fingers. “Last time I saw you, you were in that god-awful rented prom tux!”
Tre chuckles. “Mom still has a framed photo of me in that monstrosity on the mantel over her fireplace.”
“Oh, man, I miss your mom. How is she?”
“Hasn’t changed.”
“Tough as nails and soft as butter?”
He chuckles again. “You know her well. But hey, I’m hogging you here. I’m sure you want to say hello to this ugly bugger.”
Sara’s eyes meet mine and she works hard to keep the smile on her face. Fighting every instinct in me, I manage to smile back.
“Long time no see, Chance,” she says.
Not nearly long enough.
“Sure is,” I say. “You look good.”
As if “good” can sum up perfection. I can see she’s still in amazing shape, even under her business suit. Her hair is a shade darker than it was in school, more auburn than red now, but those Ceylon sapphire eyes are still as hypnotic as they always were.
What the hell is she doing here in Chicago? With Quentin Pearce, of all people?
As if reading my mind, Pearce stands and shakes my hand, then Tre’s.
“Gentlemen,” he says. “You obviously know Ms. Bishop. Good. Saves me having to do introductions; we can get right down to business.”
Same last name. No wedding ring.
Snap out of it! Something stinks here.
“As happy as I am to see her, I have to wonder what Sara’s doing at this meeting,” I say, trying to keep my galloping emotions out of my voice.
“Due diligence,” Pearce says before Sara can open her mouth. “Empire will obviously be doing a great deal of research on Atlas Security’s operations as this deal progresses.”
Across the table, Agnes Sullivan clears her throat to get Pearce’s attention. She’s quick, and she doesn’t take any shit whatsoever.
“Aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourself, Quentin?” she asks. “We haven’t even seen the offer yet.”
The rest of the family murmurs their agreement. They’re good people, the Sullivans. So was their dad, Agnes’s husband, Patrick. I may have built Atlas into what it is today, but I never would have been in the position to do that if it hadn’t been for him.
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.
43
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?
44
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 silently 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?