I slip a silver business card holder from my jacket and hand one to him. Cyrus studies the linen card and its simple embossed information for a moment before pocketing it. A million questions scroll through his eyes, but he doesn’t ask a single one. “I’ll give you a call.”
“Do that,” I say absently, noticing something interesting. Malcolm MacLaine and a handful of other men are heading toward the opposite wing of the main level where the offices sit empty. Cyrus excuses himself to find Adair, giving me the chance to follow them.
The benefit of a flexible moral code is that I’m accustomed to remaining unseen when need be. As the men disappear into one of the MacLaine family’s conference rooms, a snort of laughter escapes me. Trust a MacLaine to hold court at a time like this.
I slip into the large executive office that Malcolm and a half dozen other men entered a few minutes ago. I’m intimately familiar with Windfall’s rooms. I have rather fond memories of the table the men have gathered around, in fact. But I’m not here to skip down memory lane. I have an offer to deliver. Some might consider it a threat. I suspect the heir to the MacLaine fortune will see it as an opportunity.
They’re already down to brass tacks—voices raised, first round of Scotch drank—so no one notices when the door clicks quietly shut behind me. I know a fair few of MacLaines’ associates, mostly by reputation. The family lawyer, Judd Harding, and I have our own history. The rest of the men are here for the same reason that I am: money. Angus MacLaine had died mired in debt after being forced to retire from the State Senate—a move that hadn’t endeared him to the powers that had put him there.
“I know my father’s death leaves unresolved issues, but my bid for the Senate this fall is a sure thing.” Malcolm is exasperated, raking his hands through his hair. “However, without the company to back up my run, we’re all going to lose.”
“Now isn’t the time to discuss this, Malcolm,” Harding says not bothering to smother the weariness in his voice. “Once the will has been executed, we can handle these matters.”
“I don’t need the goddamn will to be executed to know that my father’s stock in the company is mine!” Malcolm’s hand slams against the conference table rattling the crystal Waterford whiskey glasses in front of each of his associates.
“My uncle has a vested interest in MacLaine Media.” Even from behind, I recognize Luca DeAngelo’s languid baritone. His index finger taps the table softly. He’s the only man I know who can be bored while delivering a threat to someone. It’s one reason that he’s one of my best friends in the world. I find it’s best to keep Luca close. “Without the family’s assistance, your father’s last run for the Senate”—
“Excuse me,” Malcolm cuts him off, but he isn’t begging his forgiveness. He’s spotted me. “This is a private meeting.”
“Conducting business during a funeral?” I volunteer a sneer. Malcolm MacLaine is the kind of man who probably conducted business over his father’s death bed. The bastard gene runs in the family.
“And you are?” His eyes narrow, trying to place me. When he can’t, he smiles apologetically at the men in suits. “I’ll have security”—
“That won’t be necessary,” I cut him off, striding into the room toward the bar cart. “When you hear my offer, you’ll be glad you invited me to stay.”
He doesn’t respond.
I’m not a man who needs an invitation into another man’s office or to his belongings. Not when I already own them. Helping myself, I pour a glass before turning back to the group. Malcolm hasn’t moved an inch toward his phone and the other men are watching me with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation. Luca’s dark eyes shoot me a look that clearly says took you long enough. I shrug as to say it couldn’t be helped. It’s not like he doesn’t understand the value of a dramatic entrance.
“Help yourself.” Malcolm’s lips thin into a line.
There’s an empty seat at the table—the one on the far end, opposite where he stands. With one hand, I unbutton my suit jacket before settling into it. Heads swing from me to Malcolm and back like metronomes, but he can only stare. I might as well have walked in and peed on the rug. I’m marking my territory with no regard to his claim over the space, and he knows it.
“They can leave.” I gesture to the others. Luca gets up to excuse himself while the rest turn various shades of scarlet, protesting. Except Harding. He’s flipping through his mental contacts list. I see the pages turning in his guarded expression. His head tips in surprise when he lands on the answer but he covers his reaction quickly. Past the suit and past the years, he sees who I am. Or who I was. No one here knows who I am now. I like that, and I plan to keep it that way.
“I don’t know who you think you are,” Malcolm seethes, igniting a wave of furious commentary from the others.
I swirl the whiskey in my glass, watch it coat the sides, and wait.
“Do as he says,” Harding advises over the protests. He doesn’t look happy about it.
I hadn’t expected him to go to bat for me, but even an unwilling ally makes things easier.
Men shuffle out of the room, bested by a better man or, at least, a bigger cock. I ignore the curious glances thrown my way. They’ll know who I am soon enough. Not one of them speaks. Malcolm glares
