by Sarah Andre
Eric laughed and shook his head. “Ken Tucker cares. He made you, and he’s the one who can break you.”
Get in line, Devon almost said, but then his cousin’s words registered. “He didn’t make me. You taught me finance and tax shelters, and everything after that has been my own blood, sweat, and tears.”
His cousin snorted. “I was with you at that country club the first time you met them, remember? She stood next to her father, ogling you like you were a Tiffany jewel no one could afford. And by God, Daddy bought it for her.”
Devon stared at him in disbelief. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Dude, he bought our stock two days after that. He instantly became our largest shareholder. You never asked yourself why? And when we were invited out to the family compound in the Hamptons that summer, the whole weekend was mother, father, and darling daughter devoted to one thing—hooking you.”
This was just stupid. “You’re insane.”
“I was there.”
Devon jerked a thumb at himself. “I had control. I chased her, I seduced her, and I proposed to her.”
“No ya didn’t, Dev.” Eric’s smile was as condescending as Harrison’s had been a short while ago. “They just let you think that. And not to sound vain, but I’m the one with the looks and the law degree. And we both know I have a hell of a lot better personality. So why would they choose you? Not even choose—buy.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“Think about it, Dev. I’ll wait.”
Devon rubbed at the headache behind his eyelid, speechless. His recall of those early days was just a blur of energy, excitement, and feeling like he had the whole damn world within his grasp. He had the New York debutante on his arm, and new investors lining up with their fists full of cash. The adrenaline high of each new deal—a fracking company in Pennsylvania, a natural gas processing plant in North Dakota, high-rise developments in Jersey, Houston, and L.A. And just like that, the struggling company grew, tripling profits and exploding into new markets within two years, thanks to Tucker bringing his cronies onboard… Cronies… “Oh shit.” The truth hit him so hard he felt his brain jolt.
Eric nodded. “I agree. Do you think he’d have put in the money and effort if he knew you were disinherited?”
Devon gazed off, his thoughts scattering like all the fluttering leaves around this vast landscape. His attention snapped back to the screen. “Wait a minute. I went by Devon Ashby the moment I left Chicago.”
His cousin slapped his forehead. “It’s like I’m talkin’ to a newborn! Tucker doesn’t allow anyone to speak to his daughter without a full-blown background check.” He pointed at Devon. “You were vetted, right down to the size of your sphincter. Count on it.”
“Nice.” Devon put his chin in his palm. He still hadn’t shaved. He couldn’t remember a time in the last twelve years when he’d let himself go unkempt. It signified a lack of control, which he didn’t tolerate. The emotional upheaval at every turn today had upended his steadfast routines. He scrubbed his jaw as if he could rub the sloppy evidence off. “You’ve argued yourself right out of your point, Eric. If he picked me for Nicole, that’s all the more reason he’s not the other investor.”
“Every time I’ve seen him these last few weeks, Jason Deel has been at his side. I didn’t think anything of it until this mess, but I wonder if Tucker has decided on another candidate.”
Devon scowled. “You of all people know Nicole has a mind of her own. A formidable one.” Her irate words still clung like toxic smog. “And she loves me.”
“She loves her daddy more.”
“This is pure conjecture.” Devon glanced at his watch again. “We have fourteen minutes.”
“Stick with me, Junior. Think about the timing.”
Devon rolled his eyes. Junior was the nickname Eric used when Devon had first arrived in Manhattan, and an authority only on sports-related topics. His cousin had patiently taught him everything, until he’d not only mastered the subjects but had also started Ashby Enterprises. Devon had hoped his Junior days were behind him. “Go ahead,” he said wearily.
“Bryant, aka Harrison, began buying up small amounts of Ashby several weeks ago, right? What if, during that time, your father called Tucker, our biggest shareholder? What if Tucker thought all this time that you’d inherit your father’s estate, but found out during the call that you’re nothing but a pauper in your father and Tucker’s world? What if they did agree to buy out our company? Naturally Tucker would also begin shopping for a new fiancé for Princess, hence all his recent fawning over Jason.”
The stabbing behind Devon’s eye throbbed in time with his rapid heartbeat. He pressed his eyelid and saw stars. Was Eric right? There was the oddly cool attitude Nicole had displayed earlier this week, and her interest in whether he’d signed over the trust fund. Two separate events he wouldn’t have thought twice about until Eric’s what-if game. “What the fuck am I gonna do?” He stared at his cousin.
He waited for mental or physical pain at this potential relationship bombshell, but faced an apathetic void. It must be shock. Or denial. Or Eric was dead wrong, and Nicole’s coolness was just the stress of planning a wedding. Her interest in the reason for his Chicago visit the sign of a loving fiancée.
Eric’s expression morphed into the older cousin, brilliant mentor role. “You deal with your relationship, Dev. Why don’t I call the board and ask each one outright?” His tone held the kind of gentleness people used on the infirm. It was exactly what Devon needed to ignite an afterburn.
What the fuck am I going to do? Those whiny words weren’t part of the commanding CEO persona he’d cultivated all these years. He was Renegade, for fuck’s sake. “Call everyone but Westcott and Tucker,” he said. “They’re mine.”
“Dev—”
“Do it.” He ended the call and squeezed the cell in his palm. He muttered an oath and scanned down his contact list, highlighting Westcott’s personal number. It took one ring before the man picked up and greeted him by name.
“Sounds like you were expecting my call,” Devon said.
“I presumed you’d figure everything out in time, so yes, your call was not unexpected.”
How tediously Westcott of you, he wanted to say, using that same bored tone right back. “Define ‘figure everything out’?” he asked instead, keeping tight control over his pleasant monotone.
“Ah, the proverbial cat-and-mouse game. I will simply respond that I seek new leadership. Find your answers elsewhere.”
Devon rubbed his bristles rhythmically. “You do realize Bryant is a dummy name? You’re actually jumping into bed with the Wickham conglomerate.”
“Of course I’m aware.” Westcott’s sharp tone held an edge of warning.
Devon waited a beat. Over by the willow, Honey ascended back onto land. “Is this because of the Rogers Park purchase?” He kept an eye on her but she held her head high, looked straight ahead, and did the runway catwalk toward the far side of the house.
“The majority of my decision was based on that, yes,” Westcott said in his tinny voice. “I have no interest in being on the board or even invested in a company made up of naïve gamblers.”
Devon cut his gaze to the flagstones at his feet. “How much is my father offering for your shares?”
“Since I know you can’t afford to engage in an auction, I will simply respond that it is none of your business.”
And I will simply respond, “Fuck you.” Devon clenched and unclenched his fist, desperately seeking a new avenue to convince the old fart to stop the sale. It wasn’t a secret Harrison Wickham’s ruthless arrogance in the corporate world often meant dealing in or cutting out partners. Maybe the way to get through to Westcott was planting seeds of doubt. Play to his overly cautious side. And adopting some of that snooty Westcott-speak wouldn’t hurt either. Neither would groveling.
“We may not see eye to eye on many issues, Boyd, but I’ve always respected your cautious judgment. Th
at’s why I’m surprised you aren’t considering all the angles of Harrison’s power play.” He held his breath.
“What angles?” The alarm in Westcott’s voice was microscopic, but it was there.
“I met with Harrison this afternoon, and let’s just say it would behoove you not to act in haste.” The silence had to be a good sign. Devon pressed his point: “Wouldn’t it be prudent to contemplate all the options on the table?”
Westcott sighed. “All right, Ashby, you have my attention. What angles, what options, and what information do you have?”
“I’m extremely uncomfortable discussing this over the phone. I plan to be back in New York late tonight; we’ll meet at the club tomorrow for breakfast. But I need your word that you’ll withdraw the transfer today.”
The next few seconds were the longest of Devon’s life. He was vaguely aware of his rapid-fire heartbeat as he watched whitecaps appear and disappear—there one second, gone the next. Thriving and then dying.
Westcott cleared his throat. “You have my word, Ashby. I’ll meet you at eight sharp. But you better not be bluffing.”
“Thank you, Boyd.” Devon gulped in a lungful of lake air as he hung up. Of course he was bluffing. But he’d just bought some time to figure out this insanity.
One down. He stood on cramped legs and paced around the patio, rehearsing several confident phrases before he highlighted the next name.
“Ken Tucker’s office.”
He strode faster. “Hi, Donna. Devon Ashby. Is he in?”
“He’s playing golf this afternoon, Mr. Ashby.”
“Okay, I’ll call his cell.”
“He left instructions not to be interrupted.”
He chuckled, pleased it sounded natural. “He won’t mind. I’m almost his son-in-law.”
“Actually”—Donna’s voice rose about two octaves—“he specifically mentioned you were not to interrupt.”
Goose bumps prickled along his skin. Eric was right. His soon-to-be father-in-law was involved, and it had happened right under Devon’s nose. Somehow he managed to thank the secretary and hang up, then instantly tapped Tucker’s cell number. The son of a bitch was not going to hide from such epic betrayal. Voicemail clicked in immediately, and he stared at the phone in disbelief. He played golf with Tucker twice a week—the man’s phone was always on. Multimillion-dollar deals had been struck in sand bunkers. Devon left a curt request for a call back.
Out of energy and lacking ideas, he sat back on the flagstone step and stared at the glimmering lake. At least with Westcott out of the picture, Harrison wouldn’t have fifty-one percent by the end of today. Devon had the weekend to persuade his future father-in-law to drop the buyout. And convince his daughter she’d be deliriously happy in her marriage. He highlighted Nicole’s number. It also clicked straight to voicemail.
“Hey, babe, I’m sorry again about this evening. Hell, I’m sorry about a whole bunch of stuff. I’m coming home tonight, I promise, and tomorrow we’ll talk and shop and party, and anything else you want to do. All weekend, okay? I’m all yours. Call me.”
Truthfully, the last thing he wanted to do was take his mind off his business. Shopping and partying at a time like this was tantamount to playing the violin on the deck of the Titanic. But he owed her. And he truly regretted not being at her side on what was supposed to be their night of social glory.
Shit. He slapped the phone against his forehead. Forgot to say “I love you.” Aw hell, he’d say it in person in less than six hours. Over and over, and in front of her father, too, sometime tomorrow.
He texted the two Judases’ names to Eric so his cousin wouldn’t call and needlessly alarm anyone else on the board. Then he called George Fallow to apologize and see whether he could possibly squeeze in an appointment right now, but the first available was next Wednesday. He thanked the old lawyer and told him to express the papers to his office; Devon would get the necessary notaries there and send the packet back. He hung up with a sigh. The big symbolic gesture of coming home with the olive branch and gaining his mother’s inheritance had finally and truly flat-lined.
He stretched his arms above his head and worked the kinks out of his back with a grunt. All he had to do was get through the shouting renters and go home. His last call confirmed his flight time with the private pilot for eight thirty, at the Chicago Executive Airport. He stared out at the lake. In a little over four hours, he’d be out of this godforsaken city.
“Hey, Uncle Devon.”
He twisted and found Todd lurking in a shadow. “Hey, dude.” His nephew shuffled forward, hovering awkwardly until Devon patted the step beside him. “How long you been standing there?”
“I just wanted to find out how it went with Grandfather. Did you give him hell like old times?”
Devon let out a dry laugh. “You bet I did. Ended up having my ass handed to me, but I gave it all I had.”
Todd looked like he wanted to say more, but stuffed his fists into his jeans and squinted out at the lawn.
Devon mindlessly scrolled to Tucker’s cell number again. Why would he sell? There was no broken engagement. Not even a hint. Nicole wouldn’t rock this perfect boat they rowed together. Her priorities matched Devon’s. With his business acumen and her social intuition and influence, Ashby Enterprises would continue its sensational growth until he was as formidable as both of their fathers.
“I wish Mom would stand up to my dad like you do to Grandfather,” Todd said quietly.
Devon palmed his cell and redirected his attention. “What do you mean?”
His nephew shrugged, red spots appearing on his cheeks. “I dunno. I wish she’d say something back sometimes. Dad’s mean to her a lot. Usually after he thinks I’m asleep.”
Devon’s jaw clenched for the umpteenth time today as the age-old animosity flooded back. In high school, his brother-in-law, nicknamed Brady the Bull, had been a brawler with a hair-trigger temper and a chip on his shoulder. Both personality flaws were ideal for a linebacker. His success on the football team and his good looks made him as popular as the quarterback.
Devon had played baseball, so he and Brady floated in different hemispheres. Passing in hallways generally meant ignoring the other, the teenage sign of grudging respect. Until their senior year, when Brady was an English lit test away from flunking out. The school counselor recommended a student tutor, which was how Brady the Bull happened upon Frannie, a mousy sophomore in granny glasses. A month later, when he slow-danced with her during the last song at homecoming, it drew more buzz than that day’s winning touchdown. And no one had watched the warped pairing with more misgivings than Devon.
Eight months after he’d moved to New York, he got her sobbing phone call. Pregnant at seventeen; Harrison pushing for a quick marriage. Devon slept poorly for years because nighttime was when self-blame and questions could no longer be shoved down. If he’d stayed, like Hannah had begged him to, would he have headed Brady off at the pass during Frannie’s junior year? Would his sister be in this messy divorce now?
“If I was as brave as you,” Todd continued, his voice barely above a mumble, “I’d help her fight back so she’d stop hurting.”
Devon clawed his hair off his forehead. “Todd, I’m not brave. I just fight for what I think is right, and it doesn’t always mean I win. It doesn’t mean I don’t hurt people, either.” Hannah’s young, tear-stained face popped up, and he shut it down. “As a matter of fact, I may be losing two very important things in New York real soon, but the point is you stand back up and figure out what to do next. Always.” Such easy words to say.
“Okay,” Todd said, as if an important decision had just been made.
Devon slapped him on the back. “Gotta go shave, my friend.”
“Are you still in the first editions library?”
Devon grunted out a confirmation and was halfway through the open French doors when his nephew muttered, “That is so cool.”
Chapter 11
“You’re going to have t
o fire Bernice,” Walter said crisply. “I’m done with the delays and excuses.”
A dozen justifications filled Hannah’s mouth. Her compulsion to avoid conflict at any cost would not be denied. “I left her a note with specific instructions this morning, Walter.”
“Which she managed not to follow.”
Hannah winced. The Matisse… Two botched restoration attempts. The company couldn’t afford the fury of a wealthy man with vast contacts. “What happened?”
“There are bubbles all over the backing. Someone else will have to redo it on Monday.”
“I’ll do it myself this weekend,” she said hastily.
“This has to take priority over the Wickham project.”
“Of course.” These priorities shifting into her apartment-hunting time made her stomach cramp. There was no way she could take a weekday off, so losing these precious two days meant she was down to three weekends—six total days to look, find, pack, and move.
“This doesn’t absolve you from firing Bernice.”
In desperation, she brought out the big gun. “She has leukemia, Walter. On her good days, you know she’s a competent restorer.”
“Yes, but she won’t tell us when she’s having a bad day. Like she has to prove something. And you assigned her the Matisse.”
Because you insisted on giving Bob Schmidt a delivery date that forced me to choose her. Hannah bit her lip. What was she going to do? The whole company stood behind Bernice as she faced the battle of her life, and although it was true that Walter had given her many more chances than a healthy employee would’ve had, he also held performance expectations that were hard for them all to live up to. Like the quick turnaround time on the Matisse. Bernice would never have been able to handle the physical lifting and packing required on the Wickham project, so she was the only employee left in the workroom to meet Walter’s imposed deadline.
