Brushing my fingertip along the crystal tumbler’s cut edge, a soft vibrating chime fills the air. “Cheer up. It’s a funeral.”
“Are you going to drink that or did you come here to play?” Malcolm asks dryly.
I stop fiddling with the whiskey and lean back in my chair. That’s both a good and bad question. I did come here to play but not in the way that he means. My game is a bit more interesting than fucking with a room full of dickless loan sharks. I’ve been maneuvering my pieces into the right places for years. MacLaine wants answers. I want to savor the moment.
“You’re wasting my time.” MacLaine’s chair pushes away from the table as he rises to his feet.
My gaze stays trained on the spot he just vacated. “Sit.”
“If you think”—
“Sit.” The command booms from me. He lowers into his chair.
I let him stew in his cowardice for a moment—let him linger in the humiliation of accepting my command. It’s better than I imagined, bringing a MacLaine to heel. He’s not the one I want at my feet, but he’s delicious practice.
“Those men don’t know it yet, but they no longer have an interest in MacLaine media or your family’s assets,” I inform him.
Green eyes bug from their sockets before he can rein himself in. He clears his throat, his fingers loosening the silver tie at his neck. “I’m not sure my investors”—
“Your collectors,” I correct him. “The day your father died all partnerships and subsequent financial arrangements died with him. But you know that, don’t you? Mr. Harding would have advised you as much.”
Malcolm glances, stricken, to the man at his right. Later, Harding will explain who I am and how he knows me—I wonder if he’ll tell the whole story—but even he isn’t up-to-date on current events.
“No Senate seat to dole out favors,” I continue. “No almighty media network to stir the pot. Not after the fines from the FCC and the loss of half your family’s newspapers to bankruptcy. Do you know how many of your papers have been liquidated recently, Mr. MacLaine? I do.”
“That’s none of your business.” His voice shakes as he speaks. He’s putting on a front. I can’t exactly blame him for that. I would in his position. Although, I’d never be in his position.
“It is my business. As of this morning, I hold a majority share in MacLaine media.” I pause to let the news sink in and relish his shock. The pleasure is second to only one thing, and, before long, I’ll have her just where I want her, too. “Your father divided his interests poorly. I’m sure Harding told you that.”
“How much?” He mouths the words more than he speaks them.
“All of it, except what he left you and your sister.”
There’s a flash of triumph in his eyes at this revelation. “You don’t know what he left us.”
“No, I don’t, but I do know that forty-five percent of MacLaine Media holdings were sold off by your father before his death. Care to guess how much of it I bought?” God, I couldn’t enjoy this more if I had Adair bent over the table so they could watch the family getting fucked in more ways than one.
Even across the room, I see the slide of his throat as he swallows this information. Maybe Harding hasn’t broken all the bad news yet. Silence roars between us, deafening in its implications. I’ve always been comfortable alone with my thoughts—comfortable weighing my words before I commit them to the world. Malcolm doesn’t share this characteristic.
“That’s impossible,” he explodes. “Harding?”
The lawyer’s lips press into a thin line. It’s answer enough even for Malcolm, who seems the type that needs things spelled out for him.
“I want to see the will tomorrow,” Malcolm mutters.
“The reading is set for”—
“I don’t give a damn. Make it happen. Now,” he snaps.
Harding’s head shakes as he exits the room. I almost feel sorry for him. He’s exchanged one tyrannical business man for another, but this is worse. Malcolm MacLaine is a class below his father. From my research, he’s half as shrewd and nowhere near as cunning. Still, a snake in the grass can bite.
Neither of us speak for a minute after the lawyer is gone. Malcolm is smart enough to weigh his words. There are no witnesses to what happens here. He knows that. Normally, that might induce him to tell me off, but now there are other considerations. I can almost hear the wheels turning in his head. If I’m telling the truth—if I’m in possession of a significant portion of the MacLaine assets—it won’t be hard for me to snipe his business associates. It won’t matter what he claims happened between us. Money talks. Money speaks a language of lies, greed, and betrayal and everyone wants to be fluent in it.
“What do you want?” He manages to say evenly, although white-knuckled hands clench the table edge.
It’s a loaded question. There’s what I’ll tell him I want and what I really came for, but the two desires are inextricable from one another. I hesitate to look as though I’m considering. I’ve planned this moment, waited for it, and perfection can’t be rushed.
I know all about Malcolm MacLaine. I know he went to Valmont University and graduated summa cum laude. I know that his education was purchased, courtesy of a time when the wealthy could still buy their children success. I know how he met his wife. I know her secret. I know his secret. I make it my job to know the dirty truths people try to hide. The only thing more valuable in this world than money is knowledge. The right information is a never-ending paycheck. All of my research on Malcolm MacLaine tells me that he rivals his father for heartlessness. But even the heartless have vulnerabilities. His father’s was his children, whether or not they saw it. Malcolm’s weakness is his wife. He’ll protect her over all else, but Ginny
