by Tara Wylde
“You’re the head of Empire Group,” I say quickly. “Obviously, I can be available immediately for such a high-profile client.”
“Right answer,” he says. “I’ll see you at 7:30.”
He hangs up before I can say anything. Perfect – I’ve got thirty minutes to shake this hangover, get showered and dressed, and run the three blocks from my apartment to the building where my office is located.
Piece of cake. Groan.
It’s a good thing Pearce is too busy to come to the office itself, or he’d see it’s actually just a couple hundred square feet that I sublet from a law firm that owes me a favor. Grace and I do almost all of our business by phone and at various locations around Chicago, but the prestigious downtown address helps attract the right kind of client.
I hit Grace’s number in my phone as I yank an outfit out of my closet, then put it on speaker as I pull off last night’s clothes and crank the shower to hot. She finally picks up after the fifth ring, by which point I’m already in the process of washing the stank out of my armpits.
“Leave me alone,” she groans. “Let me die in peace.”
I give my nether regions a good once-over with the body wash before rinsing off and hopping out onto the raggedy bath mat. I may feel like shit, but at least I’ll smell like cranberries.
“Listen up,” I say. “Quentin Pearce wants to pay us six figures for a month’s work. I’m meeting him in twenty-five minutes”
The line is quiet for a full ten seconds as I lather up my toothbrush.
“Ihd ooh heah me?” I say through a mouthful of toothpaste.
“Why did you wake me up just to tell me a stupid lie? You really need help, you know that?”
I rinse and spit. “It’s the real thing,” I say. “A year’s worth of income for a month of work.”
“Are you sure you didn’t just dream this?”
I might wonder that myself if the act of buttoning my blouse didn’t cause my eyes to cross and my hands to shake. This hangover is anything but a dream.
“Trust me,” I say. “I recognized the voice from TV.”
I shrug into my suit jacket and slide on my shoes before realizing my skirt is still in the closet. I drop my phone into the crook of my shoulder and retrieve the skirt to finish getting dressed.
“That’s crazy,” says Grace, finally sounding awake. “What does he want us to do for the money? And why us?”
I grab my keys and purse as I dash through the door into the hallway and toward the stairs. There isn’t time to wait for the elevator to get to the sixth floor.
“I don’t know,” I say, my heels echoing through the concrete stairwell. “And to be honest, for six figures, I don’t really give a shit.”
50
2. SARA
Quentin Pearce is just as good-looking in real life as he is on television: flowing silver hair, chestnut eyes, a jaw that looks like it was chiseled out of marble, impeccable Italian suit.
Charm, on the other hand… not so much.
“I’ll cut right to the chase,” he says by way of introduction after his driver, a tall, muscular German woman, silently ushers me into the back of the limo. “You’re on the clock as of right now. In a few minutes, we’ll be in a board meeting at Atlas Security. Ever heard of it?”
“I’m afraid not,” I say in my business voice. “Should I have?”
“No,” he says. “In fact, if you said you had, I would have accused you of lying and told you to get out.”
Like I said, charming. But his money’s as green as anyone else’s, and right now, Bishop needs it. So does the “& Associates,” so she’ll stop bumming money off of her sister.
Pearce flips through a stack of papers for a few moments, so I check out the limo’s interior. It’s a late-model Bentley with four captain’s chairs, two on either side facing a workstation in the center. This is a mobile office, not one of those party buses that college girls rent for a twenty-first birthday weekend in Vegas.
I see my reflection in the tinted glass and marvel at how together I look: my auburn curls somehow managed to not tangle themselves into a rat’s nest overnight, and the undersides of my baby blues are remarkably bag-free. I’m batting a thousand.
“Atlas Security is a multi-billion-dollar company,” Pearce says, eyes still on his papers. “They work with governments and corporations to handle the kinds of problems that are too messy for most people.”
“Such as?”
He glances up at me and cocks an eyebrow. His eyes wander over me for a moment before looking back down at his papers.
“You’re hot,” he says. “Good for you.”
Easy, Prince Charming, I might swoon.
“Atlas specializes in humanitarian paramilitary work,” he continues. “Yes, I know, that sounds like an oxymoron. It started out as a typical defense contractor in 2005, in the aftermath of the invasion of Iraq. In 2010, it refined its focus to handle crisis situations – hostage negotiations and extractions, protection duty for aid workers and refugees in war zones, post-disaster security – basically anything that might require a soldier, outside of actual warfare.”
I nod. Private security companies have been a reality since before 9/11, though I’ve never heard of one with a humanitarian focus.
“Since then, the company’s value has soared,” Pearce says. “That’s why Empire Group is going to buy it.”
“Sounds reasonable,” I say. “But I still don’t see where Bishop & Associates fits into the equation.”
He slides the papers back into a slim leather briefcase and snaps it shut as the limo comes to a stop. Outside the window is the familiar bustle of Michigan Avenue.
“You’re a private investigator,” he says. “You specialize in digging up dirt, right?”
Actually, I specialize in locating and helping abused girls. But for what he’s offering, I’m willing to do just about anything.
“It’s in my wheelhouse,” I say. “Now let’s discuss my fee.”
“Later,” he says, grabbing the door handle.
“Now,” I say.
My heart and head are pounding with adrenaline – I’m taking a risk by pushing the money, I know, but I can’t shake the feeling that Pearce is the kind of shark who senses weakness. And exploits it.
He gives me another appraising glance before opening the door.
“Five thousand a day, plus expenses,” he says. “One hundred and fifty grand and change for thirty days. Take it or leave it.”
“I’ll take it,” I say as I slide out of my seat and step onto the avenue.
I play it cool, but inside my heart is doing backflips. That kind of money will pay our bills for the whole year and then some, so we’ll be able to take on the kind of cases that really matter.
I smooth my skirt, but Pearce is already opening the door to the building’s lobby, so I jog to catch up, or as close to jogging as I can get in these heels. I get the sense the world is always five minutes behind Quentin Pearce.
“Now, the question is: what do I have to do?” I ask.
“Follow my lead,” he says, stabbing the button for the elevator. “And keep your mouth shut.”
51
3. CHANCE
“Quentin Pearce can kiss my ass,” I say.
Tre sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose as I stuff the last bite of my breakfast burrito in my mouth and wash it down with the dregs of my coffee. His tailored gray suit is impeccable, as usual, highlighting his dark skin and a physique that could get him a tryout with an NFL team if he was willing to take the pay cut.
Personally, I can’t be bothered to wear a suit at the office, and it drives him nuts. At least I’m not wearing cargo shorts today.
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” Tre says. “This isn’t a bar fight, Chance. You can’t just flip the guy the bird and challenge him to settle it outside.”
“No, you can’t do that,” I say with a grin. “Because you’re a big ol’ pencil-pushing geek. I, on
the other hand, fought with the Marines in Iraq while you were going to Harvard Business School.”
“You’re damn lucky I did, white boy. You need me around here to tell you to keep that swinging dick of yours in your pants with Pearce. He’s a shark, dude; he’ll bite it off.”
“I’m a shark, too,” I remind him.
“No, you’re not,” he says. “You’re a tough guy. There’s a difference. I know guys who’ve dealt with Pearce – he’s crazy smart, and he doesn’t give a shit about anything except money. In fact, I think the guy might actually be a sociopath. He’s going to walk into that meeting with a big fucking check, and you better believe the board is going to take it seriously.”
I brush the crumbs off my casual cotton shirt into my office sink and pour myself another cup of coffee. Tre declines my offer of a cup for him.
“I trust the board,” I say. “They believe in me and what I’m doing to preserve Sully’s legacy. They’ve told me so plenty of times.”
“I know that,” Tre says, propping his butt on the edge of my desk. “But money’s got a way of making people do weird shit, like selling out and buying an island somewhere. And remember, you may have the most shares in Atlas, but the Sullivans combined have more than you.”
He’s right. If they did choose to sell, Pearce – or, more likely, whoever buys Atlas from him – will have controlling interest.
“I’m not going to let them get suckered into anything,” I say. “I put my heart and soul into this company, and Quentin Pearce can’t compete with that, no matter what he’s offering.”
Tre’s eyebrows go up as he tilts his head. I’ve seen that look a thousand times since we were kids – it means he doesn’t agree.
“Okay, Chance,” he says. “You’re the boss.”
I frown. Much as I hate to admit it, Tre is smarter than me, even though I’m the CEO and chairman and he’s the president. I’ve got guts to spare, but he was the one who always got straight As.
“All right, whenever you say that, it means I’m doing something stupid.”
He shrugs. “I’m just saying be prepared to fight for your company. Maybe it won’t come to that – I hope it doesn’t come to that – but if it does, you need to be ready.”
The clock on the wall rolls over to 8:00 a.m., so I get up and drop an arm on Tre’s shoulder, leading him to the door and the boardroom beyond.
“I know you got my back, just like always,” I say. “And I’ll watch my step. But I really don’t see anything in this meeting to be concerned about.”
52
4. SARA
“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.
53
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.