Shameless

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “Is my father in?” I ask, stopping directly in front of her.

  “Yes, but I believe your brother’s with him.”

  “Perfect,” I say. “Don’t warn him I’m headed his direction.”

  “But he said—”

  Waving a hand at her, I dismiss her objection, cutting left down a short hallway. In a few steps, I’m entering the enclave that is the exterior of my father’s office. And considering my father just burned through his third secretary this year, there’s no one to stop me as I pass the mahogany secretarial desk framed by a giant painting of the Denver skyline to reach the double, floor-to-ceiling wooden doors of his office. Without a knock, I open them and enter the room to find my father sitting behind his ridiculously large half-moon oak desk.

  Derek springs from one of the two high-backed leather visitor’s chairs to face me, his tailored blue suit an expensive product of everything wrong with this company and family, and he doesn’t give a shit. In fact, he’s proud of it.

  “What the fuck are you doing here, Shane?” he demands. “Don’t you know how to knock?”

  I ignore him, closing the distance between me and my father, who just watches my approach, choosing not to speak until I stop in front of his desk, opposite Derek.

  “Yes, son,” he demands then, his voice low and controlled, like everything he does. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  I’m not fooled by the obvious reprimand, all too aware of the gleam in his eyes that has nothing to do with irritation and everything to do with amusement. He thrives off the war for control he’s stirred between his sons. He’s not repenting for his sins with the grim reaper on his doorstep. He’s daring him to come take him, and as much as I’d like to blame his brain tumor, I can’t. I love my father because he’s my father, but he’s a bastard, which is exactly why I swore I’d never work here.

  I reach inside the envelope and remove a photo, tossing both down in front of him. “Do you know who that is?”

  Derek replies before my father has the chance. “You said the FDA was keeping us from doubling our money. They aren’t anymore.”

  There is pride and victory in his voice that has me checking my anger, and slowly rotating to face him. “Did you read the reports that said the drug isn’t ready for market? We can’t endanger lives.” And because my brother doesn’t seem to have a conscience I add, “It opens us up to lawsuits.”

  “That we’ll be able to afford,” Derek argues, “because we’re rolling in cash. And we have you to fight them.”

  “People will die,” I bite out.

  “Every drug company takes calculated risks,” he counters.

  “The drug isn’t ready.”

  He rests his hands on the back of one of the two leather chairs separating us. “No one says we don’t keep working on the quality of the product, but I’ve paid to ensure we can take it to market whenever we so choose.”

  I mimic his position, my hands settling on the second chair. “Poorly hidden lump-sum payments to various organizations got this company in trouble last year, in case you don’t remember.”

  “And you cleaned it up as I’m sure you’ll do again if need be.”

  “If this goes sour, I won’t defend you.”

  “The pharmaceutical property was your acquisition. You’re linked, baby brother. No one will believe otherwise.”

  There’s no missing the threat beneath those words. If he goes down, he’ll do whatever necessary to take me with him. “You want to play God, do it with one of the other six companies under our umbrella.”

  “That’s the difference between you and me,” he says. “You want to be God. I, on the other hand, prefer the fires of hell.”

  “Until they burn you alive.”

  His jaw clenches, his eyes glinting with anger, and while we might look alike, today I face the fact that we share nothing else anymore, most especially this company.

  “Come now, brother,” he says, a hint of amusement shading his voice. “You know you wanted that drug approved. And now we have an inspector in our pocket. We should be celebrating.”

  I turn to face my father. “You asked me to stay and protect this company after I cleaned up your mess. Rein him in, or the only legacy you’ll end up with will be jail, because I’ll leave. I will walk the fuck away and your little game will be over. And when this explodes in your face, like the last mess did, I won’t fix it this time.”

  My father’s lips tighten, eyes sharpen, darken, and while mine might be the same shade of light gray, I refuse to ever let them be as hard and cold. “You do know I’m dying,” he says.

  “Which means you have nothing to lose but that legacy,” I say with brutal honesty, because brutal is all he understands. “I have everything to lose and that’s too much. I won’t go to jail for you.”

  His lips twist wryly. “This company survived twenty years without your sense of morality.”

  “And then you got on the Feds’ watch list with that trade deal that went south. I covered that shit up despite everything I believe in.” Anger and guilt burns through me. “Because you said I had a chance to make things right here once and for all.” I glance at Derek. “You’re still my brother and I am trying to keep you out of jail.”

  “Whatever you have to tell yourself to look in the mirror, Shane.”

  I don’t justify the snide remark with an answer that will only ignite another attack, instead refocusing on my father. “You know what it takes to keep me here. It’s nonnegotiable.” I turn on my heel, striding toward the door, and the moment my hand closes on the knob, I hear my father speak. “Brandon Pharmaceuticals is yours. Derek will stand down.”

  I don’t turn, pausing only long enough to hear Derek’s low curse, nor do I stay for the argument certain to follow. I exit to the exterior office, shutting the door behind me and traveling the secretarial enclave with long, purposeful strides meant to lead me to a stiff drink I normally don’t entertain at this time of the day. An agenda that is derailed as I reach the hallway and my mother steps into my path.

  “Shane, sweetie,” she greets me, looking forty when she’s actually fifty-something and sporting a sleek black dress that hugs her curves in a way no son would approve. “Is your father in?” Her brows dip, her hand closing on my arm. “You’re upset. What happened?”

  It never ceases to amaze me how quickly she reads what I know is not on my face. “Nothing I can’t handle.” And knowing this isn’t the time or place to talk to her about Mike Rogers, I say, “I have work I need to attend to.”

  “You mean you don’t want to talk about it.” Narrowing her pale blue eyes on me, she delicately swipes a lock of her long, dark hair behind one ear. “I don’t even need to know details because we both know you still aren’t listening to me. Take control and then make changes. That’s the only way this works.” She releases me. “I’ll talk to him. Call me later.” She moves around me and I step forward, only to have her stop me. “Oh and honey. If you plan to do more than fuck the woman who put that lipstick on your collar, I expect to meet her.”

  I have no idea how lipstick traveled to my collar, and really don’t care, but damn if a taste of the woman who put it there, doesn’t sounds really damn good right about now. And if I had her, my mother, and my entire damn family for that matter, wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near her.

  Behind every great fortune, there’s a crime.

  —Lucky Luciano

  CHAPTER TWO

  SHANE

  Within fifteen minutes of my mother’s “lipstick” announcement, I’m already behind my cherrywood desk in the corner office opposite my brother’s, trying to focus on work, when Jessica, a tall blonde with spiky hair and an attitude, steps into the office.

  “Your fresh shirt has arrived,” she says, indicating the garment in her hand. “And let me just say, if the woman responsible for your change of clothes put that scowl on your face, I’m personally requesting there’s no do-over.”

  “The lipstick on my
collar isn’t what it looks like,” I say, dropping my Montblanc pen on the desk. “If it was, I’d definitely be in a better mood.”

  She hangs the shirt on the back of the door. “Sounds like an interesting story we both know you won’t tell me, so I won’t ask.” She crosses to stand in front of my desk and sets two folders in front of me. “The top one contains the top ten most profitable drugs in the world, along with risk assessments, lawsuits, and drug studies. The bottom contains the profiles of the key players who brought them to market.”

  “Ever efficient,” I say. “Good work. Is—”

  “Yes. Derek returned to his office just after you did.”

  In other words, my father shut him down, which is, at least, a small piece of good news.

  “Anna, his new secretary, followed him into his office and shut the door, a recent habit they’ve developed. I’m really quite thankful the walls in this place are thick because, I assume, he too will be in need of a fresh shirt. I guess it’s good to have a full-service assistant. She can do it all. I don’t. I won’t. But I promise you, I’m better than her.”

  “Ah, Jessica. Leave it to you to keep things in perspective. I keep waiting for the day my brother tries to hit on you to get to my secrets. I want popcorn and front-row seats.”

  “Please give me a reason to go Rocky on that man. I’ll leave you to your work.” She crosses the room, disappearing into the hallway and pulling my door shut without me asking. The woman is a jewel in a sea of stones.

  I grab the folders and go to work, looking for our next play in the market, the one where the rest of Brandon Enterprises no longer exists. I start reading and I don’t stop, analyzing alliances I might form, products we might produce. My interests lead me to Internet research and an e-mailed list of prospective hires that I shoot to Seth. I’m deep into the second half of folder number one when I blink and look up to find Jessica setting a coffee on my desk, along with a bag I know has the croissants I favor inside. “It’s seven o’clock.”

  I blink and look up at her. “How long have I been sitting here?”

  “I believe you stretched your legs and walked to what I assume was the bathroom—I certainly hope so—at about four o’clock. So, three hours, not including the three before that break. What can I do to help?”

  “Go home.”

  “You’ve been here late every night for a month, Shane. You haven’t even changed your shirt. You need rest.”

  “Thank you, Mother. I’m fine. Go home.”

  “I’m twenty-nine years old, about to be thirty. For your safety, do not call me ‘mother.’”

  “Go home,” I repeat.

  “Fine,” she says, turning on her heel and marching toward the exit, disappearing into the hallway and shutting the door behind her. I rotate my chair to face the floor-to-ceiling windows wrapping the room. The city is soon to be aglow in light, but it will never compare to the view from my Manhattan office. Frustrated at myself for going there, I face forward again

  It’s time to go home, order a pizza, and just work, but I don’t get up. Instead, for at least the tenth time, my mother’s words replay in my head. Take control and then make changes, followed by my thought of, Not a chance in hell. I need a play, a game changer that forces everyone to follow me if Seth fails on the leverage side. I stand and grab my briefcase, shoving the files inside, and damn it, my gaze catches on the view behind the glass. For almost a year now, I’ve craved my return to New York, but it’s time I face facts. I have to be here and be present to win this war, or give up. I dig my phone from my pants pocket and text the Realtor I’ve been dodging for months: I’m ready. Find me a house. I’ll call you tomorrow.

  Shoving my briefcase strap over my shoulder, I cross the room, exiting into the dimly lit outer office and I’ll be damned if Derek doesn’t do the same. We both stop outside our doors, the tension between us damn near makes the floor quake. In unison it seems, we start walking, neither of us stopping until we are toe-to-toe at the hallway, inviting both our departures.

  “The company doesn’t need to be saved,” Derek bites out, as if we’re midconversation. “Father might be playing a game with us, but we both know he won’t watch his pride and joy be gutted.”

  “Wake up, Derek. He’ll be dead and you’ll be in jail if we don’t make changes. We can make those changes together.”

  “We can’t do shit together, Shane.”

  “We’re brothers. We used to be inseparable.”

  “I was your babysitter, then left for college before you even hit high school. We barely know each other and anything we were damn sure ended when you returned home and became everyone’s moral compass.” His jaw sets. “Go back to your world. This is mine.”

  His. This is all about the company and money. Power. And still, the brother in me who used to idolize Derek wants to cave and give him what he demands, but he’s made that impossible. “Together,” I say again.

  “Fuck off, Shane. How do you not see how much I hate you? Right isn’t right because it’s your way, and you’ll find that out soon. You have my word.” He steps back and walks down the hallway. I step to the center of the hall, staring after him, willing him to turn back, and wondering how we’ve gotten to this place where we are now enemies. He rounds the corner, disappearing.

  Gone. But he’s not completely lost yet. I refuse to let that happen.

  The sound of the lobby door opening and closing signals his departure, and ready to get the hell out of the building, I waste no time following in his path. By the time I’m in the corridor outside Brandon Enterprises, he’s already departed in one of the eight elevators. Another opens for me quickly.

  Once inside the car, my mind doesn’t go to Derek, but rather to my father. He’s always been brutal; the many ways he terrorized me in my youth too many to count. Derek had been older, but there had been a window of time we’d shared a hatred of him, and yet both of us had craved his attention and the love I’m not sure he’s capable of giving. I don’t crave that anymore, and yet he’s dying and I think maybe I should. My mind travels to the past, to me at sixteen, and him forcing me to run laps until I threw up after I got a ninety on a test, a failure in his eyes. I guess I should thank him, though. I did get into Harvard.

  Holy fuck, I want out of this elevator. I step to the doors, waiting impatiently for them to open, and the second they part, I cut through the deserted building toward the parking garage. Once I reach the steel door, I hesitate, the idea of my empty apartment hitting all the wrong nerves. I head back toward the lobby, which leads directly to the Sixteenth Street strip mall lined with restaurants and bars. I’ll prepare for my brother the way I did my cases in New York. In a corner booth of a restaurant, only this time it won’t be with a never-ending pot of coffee, but an expensive bottle of whiskey. I’m halfway to the front door when my gaze catches on the security booth in the corner and I stop dead in my tracks.

  Unless I’m dreaming, my sweet-smelling coffee thief is indeed here again and seems to be arguing with the guard. Suddenly, a little conversation doesn’t sound so bad after all. I remind myself that she is completely wrong for how fucked up my life is right now, but the truth is that’s exactly what makes her appealing. Besides, I don’t want to own the woman. Well. Not when she has her clothes on, and if I have my way, she won’t for long. I start walking in her direction.

  ***

  EMILY

  “I understand the Lost and Found is locked up for the night,” I say to the stoic, gray-haired guard behind the security desk. “But surely you can make an exception for a cell phone. I’m expecting a very important call. I can’t be without my phone.”

  “I understand, miss, but there are rules.”

  Rules. There’s a concept that hits a raw nerve. “Fine,” I concede, reaching for my wrist, missing the bracelet that should be there but is not. “I’ll come back. How early can I be here?”

  “Seven in the morning.”

  “Six forty-five it is,” I say, rotatin
g to depart, yelping as I smack into a hard body, and a pair of large, manly hands settles on my waist, steadying me. “I’m sorry,” I say, glancing up in shock to realize the hot man from the coffee shop is standing in front of me and my palms have landed on his incredibly hard, broad chest.

  “We meet again,” he says, his voice a soft purr of seduction, and his eyes are still a perfect steel gray just like the tie that matches his suit.

  “Yes, I…” I swallow hard. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.”

  “I’m not sorry and I did see you.”

  “You … what?” I step back, his hands falling from my waist. Mine slide away from his chest, where I wouldn’t have minded them lingering a little longer, but that would be bad. And inappropriate, which is exactly what I’m trying never to be again.

  He glances at the guard. “Is there a problem, Randy?” he asks, and good gosh, no wonder I ended up in that exchange with him this morning. The man is the definition of “tall, dark, and handsome.”

  “The lady is looking for her cell phone,” Randy explains, “and Lost and Found is closed for the night.”

  Shane arches a brow at the man. “Closed? How does Lost and Found close?”

  My thoughts exactly, but I bite my tongue, considering “Randy” had actually displayed quite a lot of patience with me, considering I’d asked the same question in a far more pushy way. And Randy is actually looking quite uncomfortable, his reaction indicating that Shane is more than a random hot guy in this building who likes his coffee ridiculously strong. “I’m the only guard on duty,” Randy explains. “I can’t leave the desk.”

  “I’ll watch it for you,” Shane states, and it’s not an offer. It’s an expectation. Everything about this man is a smooth command that manages to be sexy, not obnoxious. A rare skill few men, or women, successfully harness, though I’ve known many who tried and failed.