“That is really fabulous news. I guess we don’t need Ian’s guys here now. You can go back with them.”
“Yep, that’s what Joseph said. He’s letting Ian know, and I guess Ian will let them know. He said to meet them in the foyer.”
“Then let’s get your bag and go.”
“Belle, do you forgive me, about your diaries I mean?” Lucinda asked, her eyes wide.
“I forgive you, but if you pull a stunt like that again, you’re in big trouble,” Belle warned.
“I won’t, but I’m glad I did,” she admitted.
“I am too,” Belle agreed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Brandon Witherspoon was sitting at his local pub drinking a much needed pint, when a familiar voice spoke softly behind him. Swiveling on his barstool, he found himself looking at a smiling, Cordelia Cartwright.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, shocked to see her.
“It must be fate,” she smiled. “I’ve never been in here before, and I had such a harrowing day at work I decided to stop in for a drink.”
“But, your office-
“I was with one of the agents showing a house nearby,” she interrupted. “We were there forever. I couldn’t handle the journey home without something to sustain me.”
“Isn’t this my lucky night,” he grinned. “What would you like to drink?”
“Pimms and lemonade, please.”
“Why don’t you grab a table? I’ll be right there.”
He watched her turn and head to one of the empty tables by the window, and as he ordered the drink, he shook his head at his good fortune.
He’d located the property and Darren had been ecstatic. Not only had he slapped Brandon on the shoulder and told him how brilliant he was, he’d handed him ten quid and told him to grab a pint. To turn around and find Cordelia standing behind him was almost too good to be true.
“So, Cordelia, anything new and exciting,” he asked, sitting down opposite the pretty brunette and handing her the drink.
“There is,” she replied enthusiastically. “Not sure I should talk about it though.”
“Why is that?” he asked, his radar beeping.
“I guess it doesn’t matter. I mean, it will all be over by tomorrow, and it’s not like you’re going to tell anyone,” she giggled. “I mean, do you know someone with twelve million…make that more than twelve million…who can swoop in and steal a deal?”
“Not this week,” he chuckled, his pulse quickening, “but I’d love to know what’s going on.”
“It’s the Sinclair thing,” she whispered, leaning across the table. “He’s transferring all that money into an account tomorrow afternoon. The office was crazy all day preparing all the documents. Tyler himself will be taking them over to Sinclair’s office to sign.”
“Why is he moving so fast?” Brandon asked, trying to sound casually interested.
“I have no idea. Maybe someone else has been sniffing around and he wants to make sure he doesn’t lose it,” she suggested.
“Would you excuse me for a second,” Brandon smiled, rising from the table, “nature calls, and I think I’d like some crisps. Do you want anything else?”
“Sure, maybe a sandwich to tide me over until I get home,” she smiled.
“I’ll find you something,” he replied.
Walking briskly towards the men’s room, pulling out his phone on the way, he speed dialed Darren’s direct line; his boss was going to have a complete cow.
“FUCK!”
“At least we know, and it’s just by a stroke of luck,” Brandon said quickly. “Can you make it happen before tomorrow afternoon?”
“I haven’t even had a chance to check out the properties around it, find out their value, do any kind of due diligence,” Darren complained.
“Do you even need to?” Brandon asked. “I mean, if you’re just going to flip it to Sinclair, does it matter?”
“I’ll ring you if I need you,” Darren barked, and ended the call.
In a small town, a few hours outside London, a semiretired country gentleman, Oliver Whitney-Jones, was about to close up shop for the day. He led a calm, peaceful life in rural England and handled most of the local real estate needs.
When higher-end farms or historical properties came on the market, they were generally handled by larger firms in the city, so when a very polite, bespectacled and warm man had stepped into his humble office and asked him to handle the sale of a property that was many thousands of acres of land, the price to be listed at eight million pounds, Oliver was astounded.
“I’m extremely flattered,” Oliver had stammered, “but don’t you want a, well, larger, better known firm?”
“My employer wants someone local, someone who knows this area, someone who isn’t bogged down with too many other deals and can give this personal attention,” the man had explained. “My employer has reason to believe a buyer will be making an extremely generous offer, but it will require expeditious handling. The land is held by a company,” the man continued, opening his briefcase and removing a file, “and here is all the paperwork you will need. When an offer is made, all you will have to do is fill in the blanks. I would suggest you read it through, and if you have any questions just call the law office that drew up the contract. You will find all their contact information in the file.”
“Ah, we have our own forms,” Oliver had replied.
“Not for this deal,” the man had smiled, “but if that’s a problem for you…”
“No, no, I’ll read it through. I have a solicitor who can check things as well.”
“My employer is insistent that you do,” the man had said.
“And you are, Sir?”
“I am the personal assistant to the man who owns the company, who owns the land, and as such, I too, must keep my identity confidential, but you can call me Mr. Smith if you wish.”
“I’m…uh…this is all highly irregular,” Oliver had frowned.
“You will find the law firm who will be handling the transaction to be one of the most respected in London. Thomas Digby of Digby and Jones is handling this personally. I am simply an errand boy,” he smiled. “Mr. Digby will be able to answer any further questions you or your lawyer may have. So what do you say, Sir, will you handle the property for my client?”
“As long as my lawyer says this paperwork is in order, I’d be delighted,” Oliver had replied.
. “If the sale goes through, and my employer is pleased with your service, you will receive a fifty-thousand pound bonus in addition to your commission. In the file you will also find a confidentiality agreement. That must be signed before we can move forward.”
“No problem, I understand how celebrities and such like their names kept out of things,” he nodded.
“Good. You do have scan/email capabilities?”
“Oh, yes, I was forced into it. My son helped me, but I can do all of that sort of thing now.”
“Excellent. Let Thomas Digby know when you’ve reviewed the documents and are comfortable taking on the property. We will need your answer within hours.”
“You will have it,” he’d answered confidently.
“Just one more thing,” the stranger added, “and this is very important. When this offer, or rather, should this offer come in, while my employer would like to see the deal come to a positive conclusion, if one is a little reticent, it can sometimes make the buyer offer more, but I’m sure you’re aware of the negotiating process. The solicitors will handle everything else.”
It had been a mysterious but exciting conversation, and Oliver had immediately emailed the documents to his solicitor, who had told him the contracts were exceptionally well drawn up, and should a buyer put his signature on the dotted line there’d be no turning back.
The paperwork that required Oliver’s signature offered no cause for concern, quite the contrary, with a generous commission arrangement and a full year to sell the land.
With trembling fi
ngers he’d signed all the papers, and once he’d sent them off to Digby and Jones, the thought that he would be able to retire comfortably had given him restful nights and a happy wife.
He’d put a full-page advertisement in a very expensive, national real estate magazine, but the lead time for the ad was two months. During that time he had researched the property, discovering it had been bought over a decade before in a distress sale, and the company had virtually stolen it.
His research also told him the price of eight million pounds was too high. Had he been asked for his opinion, he would have suggested no more than four to five million, but he hadn’t been, so he let it go. If the property didn’t sell in six months he’d offer his advice.
That had been nine weeks before, and the excitement of finally having the advertisement out in the world had stayed with him throughout the week. Having set out some kibble and a saucer of milk for a stray cat he’d befriended, he locked the back door, turned out the lights in the small room that doubled as storage and a kitchenette, and was about to head home when his phone rang. It was after 6 p.m., he was already thirty minutes late and assumed it was his wife wondering where he was. He adored Dottie, they’d been married over thirty years, but she was a worrier.
“I’m leaving now, I’ll be home soon,” he declared, picking up the phone.
But it wasn’t Dottie. It was a man who began talking so fast, Oliver had to ask him to stop and start over, but when he did, Oliver couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing.
“Twelve and one half million pounds,” Oliver repeated, sitting down and trying to catch his breath.
“That’s right, but we have to have this thing wrapped up immediately.”
The words of the bespectacled man who had brought him the documents rushed back into his mind.
My employer has reason to believe a buyer will be making an extremely generous offer, but it will require expeditious handling…be a little hesitant…it is possible for the offer to improve…
Wishing he had a glass of water, Oliver took a deep breath and attempted to calm his racing heart.
“While I appreciate this is a generous offer,” he began, “I must, of course-’
“You can stop right there,” Darren interrupted. “I’m going to put my cards on the table. I know you have an offer already and I know mine’s better, but I’m not getting into a bidding war, so tell your seller this is a take it or leave it offer and I need an answer in fifteen minutes. Tell him I’ll execute the paperwork overnight and transfer the cash first thing. My lawyer is on his way and can look everything over when I receive it. I want this thing wrapped up tomorrow morning. Any questions?”
“No, Sir. I’ll contact my seller immediately. May I have your number?”
As Darren gave him his home telephone number, Oliver’s hand was shaking so badly he could barely write.
Another offer? I don’t know what he’s talking about, but I wonder if one will be coming in? I do hope I can reach Mr. Digby.
“Remember,” Darren said sharply, “fifteen minutes.”
Oliver placed the phone on its cradle and stared at the piece of paper in front of him. In less than twenty-four hours he could be receiving a check for three hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds, with an additional fifty-thousand if the seller was happy with how he handled things. It was almost impossible to imagine.
Taking a deep breath, and saying a silent prayer, he called the number Thomas Digby had given him if he needed to be reached after hours.
In his study, Darren Hardcastle was rubbing the back of his neck and pacing.
I’m so close, so fucking close. Just wish I had more fucking time.
In the short space of time he had, he’d done everything he could think of to check out the details.
The agent handling the property had lived in the area his entire life and was a pillar of the community, not even a whiff of a skeleton in the old boy’s closet.
The land had been bought over a decade before, and had only been on the market for a couple of months, so it made sense Sinclair would want to get it under his belt before other investors came sniffing around.
Darren had never heard of the company that owned it, but Digby and Jones was an extremely reputable law firm.
He’d attempted to find recent sales in the area, but there was nothing that compared to the amount of land he was buying. He had found the full- page ad in Country Life, the well-known real estate magazine, and had seen the acreage had been put up for sale for eight million pounds, which meant Sinclair had added a fifty percent premium to make sure the seller would jump at his offer.
It was outrageous, but Sinclair had a reputation for being aggressive, and Joseph Cardinelli had said that Sinclair had been hunting for two years and would pay any price to get the land now that he’d found it.
Just wish I had more time to investigate the company itself. Why isn’t there anything on the web about it?
Both Thomas Digby and Oliver Whitney-Smith had been of absolutely no help, citing confidentiality obligations.
The ringing of his front doorbell caught his attention, and knowing it was his lawyer he hurried to answer it.
“Steven, great timing,” Darren declared, ushering him in. “You can either share a drink and help me drown my sorrows, or look over some documents that are about to land in my email.”
“What’s all this about?” his lawyer frowned.
In the years he’d been handling Darren’s affairs, he had come to expect the unexpected.
“I’m buying some property and I need you to look over the purchase contracts, assuming they come in,” Darren replied, moving quickly back to his study.
“Tonight? Why can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
“Because tomorrow will be too late. If everything’s okay I’m sending back the signed documents tonight and transferring the funds first thing in the morning. If I have to stuff a briefcase full of cash and drive it to the escrow office myself, I’ll do it.”
“Can I, or should I, know why this is all so urgent?” Steven asked.
“I’m ripping the carpet out from under Simon Sinclair, that’s why. This is a once in a lifetime chance to get the better of him, my old son, so I’m goin’ for it.”
“You’re doing battle with Simon Sinclair? Darren, are you sure that’s wise?”
The ringing of the phone interrupted their conversation, and Darren hurried around his desk to answer it.
“Yes?” he said, sitting in his chair.
“Mr. Hardcastle, Oliver Witherspoon-Smith here. My seller has agreed to your terms. If you would be so kind as to give me your email address, I will forward the contracts immediately.”
“Good, glad to hear it,” Darren replied, barely able to contain his excitement. “My lawyer is right here. We’ll have them returned to you within the hour.”
“The information concerning the escrow account is also in the folder I’ll be sending you. I’m not sure how you’ll be able to wire such a large amount-”
“Leave that to me,” Darren replied, cutting him off. “The money will be there before 11:30 in the morning.”
“Very good, Sir.”
Darren’s heart was thumping as he spelled out his personal email address, and hanging up the phone, he stared across at his lawyer.
“This is going to be so fucking sweet,” he grinned. “Sweeter than a virgin’s pussy.”
THREE HOURS LATER
Belle had eaten a light supper, watched some television, and after walking Goldie in sight of the guard in front of the building, she had decided to lay down for a rest. She was emotionally drained, and laying down on the comfortable mattress, she’d closed her eyes and said a prayer for Simon. She was worried about him. He’d called twice, each time to say he was still working, but there was a strain in his voice she’d not heard before.
“Belle, sweetheart.”
Opening her eyes, she realized she’d fallen asleep.
“Simon, my gosh, sorry.
I guess I drifted off. What time is it? Is everything okay?”
“Everything is very okay,” he smiled, kissing her forehead. “I’m going to take a quick shower. I’ll be right back.”
Goldie, happy to see him, yawned and stretched and wagging her tail, trotted over to him, asking for attention.
“I’m glad you’re here to keep our girl company,” Simon declared, stroking her back.
Belle slowly stood up and peeled off her clothes, too tired to walk into the closet and put them away, and pulling back the bedcovers, she slipped between the warm sheets. She could hear the sound of the shower, and Goldie, her master having left, was walking in a circle, looking for a good place to lay back down. Everything felt right with the world, but it wasn’t, not 100%, and wouldn’t be until the scenario with Hardcastle was over.
“That feels better,” Simon exclaimed, reappearing from the bathroom with just a towel around his waist.
“Come here and tell me what’s going on,” she said eagerly.
“Hardcastle is committed. The documents have been signed, and now all that has to happen is the transfer of funds in the morning.”
“What will happen when Darren sees your name on the contracts?” she asked.
“There is no printed name under the signature line, and my autograph is undecipherable,” Simon smiled. “He’ll get his copies in the morning and he’ll probably just hand them off to his lawyer to check. Besides, he’ll be in such a hurry to arrange the transfer of funds, I’m sure that’s all he’ll be thinking about. It’s a moot point anyway, the agreement has been executed.”
“But you’re not…all…celebratory,” she frowned.
“I never celebrate until the money’s in the bank,” he said soberly.
“That makes total sense,” she yawned. “Your father is going to be amazed,” she sighed.
“Yes, he will. I can’t wait to have him over for dinner and hand him his check.”
“Simon, are you sure you don’t have to worry about Darren coming after you?” she asked, snuggling next to him.
The British Billionaire Bachelor, Act Three Page 19