by Maya Rodale, Caroline Linden, Miranda Neville, Katharine Ashe
Archer raised his eyebrows, doodling a string of dollar signs and a large question mark on his notebook. Who was this investor? Brightball had enormous potential, but so far had fallen short on convincing the venture funds to chip in more than a pittance.
“Hey there, I’m Rick Garner,” said a new voice. The name rang a bell, but Archer couldn’t put his finger on it. “Glad to join you all; I’m looking forward to working with everyone. I’ll be the point person on Brightball.”
“Good morning,” said a voice with a faint German accent. “Dietrich Metzer here.”
Well, shit. The bell rang crystal clear this time, even before Rick Garner added, “And our principal will be sitting in on the call today.”
“Good morning, gentlemen. Hello, Archer,” came a rich, genial voice. It was a movie star voice, the kind of voice hired to record commercials for expensive luxury cars. It was a compelling voice, one that could persuade you to pay ten percent above your absolute price ceiling and still make you feel like you got a bargain. It was a voice that could tell a woman with third-stage breast cancer that she was being divorced, and make her think everything was her fault.
Archer flung his pencil at the wall, not caring that it left a black dot on the wallpaper. “Hello, Dad.”
“Nice of you to join us, Mr. Quinn,” said Jack.
“Quinntillion is investing twenty-seven million in the company,” piped up Bill, sounding far too pleased with himself.
Archer smiled grimly. So this was what had got Bill so excited. Too bad he had no idea what he’d gotten himself into. “When did this come about?”
“All in the last week. Jack led the negotiations.” Bill paused. “I thought he would let you know.”
“Archer’s overseas at the moment,” said Jack quickly. “What with the time difference and all, I just hadn’t found time to bring him up to speed.”
“No sweat. Well, as you can imagine we’ve got quite a bit of stuff to talk about…” And Bill plunged into the terms of the new investment. Archer let Jack do most of the talking, just as he intended to let Jack do most of the work. This was obviously Jack’s doing; if he’d wanted Archer’s input, he would have asked for it days ago, before Bill became enamored of the idea of Quinntillion money. Ted Quinn was reputed to have the golden touch, after all, and when he invested, he invested big. That didn’t mean he didn’t get something for his money, though; Ted always demanded what he valued most, which was control. No doubt Bill had barely thought past all the ways he could use Quintillion’s money. The full extent of the devil’s bargain he’d made wouldn’t dawn on him until much later, when he found himself eased out the door of the company that was his entire life.
When the call finally ended, Archer hung up, counted to ten, and dialed Jack’s number. “It must be my birthday,” he said in false delight. “You forgot to jump up and shout, ‘Surprise!’”
Jack’s sigh echoed across the Atlantic. “I wasn’t keeping it from you. You’ve just been hard to reach, and I wanted to tell you myself.”
“On the phone with our client listening? Your presentation skills need work.”
“You’ve been gone almost a week,” retorted Jack.
“That doesn’t mean I haven’t been working, and I don’t just mean socializing with our firm’s other clients, as you strongly encouraged me to do.” They both knew Project-TK meant far more to their bottom line than Brightball, at least for the moment.
“To be honest, Archer, I didn’t think I would be the one to get Quinntillion involved in a deal with any of our clients.”
Archer stretched out his legs. He’d put his feet up on the bed a while ago, about the time he decided he was done working—for the rest of his trip. “And if you’d asked me, I would have advised you against it.”
“Why the hell would you do that? Helping clients connect with venture capitalists is part of our service.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” He laughed, a little mockingly. “Except I know how Quinntillion operates. You’ll see what I mean when you get their term sheet.” During the call, Ted’s attorney, Dietrich Metzer—who looked and sounded like a nerdy Swiss banker but who was in reality a rapacious, soulless vampire—had said almost nothing. Archer knew that was pure deception. He’d worked at Quinntillion when he was a teenager, and had seen in person how coldly Metzer would cut someone out of their life’s work if it led to a bigger payout for Quinntillion.
“They’re going to elevate Brightball from marginal start-up to the leading innovator in optical technology.”
“Yeah, and in the process they’re going to eat away at Bill’s control.” Some inventors were good with that. They started a company, got it running, sold out, and took their payout to start something newer and more exciting. But Bill lived and breathed Brightball. Archer didn’t think he’d want to cede control to Quinntillion or anyone else.
This time Jack’s sigh was exasperated. “But that’s why we have you, Archer, to look out for Bill’s rights. He needs the money, you know how to protect him from Quinntillion’s more outrageous demands, everyone will be happy. Why are you acting like I pissed in your coffee?”
He put back his head and stared out the window. Natalie’s house lay directly on the other side of that hill. I don’t like lawyers, echoed her voice in his mind. At the moment, he didn’t like lawyers, either, beginning with Jack Harper.
“Jack, did you bring me on just to get business with Quinntillion?”
His boss chuckled. “It didn’t hurt, being Ted Quinn’s son.”
All right; fair enough. He’d suspected as much, although no one at Harper Millman had ever brought up his father. But saying it out in the open had a strangely freeing effect on Archer’s thoughts. The vague discontent he’d felt for the last few months suddenly crystalized, and what he wanted became clear.
“You should have done more diligence.” Archer sat up and flipped his notebook closed. “If you had, you would have known that this was the first time in six years I’ve spoken to my father, about business or anything else.” If Jack had asked, Archer would also have told him that he’d never try to steer a client toward a deal with Quinntillion, and that he’d regard any such deal as if it had been made by a hostile firm. Not that it mattered now. “I assume you’ve already talked to Bill about this conflict, and he’s still willing to have me working on this?”
“Absolutely!”
“Then do me one favor from here on: no more bullshit surprises, okay?”
“Fine.”
“I also want to form my own tech practice within the firm,” Archer went on. “Duke Austen has some big ideas in the works. I want to take Elle Williams and create a dedicated team to bring them out. Some of these ideas will generate work for years to come, and I need more than spotty time from an ever-changing variety of associates.”
“A tech practice?” Jack sounded doubtful. “I’d have to run it by the other partners…”
“Do that,” said Archer, his gaze moving to the hill outside his window. Natalie was probably getting ready for bed by now. Coming to England had been an awesome idea, even if it led to him working with his father. “But if he doesn’t approve, I’ll be leaving the firm. And Duke Austen will come with me.”
“Whoa,” exclaimed Jack. “That’s blackmail!”
That’s the Quinn way, Archer thought. “Not really. Just bald facts. Let me know when I get back to Boston.”
“I’m sure we can work out a plan that will suit everyone,” Jack began, but Archer was done.
“I have to go, Jack. Good talking to you.” He hung up the phone and checked his watch. It was too late to go back to Primrose Cottage, so he went to the unofficial hotel bar, the back patio. Piers Prescott walked by, headed to the pool with a towel over his shoulder.
“Making up for missing the drunken shooting party this morning?” Piers nodded at Archer’s glass of scotch.
He took a swallow. “Nope. Celebrating telling off my boss.”
Piers’s eyebrows shot
up. “Why?”
“For manipulating me into working with my father.”
“Manipulating?” Piers frowned. “What the hell?”
Archer drank some more scotch, feeling better and better. “You know my father; he’s all his reputation cracks him up to be. I haven’t spoken to him in years. But tonight, my boss admitted he hired me partly to get business from dear old Ted, which he’s just done—and I have to work on the deal. So I told him to go fuck himself.”
“Literally?” There was surprise, but also a tinge of envy in the other man’s voice.
“More figuratively.” Archer imagined Jack Harper’s face during their conversation. “But he got my meaning.”
Piers Prescott stared at him with a very odd expression.
Archer grinned. “If you’re wondering, it feels fantastic.”
“Right,” murmured Piers.
“Archer!” He turned to see Duke striding across the patio. “More trouble with the magazine deal.”
Of course there was. Archer didn’t even care this time. He felt like nailing someone’s hide to the wall, and a sleazy tabloid hack was as good a choice as any. He thunked his glass down on the bar. “Then let’s go crucify the bastard.”
Chapter Nine
Archer slept late the next morning. After dealing with more outrage from the magazine lawyers—this time over photos of the groom and groomsmen aiming rifles at a cowering paparazzo—he’d had another scotch. When he woke, the sky was dark gray and thunder rumbled in the distance. Normally he would have opened his laptop and spent the morning working; half the wedding party had come home drunk from the bachelor and bachelorette parties the previous night, and the hotel was fairly quiet. But today he pulled on his sneakers and went for a run, finally feeling like a weight had lifted off him. And as he ran, he made a list.
First, he had been working too hard. It hadn’t been a lie when he told Natalie he had no time to meet anyone. Now, however, he had greater motivation than ever to delegate more work, especially work related to Brightball’s new investor.
Second, he did want to have his own specialty practice. It was good to be in a firm, with guys like Tom available when his clients needed something extra, but Archer wanted more independence. Having a client like Duke Austen gave him leverage, and he was ready to use it.
And third, he was going to use his greater autonomy and increased delegation to find more free time. Because he had met someone now, and he was ready to blow off work for her. The avalanche had tumbled him head over heels until he had no idea which way was up anymore. The only thing he knew was that he wanted to know everything about her, every little thing that made her laugh or frown or roll her eyes. He wanted to perfect the art of making her cheeks flush pink and her voice go throaty and he wanted to make her come in his arms. He had two more days here, and he meant to spend both of them with her.
That last line of thought quickened his steps until he was almost flying up the gravel path. He took the stairs two at a time, pausing only for a group of women heading down. The bride was in the center of them, glowing with delight. The wedding was tomorrow, he realized, and when Jane caught his eye he gave her a big grin. Thank you a hundred thousand times for inviting me, he silently told her. He headed to his room, took a quick shower, and changed. Then he grabbed his key without a second glance at his laptop or phone. Time to see what delicious something he would get to lick off Natalie’s skin today.
He went out the back of the house, only to almost run into the wedding planner and hotel owner, who seemed to be having an argument.
“It’s completely blown,” Arwen Kilpatrick was saying furiously. “Dead. Who knows how long it’s been out, and now everything is spoiled because of course it would be hot these last few days—”
“But it was only one of four,” Harry Compton countered. “It can’t be that bad, darling.”
“Harry, we have no dessert! Not even a bride cake!”
Archer, already starting to detour around them, slowed. No dessert? That sounded intrinsically bad, but her voice was frantic, almost shrill with despair. He tried to think what was planned for today that could have caused a lack of dessert to be a major problem…
Oh, right. The formal rehearsal dinner. He hesitated a moment, then turned around.
“Excuse me,” he said to the arguing couple.
The hotelier immediately stepped in front of Arwen. “How can I help you?”
“I might be able to help you,” he said, watching the wedding planner. “It sounds like there was an equipment malfunction in the kitchen.”
“Everything is under control,” Compton tried to say but Arwen was having none of that.
“One of our refrigerators died, Mr. Quinn.” She drew herself up and managed a smile that was remarkably poised. “But don’t worry, I still have almost seven hours to find dessert for nearly a hundred people. I’ve had worse problems.”
“And I have a suggestion.” Archer thought of Natalie’s wine cooler, filled with barely tasted cakes and pies. “Your neighbor is a chef, writing a cookbook. I know she’s been baking desserts for at least a week now. I’ve tasted some of them and everything is otherworldly.”
Arwen’s smile slipped a bit. “I’m sure they are, but my desserts came from a top bakery in London.”
“She’s the deputy chef at Cuisine du Jude, in Wellesley, Massachusetts.” Archer was betting a celebrity wedding planner from New York City would have heard of it. If Jack Harper had trouble getting reservations there, it was exclusive and excellent.
And sure enough, Arwen’s eyes went wide. “Oh my God,” she breathed, turning to Harry Compton. “The most perfect date night restaurant in America! This might work.”
Compton looked disconcerted. “A chef? No, the only neighbor is Amaryllis Sonnier, the artist. She’s not even here; she spends every summer in Portugal.”
“And she’s lent her house to Natalie, who has a walk-in wine cooler filled with cakes.”
“Cuisine du Jude is exquisite,” Arwen babbled. “I ate there last summer to check it out for a client. Exquisite. If she can cook half as well as Judith Corcoran…”
“Natalie is her daughter.” Archer grinned.
Arwen looked at Compton, who shrugged. “I have to give it a shot,” she said. “Mr. Quinn, I take it you’ll introduce me?”
“I was on my way over there now.”
“If this works, I will kiss you,” declared Arwen, falling in step beside him. Archer just saw the scowl that crossed Compton’s face before he, too, set off through the garden toward Primrose Cottage with them.
Natalie noticed when Archer didn’t come down to her cottage the next morning. She told herself it was because of the rain, but then the clouds blew away and still the patio was empty, save for Oliver stretched out on the table where Archer usually worked. Natalie tried not to scowl at the cat. It wasn’t his fault Archer hadn’t come.
She hoped it wasn’t her fault.
The day they’d spent together had been … well, pretty nearly perfect. He was funny. He was considerate. He was thoughtful. He bought really good wine for a picnic on the grass. His kisses made her feel like a goddess, and his hands made her think pornographic thoughts. The attraction between them might be roaring along at a breakneck pace, but as Archer said yesterday, she didn’t feel like stopping it.
But then where was he?
No. She refused to make herself crazy wondering why he wasn’t there. He was a grown man and had things to do. Just because he’d kissed her senseless … several times … didn’t mean anything. It was pure coincidence that he hadn’t shown up after they made out like horny teenagers and then had a daylong date. No, she was a mature, independent woman who would not torture herself trying to understand the mind of any man. She spread out her notes on cookies, trying to decide where to start, and told herself to concentrate on her own work.
It didn’t happen. Today, for the first time, she didn’t feel like baking. Not even her go-to classic chocola
te chip recipe was enticing, nor her scribbled suggestions about oats and nuts and dried fruits. She flicked through the pages, unable to decide, then took out the handwritten recipe for chocolate pudding cake. It did sound good, and Archer had dared her to make it…
In a huff, she went out onto the patio and dropped into the chair, pushing her legs out straight in front of her. She tipped her head back, letting the sun warm her face. Oliver got to his feet and stretched, then walked across the table and climbed into her lap, purring hard. Natalie ran one hand down his back, smiling up at the sky. At least one male still wanted to get on top of her.
“Maybe I ought to take today off, too,” she said to the cat. “I could walk back to town and look in the shops.” Such few shops as were in town. “Do you need any kitty toys, Oliver?” His big paws, darker than the rest of him, flexed against her knee. “I don’t even know what toys cats like.”
“Jingle bells,” said Archer from somewhere behind her. “And feathers. At least that’s what my mother’s cat likes.”
Natalie started, and Oliver jumped off her lap with an offended meow. “Oh, hi,” she said stupidly, feeling her face turn red. She got up, brushing the cat fur from her skirt.
“Good morning.” His eyes warmed as he smiled. She could only smile back like an idiot as his gaze flicked up and down, hot and brazen. “I have a question to ask—actually a tremendous favor—but before I ask, I want you to know it’s totally fine if you say no.”
“Uh-oh.” She tried to laugh even as her heart stuttered ridiculously. “That sounds ominous.”
“No, it’s just…” He hesitated. “I know you’re not a fan of the wedding chaos, but the bride and groom are actually really decent people. There’s been a malfunction in the kitchen with one of the refrigerators…”
The smile slid off her face. “Okay,” she said tonelessly when Archer paused again.
