by Libby Rice
Perhaps Susan took subtle cues from Ethan, and after that toast, she’d decided Scarlet was along purely for Ethan’s entertainment. In that case, Scarlet almost couldn’t fault the woman’s aloofness. Ethan had made it quite clear he didn’t take her seriously, so why should his minion? Scarlet now faced two options—try the feminine bonding thing or skip the bull and make it clear she was higher in the food chain and that, yes, shit did flow downhill.
Though the latter held great appeal, Scarlet grudgingly opted for the former, at least at the start, saying, “So how many deals have you and Ethan worked?
Susan’s response was sharp. “All of them.”
“Wonderful. You know the ropes.”
Susan turned her gaze to Ethan and spoke in a low, almost carnal tone Scarlet wouldn’t have believed she possessed. “You could say that.”
Okaaay. Secretary-plus.
“What do you think of Optik?” Scarlet asked, hoping to guide them to more comfortable ground.
“The price is too high.”
And your basis for that is? Oh yeah, nothing. “How so?”
Ignoring Scarlet’s question, Susan stood and stretched. “Great chat, Ms. Leore, really. But mine is an early morning.” Susan listed toward Ethan with a small, insolent smile. “And yours is likely a late night.” With a meaningful look, she lit another cigarette and walked off the terrace in the direction of the hotel.
Scarlet stared after Susan, sure her WTF look had taken firm root. Ethan’s assistant/taskmaster/friend/maybe one-time lover had given her the slip, right after blatantly accusing her of sleeping with the enemy.
With Susan gone, Scarlet succumbed to the creep of stress and fatigue. The endless days of the Scandinavian summer encouraged one to forget the time. The sun had finally faded around ten p.m. hours ago. She’d lingered long enough, she hoped, to show Ethan’s little toast held no particular significance, at least not to her. With any luck, his audience would begin to question whether they’d imagined his intimations.
Rolling her head on her shoulders, she acknowledged her body’s demand for sleep, however unlikely a full night’s rest might be. Even the best hotels differed significantly from her overpriced urban fortress in New York, with its twenty-four hour, specially-trained security personnel. Yet, perhaps her mounting exhaustion and the sheer luxury of her bedding would lull her into a much-needed nap. Tension throbbed at the back of her skull, and all the neck rolls in the world weren’t siphoning the ache from her protesting muscles. Looking around, Scarlet assured herself the remaining revelers were entertained.
They wouldn’t miss her.
******
Ethan’s weren’t the only eyes that followed Scarlet when she stood to leave. He watched her acknowledge a few appreciative glances before adopting her brand of a thanks-but-don’t-ask smile.
The emerald dress ended just above the knee and swirled around her body like water. A wide black belt showcased the curve of her waist and the gentle flare of her smooth, rounded hips. Instead of a vee, her neckline fashioned a loose oval that shifted when she moved, displaying the creamy skin of her collarbones and the barest hint of pale cleavage.
His double entendre had hit its mark. The look on her face had reflected a woman condemned—part dread, part acceptance, even a dose of shame. In aiming the jibe at Scarlet, he’d come out the loser. The pinch in his chest could only be regret.
She didn’t trust him, and frankly, she was wise to be wary. Ethan couldn’t predict whether he’d seduce Scarlet for revenge. Even if his conscience reared its ugly head as it was apparently wont to do, he could easily—almost subconsciously—be careless with her, staging a high-stakes game with her affections.
And judging from her sweet, hot response on the plane and her subsequent attempts at self-preservation, she didn’t know how to play.
Scarlet had damaged him, not only with the time in Rikers, but also the desperate crawl from the black void after his exoneration. His subsequent successes didn’t dissolve the past. Yet each time she showed even the faintest glimpse of distress, admittedly in response to something he said or did, he panicked. There’d been moments when he would have done anything, everything to sooth her. It dawned on him that he might not be capable of intentionally causing her a moment of true pain.
Despite his preconceived notions, Scarlet had proven smart and strong. Likable. And what a glorious lover she would make. Images of voluptuous curves rocketed through his brain—Scarlet undulating beneath him, sucking a breath as he stroked her breasts, tongued her sex. Sitting there, he could feel her hands all over his body. His cock jerked violently, and he broke into a sweat.
Looking through the terrace doors, he watched Scarlet approach the maître d’, her squeezable ass swaying slightly as she strolled on strappy nude heels. She spoke with the host briefly, and after a moment, the man smiled and picked up the phone for a short call. Scarlet waited patiently, giving Ethan a chance to admire her profile and contemplate what she needed. A cab? With the hotel a block away?
After a few minutes, Scarlet peered out the front doors into the night. When she turned to retrace her steps, Ethan saw her lips were drawn into a tight line. She raised a hand to unconsciously rub the base of her neck, a move he’d seen her make repeatedly throughout the night, and his hands itched to massage away her soreness and tension. He clenched them in his lap, resisting her pull.
Pacing now—and clearly unaware of being observed—Scarlet’s anxiety grew palpable. What’s wrong, sweetheart?
When a black Mercedes cab pulled up a few yards from the door, Scarlet’s gaze eased to the now-empty host stand. The man had left to seat a large group, and noting his continued absence, Scarlet hesitated. She glanced around the restaurant, rooted in place. When the maître d’ didn’t appear after long moments, she took a deep breath as though preparing for a daunting task. Then she darted out the door and into the waiting cab, whisked away into the night.
Ethan’s hackles rose. Scarlet hadn’t mentioned having friends in the city or wanting to visit any favorite nighttime haunts. Yet she’d left the gathering in a cab, alone and at midnight. He recognized nerves when had saw them. Scarlet had embarked on a venture that made her extremely uncomfortable.
She’d looked guilty.
Ethan’s pulse quickened with the doubt that crept inward. Too many competitors would love to get their hands on Optik. A leak could kill the acquisition while both sides sat gauging a reaction in Atavos’s stock price. Inside info about the deal could also encourage another potential buyer to blatantly interfere.
The market had been curious about One. Rumors flew. Negotiations needed to progress quickly—if a deal was imminent—before news broke that Atavos courted Optik. Ethan’s own marketing machine would spin the story if, and when, it hit the media.
Surely Scarlet wouldn’t risk so far a fall. But then, why would she sneak away in a cab at midnight in a strange city without a word about her plans? He wrapped his discussion with Billboard and Optik’s CEO and trotted over to the hotel.
Ordering a martini in the lobby lounge, he took a seat in full view of the hotel’s entrance, planning to intercept Scarlet upon her return and ferret out whether her little foray involved business or pleasure.
If pleasure, she might have a valid reason for rebuffing his advances, which was abso-fucking-lutely fine. If business, then despite his inclination to soften, maybe he wasn’t against seeing her suffer after all.
Unfortunately for her, Scarlet never returned.
Chapter 9
The hit reverberated from Ethan’s wrist to shoulder. Waiting as pain lanced through his arm, he gritted his teeth and focused upward, tracking a grimy maze of piping and ductwork that mottled the ceiling of the basement gym he’d found near the hotel.
On a greedy inhale, he tasted dust and sweat. If the gym had made efforts to filter and condition the air, they’d failed. A drinkable musk floated around him.
Pulling his head together, he refocused with proper s
tance. Otherwise, he’d come away with injuries from a fucking leather bag. Throwing a second jab, and then a third and a fourth, Ethan repeatedly slammed his fist forward, letting the frustration flow from his gloved knuckles into the swinging target.
In between punches, his mind rehashed the possible reasons for Scarlet’s late night. Perhaps she had a love interest squirreled away in Copenhagen. He wouldn’t put it past her to keep a Nordic princeling full of European money on a vacation leash. Yet she hadn’t behaved like a taken woman on the plane. Instead, he’d sensed a tantalizing lack of practice in her passionate, yet hesitant response.
Knowing he might have read her wrong, that she could have played him with those innocent gasps and her bewildered shock after that staggering orgasm, brought a rush of violence. He swung with abandon, rounding on the bag with a brutal kick that sent it swinging.
Right now, Scarlet knew more than anyone about the deal, even him. She would provide a status report later in the morning, and he wondered if the document had already been sent to another executive or, worse, a media outlet willing to pay her price. A lover was possible, but a better explanation of her midnight foible involved an anonymous Internet café from which Scarlet could send messages about the mediocre status of negotiations between Atavos and Optik. She’d never risk her own or any other traceable computer.
He’d been so focused on his own motives for hiring Scarlet he hadn’t acknowledged the possibility of her having an axe to grind. The “why” wasn’t yet clear, but life had dealt Scarlet a significant financial blow. People betrayed loved ones for less, and there was little love lost between them.
Betrayal burned in his gut as he worked in four-minute rounds, repeating a series of punches. The repetitive motion—left, right, right, left, right, right—gradually diffused his temper, and his pace slowed with each progressive blow. After endless hits, he adopted a steady rhythm that allowed him to consider a measured approach with Scarlet. She’d be questioned. He’d learn from her responses. And God help her if she lied.
For a moment, he considered letting Billboard deal with her. Billboard wouldn’t be swayed by how badly he wanted to fuck the woman.
Then again, maybe not. Most men were susceptible to her brand of curvaceous, sex-on-a-stick perfection. In fact, the majority wouldn’t see past it. They lacked his… personal experience and wouldn’t believe such an innocent facade capable of unparalleled duplicity.
After his Scarlet-induced stint in maximum security, he knew otherwise.
******
Scarlet’s inner bitch roared, not in a power play, but because she was really pissed off.
Ten people, five each from Atavos and Optik, gathered in Optik’s conference room. Scandinavian to the core, the dark and pretentious mahogany and leather furnishings of her New York office gave way to clean, modern lines done in light woods. Optik excelled in the school of Norse simplicity.
In fact, Optik might have been too successful in its quest for minimalism. Overdoing it had apparently impaired Optik’s ability to store records, or so Optik would have her believe.
Stalemate.
Insecurities rang in her ears while she planned a great save, mentally flailing for a compelling argument that would bring Optik around. Tongue tripping over the words, she heard her father’s last bit of vitriol. “I built your mother from the ground up, just like you… Without me and the money you carelessly throw away, you’ll crumble.”
He’d been wrong. She hadn’t dissolved in self-doubt. But she walked a knife’s edge. One wrong move and she’d tumble from either side into an abyss, sans safety net.
While Ethan watched, laughing his ass off.
The king of her personal hell sat diagonally across the table. Undeniably hot, he said little, but each time she looked in his direction, his gaze struck like a coiled snake. That cold fire pinned the lack of cooperation from Optik squarely on her shoulders. He shifted impatiently in his seat, probably mentally sticking with last night’s theme that she made a better Barbie than barrister.
Swallowing, Scarlet slid a chart across the table to Arland Magnus, her movements quick and efficient. “This list reflects Optik’s portfolio as you’ve represented it. We haven’t been able to verify the existence of over fifty percent of the entries on the list. You’ll need to provide copies of each of the noted patent applications, along with autobiographical information such as serial number, file date, and status.”
Grumbling in low tones, Optik’s CEO grabbed the list. Small companies often prided themselves on their ability to react quickly to the market, but they lacked necessary personnel and sophistication. They moved fast, but their moves were messy. Then the so-called small stuff drowned them in the transition between the baby pool and the deep end.
Arland clearly viewed Atavos’s due diligence efforts as a waste of time. He thought he knew the worth of his company, and that, eventually, he could find a buyer to accept his take-it-or-leave-it strategy. A damning blow might do him some good.
Scarlet’s looked to Ethan with raised brows, expecting him to mirror her concern. Instead, he sat back, twirling a pen around his middle finger in rapid beats. At her curious glance, his eyes narrowed with ill-concealed menace.
His disappointment speared her, not Arland.
Sickness settled in her gut. Ethan had his own imaginary reasons to be displeased. Providing him with real ones would court disaster.
With a deep and, she hoped, imperceptible breath, she shut Ethan out and leveled a glacial stare on Arland. “Let me be clear, this process involves an independent analysis of the value of Optik’s technology and whether it would behoove Atavos to own it. We don’t take your word for it. If you do not, or cannot, provide the information we seek, this deal will fail.”
“Ms. Leore, our asking price is fair, low even. Numerous buyers would love to be in Atavos’s position at this very moment.”
The implied threat couldn’t be ignored. Scarlet leaned forward, balling her fists below the table. “Might I—”
“Remind you,” Ethan said, jumping in with a scathing retort, “that we are operating under a signed letter of intent that requires Optik and Atavos to negotiate exclusively and in good faith.” His voice flat-lined and he stood, slowly circling his chair before settling the bulk of his forearms across its leather back. “There will be no other buyers for Optik until those guidelines are met. As for other interested parties? Give them this shit”—he leaned over and rattled the incomplete chart that lay on the table—“and they’ll slip through Optik’s fingers like Atavos is about to.”
The words were clearly directed at Optik. The rage behind them, however, arced toward Scarlet like a live wire.
Arland sat rigid in his seat, refusing to rise to the bait, so Scarlet simply let Ethan’s outburst sink in before moving on.
She cleared her throat, shifting attention from Ethan’s rising hostility to the agenda. “I also wanted to cover raw materials. We need to see the purchasing agreements with your suppliers to determine whether they’re assignable to Atavos upon the sale of Optik.”
This time Arland’s answer was immediate. “We have the contracts.” His lips lifted in a smug smile. “In Danish.”
She responded after giving him a moment to gloat, offering an easy grin of her own. “We can get translations within twenty-four hours.” Always a step ahead, asshole. “Looking at the material lists, we haven’t identified any other bottlenecks…”
The meeting droned on until they touched all the salient points. Optik would again have time to drum up the requested information and documentation. Then her team would analyze and crunch more numbers.
Worn from long, stressful hours and a lack of sleep in the hotel room she’d had such high hopes for, Scarlet rose and doggedly packed the papers shuffled about the table. The sun beat through the windows, announcing a perfect day to explore the city on foot. Dragging or not, she’d take advantage of the lull resulting from Optik’s delay. The first order of business would be to re
medy a grave oversight—she’d been in Denmark for days without gorging on European chocolate.
Ethan’s light grasp on her shoulder interrupted visions of dancing cacao beans. “Let’s talk,” he ground out, features tense.
She stiffened but didn’t pull away. “About?” The negotiations were spiraling downward. She didn’t need him to point out their increasingly inevitable failure. Perhaps Optik wasn’t interested—or interested enough—in selling. If that proved true, an angry pep talk from Ethan wouldn’t salvage the project. It would destroy morale. Jerking from his grasp, she rushed to stuff the last spreadsheets into her briefcase, feeling an inexplicable need to escape the tension with the rest of the grunts.
He trailed after their departing colleagues before closing the door behind the last straggler. Still gripping the handle, he didn’t turn around when he said, “Have a seat, Scarlet.”
If anything, she stood taller, snapping her bag shut with a smart click. “Again, why?”
“Sit.” When he finally turned, his rigid stance said any argument would be futile. Letting her gaze travel up his body, she instinctively stepped away from the fire burning in his onyx eyes. Heavy lids descended to shut her out, like he didn’t trust himself to look at her.
Wary of the violence emanating from a man she barely trusted, Scarlet obeyed, but rather than sink into the nearest chair, she balanced on the edge of the seat, poised for immediate flight. “What can I do for—”
“An interesting question.” His eyes opened, and he reached for the back of a second chair, rolling it to the space in front of her. “And one with many answers.”
He sat, too close, with his knees bracketing hers. Her smaller body responded to his massive one like a chemical reaction, her core instantly warming. The moment she detected a slight tremor in her thighs, his eyes went heavy-lidded. The man knew the effect of his proximity. And he enjoyed causing her discomfort.
