Rules of Negotiation

by Inara Scott

  I should call him.

  I definitely should not call him.

  I should have slept with him.

  You were out of your league. Let it go.

  She pulled out of the parking garage, her thoughts running in circles as she followed the familiar path to the Langston Estates nursing home. When she arrived, the last rosy sunbeams were glancing off the side of the small brick building and lighting the shiny wintergreen shrubs growing beside it. She pulled into the small parking lot and threw open the car door. The damp air had awakened the smell of the lavender growing along the front walk. It helped clear the jumble in her head.

  Tori pushed a button on the wall and braced herself for battle.

  “Sorry, we’re closed to visitors right now,” came a stern voice through a silver intercom.

  “Chad, it’s Tori Anderson. Any chance you could let me in to see my mom?” Tori stared into the shiny, black square above the intercom that she knew concealed a camera, and tried to look pitiful.

  “Visiting hours are from nine to five, Tori. You know that.” The regular night clerk sounded disgruntled, but that had never stopped him from letting her in before.

  “Come on, Chad,” Tori cajoled. “You know I can never get here during visiting hours. Besides, it’s time for I Love Lucy. I know she’s watching. Can’t I stop in for a second? I promise I won’t be in your hair.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Pretty please? I’ll bring you a triple mocha with extra whipped cream next time I come.”

  Still no response. Tori bit her lip and shifted from one foot to the other. Damn it, she knew she should have stopped on the way for the mocha. That always worked.

  “Okay, but you owe me huge.”

  A buzzer announced that the door was unlocked. She swung it open with a sigh of relief. The hall inside was muted orange, the colors in the comfortable waiting room an autumn palate of rust, brown, yellow, and red. Langston Estates, a nursing care facility specializing in dementia and late-stage Alzheimer’s disease, refused to treat its residents like patients in a hospital. It surrounded them with bright colors, music, and activities from poetry readings to plays.

  “She’s in the rec room.” Chad greeted Tori halfway down the hall. The thin, stooped man had a kind spirit that he tried to disguise behind his brusque voice. “You better be in and out before nine. I’m not getting in trouble because you can’t get here when you’re supposed to.”

  Tori patted his arm gratefully. “You are a saint.”

  He snorted. “You been working late again?”

  “Always,” she said, trying to inject a cheerful note into her voice. “I got back this afternoon from Texas, via Florida and New York.”

  “Hmph. Doesn’t seem right, a young thing like you spending all her time working.”

  “How’s she been?”

  “It’s been a tough week,” he said after a pause. “She hasn’t wanted to eat much. But they’ve been working with her. I think she got out for a walk this morning, and that always helps her appetite.”

  With only thirty residents, the staff at Langston got to know all of the patients. Chad had a special rapport with the ladies. Tori had seen him coax a smile from her mother when no one else could communicate with her.

  “Thanks, Chad.”

  Chad thrust a bony finger her direction. “You sure I can’t fix you up with my cousin’s boy Drake? He’s a few years younger than you, but a nice boy. You’d like him.”

  “Sorry, gotta run. I’ve only got a few minutes, you know!” Tori patted his elbow and started toward the large common area that held two televisions and a library of books and magazines. Over the last year, Chad had offered to set her up with his cousin’s sons, a neighbor, and two doctors who visited the home on occasion. Tori refused them all. Blind dates were not her cup of tea.

  She hightailed it down the hall, a smile lingering around her lips. The familiar theme from I Love Lucy blared out at her the minute she passed through the wide double doors. Four or five residents sat on couches and in chairs watching the flickering lights of the television, their faces reflecting varying degrees of interest and comprehension. A watchful staff member sat at a large table on the other side of the television, playing cards with a gray-haired man with a thick white beard. He raised a hand to acknowledge Tori, and she waved back before approaching her mother.

  “Hi, Mr. Barnes. Hi, Mom, it’s me, Tori.” She waited for them to acknowledge her before she lowered herself onto the couch to the right of a white-haired gentleman. Her mother sat to his left. Though Tori always expected it to get easier, nervous tension cramped her stomach as her mother turned vague, uncertain eyes in her direction. It was always a shock to see how frail she had become, her formerly plump, matronly figure whittled down to less than a hundred pounds, her hair white and thin.

  Jeanne Anderson had once been a secretary, and the slow creep of Alzheimer’s had become noticeable when she started to forget appointments and messages left for her boss. She had been diagnosed about the same time Tori was offered the Supreme Court clerkship. With no other family around, and her mother devastated by the diagnosis, Tori couldn’t bear to tell her about the offer. The clerkship would have required relocating to D.C., something that would have been difficult for her increasingly nervous and forgetful mother. So Tori took a job with Hartner Lennigan, a firm her favorite professor recommended, and said good-bye to the Court.

  Her first four years after law school had been a blur as Tori juggled doctor’s appointments, part-time nurses, and her mother’s growing need for supervision. She couldn’t afford to give up her job, especially not with the prospect of full-time nursing care in her mother’s future, but neither could she afford to leave her mother alone. So she worked at home when she could, drank untold cups of coffee, and managed to put in the hours her supervisors demanded.

  Jeanne’s descent through the stages of the disease had been relatively slow, and her fierce, stubborn pride always resisted Tori taking care of her. She argued vociferously for Tori to find nurses and other caretakers to stay with her, so her disease did not interfere with Tori’s career. Then, six months ago, she asked to be placed in a nursing home.

  The pain that simple request had caused Tori was immeasurable. All her life, Tori had been trying to please her mother, to make up for the pain she had suffered when Tori’s dad had left them. But nothing Tori did seemed good enough. When she found out about Jeanne’s illness, for one horrible moment Tori actually hoped it might bring them closer together. It did exactly the opposite. Never a demonstrative woman, Jeanne’s struggle with Alzheimer’s caused her to retreat into herself. She became cold and unresponsive, sharing few of her emotions with Tori. Though Tori wanted desperately to make her mother happy, she came to feel as though she was taking care of a stranger.

  Their occasional hugs became fewer and far between, until Tori stopped expecting to be touched at all. In the past month, Jeanne had gone from forgetting Tori’s name to seeing her as a familiar but unplaceable stranger.

  “Hi, Tori.” Mr. Barnes replied first. He was younger than her mother, in his mid-sixties, and had come to live at Langston Estates when his wandering had taken him miles from home one night, only his medical alert bracelet enabling a police officer to return him to his family.

  Jeanne gave her a polite nod, though a light of recognition never flared in her eyes. She turned back to the television as the program came back on.

  The three of them sat on the couch in silence.

  “What have you been up to, Tori?” Mr. Barnes asked.

  “Working.” Tori tore her eyes from her mother’s profile and gave him a sad smile. “I was in New York this morning negotiating a big contract.”

  Jeanne brightened. “I always say a woman has to have a career. Men will come and go and break your heart, but a woman’s career is forever.”

  “You bet, Mom,” Tori said. She’d heard that quote from her mother more times than she could count. It was t
he one thing Alzheimer’s couldn’t seem to erase from her mind. “I wouldn’t dream of it. They moved me into a corner office a few weeks ago. There’s a real nice view. I wish you could see it.”

  “What is it you do again?” Mr. Barnes asked.

  “I’m a lawyer,” Tori replied. “I hope to make partner in a couple of years.”

  “Oh, now that would be excellent.” Jeanne smiled. “Partner in a law firm. That’s a real career. That’s something to be proud of.” She glanced at Tori for a moment before her attention drifted back to the television.

  I’m doing it for you, Mom. Will you even remember me when it happens?

  After all these years of working and struggling, would her mother even know when she made it to the top?

  …

  When the last of the credits flickered across the screen, Tori stood up and stretched. “I’ll see you in a couple of days, okay?” She stood beside her mother and touched her gently on the shoulder, but Jeanne shied away, looking uncomfortable. Tori bit her lip and tried not to react visibly. “Okay, then, in a couple of days.”

  She threw her purse over her shoulder and hurried out of the room. Chad leaned over and handed her a tissue as she walked past the desk.

  “You’ll be home for a while?” he asked.

  She waved him off, not taking the tissue. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried. Sometimes she wondered if the tears had all dried up. “I’ll be around.”

  “Take care of yourself.” He pushed a switch behind the counter and the front door buzzed open. “And think about Drake. He’s a real nice boy.”

  Chapter Seven

  Tori nervously adjusted the jacket of her tailored black suit, glancing up every few seconds to check the door.

  Checking for him, of course.

  Sunlight bounced off the New York skyline and splashed across the table of the Excorp boardroom, while an annoying cadre of lawyers grinned at her from the other side. Everyone loved a closing. They would do a final read-through of the documents, put pen to paper half a dozen times, and the deal would be done.

  The only thing missing now was The Slayer.

  Jerry Tollefson drummed his fingers on the table next to her. For all his talk of becoming a millionaire and flying to Maui, he had been strangely subdued during the trip to New York. Technix was the first company he’d started, and selling had to be difficult.

  She stared glumly at a broken fingernail and fought the urge to bite it. Not exactly professional, biting one’s fingernails during a business meeting. She put her hands in her lap instead, then leaned over to her briefcase and pulled out her BlackBerry to check her messages.

  Two weeks had passed since she’d seen him, and her level of anxiety over this moment had been rising ever since. She’d considered launching into a total makeover, complete with diet, workout regimen, and new highlights, but had abandoned the idea after one excruciating kettlebell class at her local gym.

  Some women had killer abs; Tori had a killer vocabulary.

  Life was about trade-offs.

  “Tori.” Jerry leaned over to whisper in her ear. “You checked your messages ten seconds ago. If you don’t stop fidgeting, I’m going to lose my mind.”

  “I’m not fidgeting. I’m working.”

  He sighed. “Whatever you’re doing, cut it out. You’re making me nervous.”

  The opening of the door saved Tori from responding. Brit walked in a second later, and she took in his raw masculinity like a blow to the stomach. A silent, strangled breath later, she forced a smile to her face and crossed the room to greet him.

  Had she thought he looked good in his casual khakis and sweater? That was nothing. Today he had on a dark suit that emphasized the width of his shoulders and the narrowness of his waist. His thick hair, the hair that Tori remembered burying her fingers in, curled obediently back from his forehead while he surveyed her from head to toe, lingering on her narrow, pointed heels before traveling up her legs. She could have sworn a blue flame lit his eyes for a moment when they met her gaze, but then it was replaced with a polite look of disinterest.

  What did that momentary light in his eyes mean? Could it be desire? Her knees suddenly felt weak.

  Snap out of it, you idiot! Focus!

  Her objective today was to sign the papers and get the hell out of New York before she had time to think about how desperately she wanted to sleep with Brit. No second-guessing lights in his eyes. No thinking about strong hands, or slow, hot kisses.

  You aren’t his type and he isn’t yours. Reject him before he rejects you.

  “Mr. Bencher, how nice to see you. I’d like to introduce my client, Jerry Tollefson.” Tori tried to keep her voice friendly and professional, yet somehow it came out sounding like a nervous teenage girl.

  “Tori.” Brit approached her first, shaking one hand and placing the other on top in a friendly gesture no one could question. Yet it affected her as much as if he had dragged her body against his. She tried to pull away but he did not release her for what seemed like an eternity. Their eyes met, and Tori nearly stumbled at the intensity of his gaze.

  At least today she had worn the padded bra.

  Brit turned to Jerry, stretching out his hand after finally releasing hers. “Jerry, I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. You’ve developed a hell of a company and I’m excited about bringing Technix and all it offers into the Excorp family.”

  Funny how he could use the word “family” and make it sound dangerously sexy, Tori thought, a bubble of hysteria building in her chest.

  Jerry appraised Brit with a slow, thorough stare. “And I’m excited about becoming a millionaire.” He grinned, but the smile looked forced. “Just don’t do anything stupid with Technix, all right?”

  “Stupid?” Brit asked, one dark eyebrow curling up.

  “You know, don’t break it up, lay off all my employees, or send it into bankruptcy. That sort of thing.” For once, Jerry’s eyes weren’t crinkling with laughter.

  Tori recognized the very real tension that underlay Jerry’s speech. After eight years of nonstop work, Jerry had burned himself out running Technix and needed to sell it to reclaim his life. But that didn’t mean he had given up on his employees, or on the legacy he had built.

  “Excorp doesn’t play those games. When I buy a company, it’s because the company’s strong enough to stand on its own. I have no intention of doing anything other than offering Excorp’s resources and letting Technix continue to operate as an independent entity.”

  “Jerry wouldn’t have considered your offer if Excorp’s reputation wasn’t exactly that,” Tori put in, hoping to remind Jerry of all the work they had done assessing Excorp and Brit Bencher. Brit had a reputation for guiding his companies when they needed help and leaving them on their own when they didn’t. To Tori’s knowledge, he had never bought and “flipped” a business for short-term profit. “We’re trusting you to be a good shepherd to Technix.”

  Brit acknowledged the compliment with the barest inclination of his head. “Why don’t we get started?” he said, extending his hand back toward the table. “I’m already looking forward to the handshake that closes this deal.”

  Jerry nodded and headed back to his seat.

  Tori held her breath as Brit turned her direction. She started to follow Jerry, but froze when she heard Brit whisper her name in the painfully smooth voice that sent a shiver down her spine.

  “Tori,” he murmured, softly enough that she doubted anyone else could hear. “Miss me?”

  Her stomach dropped and she spun around. “Let’s keep this professional, shall we?” She looked around to see if they were getting any odd looks from the other men assembled around the table. A secretary entered with a stack of documents that she took to Harold. Everyone’s attention turned to him as he began identifying each of the key documents necessary to close the transaction.

  “Who said anything about being unprofessional? You, Ms. Anderson, are the epitome of professional. Ev
en your e-mails are professional.” He cleared his throat. “‘Dear Brit, thank you for the flowers. I would appreciate your efforts to close the Technix deal forthwith. Cordially, Tori.’” He gave a low chuckle.

  “I did not say ‘forthwith’,” she whispered, her eyebrows raising with indignation. “No decent attorney under the age of sixty uses the word ‘forthwith.’”

  “That’s too bad.” He tapped his chin. “What if I said I would like to take you back to your hotel forthwith and finish what we started?”

  She gasped and heat flooded her cheeks. Of all the ways she had imagined Brit greeting her, blatant sexual innuendo had never even entered her mind. It was as astonishing as it was infuriating. She was a professional, first and foremost. She couldn’t stand around flirting with Brit in the middle of a meeting.

  “We are here for a very important business transaction, Mr. Bencher. I assumed you would be mature enough to recognize that.”

  “Mature? I don’t believe I’ve ever been called that before.”

  “Perhaps because you aren’t?”

  “You’re tough,” Brit said. “I like that.”

  The gleam in his eye sent a pulse throbbing at the base of her throat. She brushed a strand of hair back from her face and cleared her throat. “Is there any chance we can forget that night ever happened?”

  “If only I could,” he said, eyes dripping with sorrow. “But you said, and I quote, ‘Maybe another time.’ Those words haunt me, Tori. They haunt me.”

  She stifled a smile. “Figure of speech. Polite conversation.”

  He made a tsk-ing sound. “Are you saying you lied to me?”

  “I said maybe. I didn’t promise anything.”

  “You implied it.” He took a step closer, and she could smell his cologne. The scent was dark, spicy, and sexy. Like Brit.

  Damn it!

  Tori’s mouth watered. “Implication doesn’t create an obligation.”

  “I can’t tell you how much it turns me on when you speak lawyer.”