I weave my ten fingers together on the top of my head, well beyond frustrated. Thwarted. I really fucking needed the cash infusion this sale would bring me. Now I’m back to square one.
Hammer tries sympathizing. “Tsk. I really could kill that bitch.”
I unclench my jaw. “I want to know everything about her, every last thing. Call Franco and put him on it. You know what, never mind. I’ll do it myself.”
“I’m really bummed, Creed. I know how impo—”
I wave my hand in dismissal. “Just go. Now. We’ll pick up tomorrow and try to figure out where we go from here.”
He’s gone in the blink of an eye. No one wants to be subjected to my wrath on a good day. And this is not a good day. I grab a handful of darts and regret there’s no one handy to stab with them.
Closing one eye, I take aim and throw, the dart puncturing the bull’s-eye on my first try. Usually when my nerves are stretched, it takes me two or three times to hit dead center. Not today. For some reason my hand is steadier than my equilibrium. I throw the rest of them in quick succession, already bored.
Rolling my neck, the starched collar pinching my throat, I sit down at my desk and grab the phone. Depress the third button—Nathan Franco, security chief at MediaTech.
Most of my anger is directed at Richmond, the buyer who bailed, for not being upfront with us about his concerns. He acted as if he was entirely on board and anxious to close the deal. And I’m teed off at Hammer for his lack of due diligence. I mean, what the fuck? I don’t buy Hammer’s explanation for a second. Richmond had to be giving off signals that he was thinking of ditching us, and Hammer didn’t pick up on them. He went to the meeting today as if he was coming back with a check. It was crappy preparation on his part, plain and simple, and I don’t like sloppy work.
Plus, why the wife? And why was I not informed by either one of them that Richmond was bringing her to the meeting? Who does that? Bring a spouse to a business meeting? I don’t remember her name even being on any of the paperwork we received on the guy. In fact, I could swear it said he was unattached.
I slide my laptop closer to me and pull up the report I ran on Richmond. Todd Richmond, blah, blah, blah. Marital status: single.
I knew it. So when did he get married? The date on this report is five weeks ago. He must be a newlywed. Married just in time to screw up what could’ve been the most important deal I’ll make this year. Lucky me.
Fact is, I need money. Someone’s been buying up shares in my company, and I’m certain it’s to do a takeover. The best way for me to fight it is to increase my own number of shares—in fact, I want to take the firm private again. But to do that is to get ahold of my grandmother’s shares or make tender offers to stockholders who own a significant number of shares. Easier said than done since Grandma enjoys having this influence over the board and thus of me and makes the most of it. Though I currently own 42 percent of the stock, my grandfather bought in during our IPO and became a major stockholder, earning a seat on the board. Since his death, it’s my grandmother’s and she’s proving to be a pain in the ass for me, keeping me from making decisions I think would be good for the firm. Though technically I don’t have controlling interest, I’m the majority stockholder as well as CEO so I run the company. Yet it’s possible for someone to come in and buy up enough shares to have a major say in how the company is run and whether or not I remain as CEO. I don’t like those odds.
Stuart Pendleton, a friend of my father’s, agreed to sell me the twenty percent in his clients’ portfolio, and that would give me the lion’s share of the whole pie. I could possibly take the company private again and stave off a buyout and get the board members, including my grandmother, off my back. Win-win.
I pace the floor in my office, trying to figure out the best course of action to take at this point. My back is against the wall, and I can only think of one way out. It’s a drastic measure, but I think it’s the only play I have left. Richmond is a fool. We were offering a good deal to the stupid ass. The luxury air charter service has been operating fully in the black with a healthy profit margin for the last eighteen months. I would never part with it if it weren’t for my current predicament. I got cocky and let us grow too fast. As a result, we’re asset heavy and cash poor at a time when I need cash reserves. If I really want to do this—and I do—I’ll have to take the nuclear option.
A knock at my door pulls me from my worrying. “Come in.”
It’s Hammer, and he’s holding up a manila envelope. “Creed,” he begins as he makes his way to a seat, “this is the background on Richmond. Guess what it says?”
“That he’s single.”
“How did you know?”
“I looked it up too. So what? Maybe he just got married within the last five weeks or so.”
“Or…” —he fans the envelope— “maybe he’s lying about something.”
“Why would he lie about being married?”
Sighing, he shakes his head. “I don’t know. I just know I want to strangle him. Or her.”
I glance at my watch. Shit, it’s late. “Right, well, I’ve got to go.”
Hammer shakes his head. “Not so fast.”
That gets my attention. “What else you got?”
He pulls a white envelope from his inside jacket pocket and tosses it on the desk. “Got a surprise for you.”
I open the envelope. Inside is a single sheet of paper, and on that paper is a single name: Rico Holland. I look up, confused.
“That’s the bloke who’s been buying up our stock. He’s not a nice man.”
I look down at the name again. Rico Holland. Never heard of him. “Did you get this information from Nathan?”
Nathan is my security chief at MediaTech and handles all security clearances and investigations.
“No. It was from the digital forensics investigator we hired. I just got my hands on it a few minutes ago. I wanted you to be the first to know—especially given what happened with the sale.”
“Good.” I snatch up my messenger bag and toss the phone inside, slinging the bag over my shoulder. “I’m leaving, but I’ll get the name to Nathan. We’ll talk more tomorrow. It may be time to consider drastic measures.”
“More drastic than selling our second-most-profitable subsidiary?”
I nod. “More.”
Traffic is brutal already, and it’s barely past four. I text my security chief, ordering an investigative report ASAP on Taryn Richmond, the brand-new wife of the jackass who bailed on us today. I need to have more information on this lady. Ordering the intrusive report was one of the saner measures I could take to retaliate against her interference. I told him it had a very high priority.
Even higher priority was the next name I sent him. Rico Holland. Whoever the hell he is and whatever the hell he wants with my company, I don’t know. What I do know is that he’s buying up stock using shell companies, and I really fucking don’t like it. It took my investigators a while to run him to ground. What’s his aim and why the covert purchases? It’s easier enough to trace the shells to their owners given enough digging. And I have professional diggers on my payroll doing just that.
At five a.m. the alarm goes off, and I nearly roll off the bed. My bedroom is dim and silent—the slice of morning just minutes before sunrise when peace is at its prime. It’s like the calm before the storm of daily life. So seductive for sleeping and I want to shut up the shrill noise and drift off again, but I promised my trainer I’d go for a run with him before work. I drag myself out of bed, rinse my face with ice-cold water, and am out the door in ten minutes.
For the entire run, I think of nothing else but the woman who screwed my plans. Despite wearing my headphones that deliver over one hundred decibels of sound that are capable of permanently destroying my hearing, I can’t chase the girl out of my head. Not girl but woman. And from the looks of her, all woman.
When I get back from the run, I fling open my front door. I’m bursting with energy rather
than feeling tired from the exercise. I chug down some juice and vitamins, take a hot shower, and get dressed, deciding to grab coffee on the way to the office. No line at the coffee shop is another good sign that the day will be better than yesterday.
A partial report on Taryn Richmond comes in at eleven o’clock. Even for Nathan Franco, my ace chief of security, it’s an accomplishment to put together even the initial report in so short a time. I had instructed him to feed me the info as it came in so I didn’t have to wait days for the full report.
I click open the file he emailed to me and read the first few lines.
What. The. Fuck.
I pick up my cell phone and call Hammer.
“You’re not going to believe it, Hammer.”
“Please don’t tell me the double Ds on the coffee shop blonde aren’t real?”
“The woman who sank the sale apparently doesn’t exist.”
“Oh, she definitely exists. She’s super hot.”
I rub the back of my neck, my level of irritation scaling the ladder. Why didn’t I realize how annoying Harry Hammer is before I brought him on as a C-suite colleague? “Listen carefully. Todd Richmond does not have a wife, and there is no record of anyone named Taryn Richmond in Chicago with her stats.”
There’s a long moment of silence. “So we’ve been had?”
“It would appear so.”
“I mean, really, what could we do? The man has a right to back out regardless of who she is.”
“Nothing I can do. I ran a report on her because I was curious, and now I’m even more so.”
“All right. Any ideas for where we go next?”
“I only have one more play to make.”
“Is this play any good?”
“It requires a drastic move on my part.”
“How drastic? It doesn’t involve any felonies, does it?”
“No. I have access to a very large trust fund, and I may have to get at it.”
“Are you joking? Why wasn’t this plan A?”
“There’s a catch to—” My desk phone buzzes. “Hang on, Hammer.” I turn my phone down on the desk and press the intercom. “Yes?”
“Kelly Raynor is here to see you, Mr. Creed.”
Fuck. “Send her in please.” I pick up my cell. “I’ve got to go, Ham. Let’s touch base later this week.”
“Wait. Tell me what the drastic move is.”
“I’ll have to get married.”
4
Marley Jacobs
Less than three hours later I’m in a cab on my way home, assignment completed. Todd wanted to buy me lunch but I begged off. My mind was still reeling over how the meeting went down. It looked like a done deal until my client asked for my opinion—as he warned he was going to—and I gave him my honest assessment: I didn’t think it was a great deal. It seemed like he was taking on too much risk for too little reward.
Keep in mind that I know nothing about business wheeling and dealing. For me it was just a matter of common sense. But the guy who was trying to sell him the private jet service, Harry Hammer, was not pleased at all. If looks could kill, his withering glare at me would have put me on my way down six feet under.
In my line of work, I do make some people angry. I didn’t expect this one to be among them, but I’m always careful. My profession is not the only reason. Years ago, I had to run away from someone. As a result, any packages or mail from anyone other than my friends must go through a post office box. My clients can only reach me via text. My sublet is listed in another name.
During my cab ride across town, I shrug it off, focusing my mind instead on my next two assignments, one of which is a super good one.
It’s just the kind any girl would love: a dress-up party with the best of Chicago society. Except that the thought of going actually makes me nauseous. Being in that kind of environment brings my self-esteem issues to the surface. I feel like an outsider, a fraud, and in truth, I am one. Attending an event like this one is going to require a lot of preparation and acting. I could sincerely use some coaching from Priscilla, but she’s in Europe for the summer, chasing fun every minute, no doubt.
Maybe this is the perfect time for my Holly Golightly to emerge? The Breakfast at Tiffany’s character is the height of sexy sophistication. That’s the kind of girl I need to inhabit: this worldly beauty capable of holding her own with anyone no matter who he or she might be. I have almost three days to psych myself into it.
The other job is an executive lunch. It’s not something I look forward to, but it’s the type of assignment I usually get. That and class reunions. Someone needs to save face so he goes to rent-a-girlfriend, and all is well. I’ve had a very busy month.
At ten the next morning, my phone comes alive. My fundraiser client texted instructions to me on what kind of clothing he’d like me to wear and how to charge them to his Neiman Marcus account. Plus, I am to get paid for ten hours, which is twice my minimum, at five c-notes per—ka-ching, ka-ching—even though the party wouldn’t take more than three hours and I could pull off the shopping in about an hour, more likely than not. I know women have a reputation for loving to shop, but I don’t. I generally shop like a robot—go in, pick out something, try it on, and out again. Well, and pay for it, of course. All of my clients except for one have let me keep the clothes too. The one who didn’t was a woman who wore the same size as me and decided she should have the suit. I shudder at the memory—she was awful in every way.
The client’s name is Rafe Hendel. I’ve worked for this guy before. Last time he hired me to be his plus-one at an important client’s wedding. Same deal this time but at a fundraiser. I suppose Rafe is gay, but he doesn’t read as one nor does he reveal anything about why he needs me. He’s not a person who likes to talk about himself—something that rates a plus-ten on my rating system—and both times he sent me the info I needed and asked me to invoice him before or after. Clean, easy, and on the last job I had a pleasant time because the wedding was so upscale. It was an elegant affair, one where you aren’t forced into uncomfortable situations like some group dancing or awkward conversations with people you don’t know.
In my line of work, that’s a real positive because I know I might see the same people again—these rich folks tend to travel in small circles. The less contact, the better. The more jobs I do in Chicago among the elite, the more I run the risk of blowing my cover. I’m going to have to branch out to other cities soon.
Not that every client is rich, mind you. I have a few who struggle to pay my fee but whose circumstances require my services here and there.
Back to the job for tomorrow night. I usually get more time to prepare, but Rafe said an unavoidable situation had arisen and if need be, he’d pay me a premium. I won’t charge him extra since I don’t have to cancel or reschedule anything, and he is a repeat client. Plus, the event where he is taking me is special. I know that because when the second text came in last night, Tara read it over my shoulder, then squealed right into my ear. “Ow,” I whined, glowering at her. “You just made me deaf in that ear.”
“Sorry, but I read about that fundraiser in Everybody magazine. It’s the hottest ticket, you know,” she gushed. “Wait, I have the magazine on my iPad. Hang on a sec.”
She whipped the tablet out of her bag. Like mine, her handbag also resembles luggage. She swiped the screen a few times and stuck it in front of me.
“See? The Black Satin ball? It’s going to be amazing.”
“Why,” I asked, “is it going to be amazing?”
“It’s supposedly the event as in everyone who’s anyone is going. Maybe because Caroline Creed is hosting it, and no one wants to piss her off. I don’t know.”
Even I know who Caroline Creed is. The Creed family is a Chicago dynasty and owns half of the city’s real estate. “Oh. Well, yeah, I guess I’m going. But don’t get too excited—I’ll be working.”
Ignoring me, she kept her attention on her tablet. “And look who you might possibly meet—just
feast your eyes on this snack.” She zoomed in on a photo and handed me the tablet.
I barely glanced at the photo she showed me, but I didn’t tell her that. “Nice,” I said to pacify her. “Who is he?”
“Fletcher Creed, Caroline’s younger son. He’s single too, the most sought-after man in the city.”
I rolled my eyes. “I seriously doubt I’ll meet him.
“Pfft. Such a doubter. Look, it’s a golden opportunity, Marls. Maybe you won’t meet him, per se, but it’s possible you’ll meet other important people. You never know what fate may have in store for you.”
I handed her back her tablet. “Actually, I won’t meet anyone. I’m going as expensive arm candy. To be seen and not heard, in the main. I can’t go around flirting with men when I’m going as my client’s date. So… do I have to wear black satin?”
She leaned on the bar, drunkenly wagging her finger in my face. “You never know. You might just get lucky. As for the black satin, I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I think you have to wear some black satin. Like a sash or a scarf is probably enough. But don’t hold me to that.”
“I’ll look it up. Rafe might have mentioned it in one of his texts.” I glance at her phone lying on the bar top. “Your Uber driver is outside. Let’s go.”
Today’s the luncheon. Tomorrow night is the fundraiser. If I keep stacking one job on top of the other, I’m in for a very good year.
Yesterday, I went out and with Rafe’s account, I bought a black satin sleeveless dress. It’s fitted, tapering down to the hips where it flares out in a ruffle. Very 1920s. I feel like I should get a black and mother-of-pearl cigarette holder stuffed with a clove cigarette and walk around with it in my hand. Since on my last date with Rafe I wore a dark chin-length wig, I’ll wear the same, which will look really good with the dress. I just need a dramatic necklace and a wrap. The shoes I already have—black satin pumps with bows on the front. It was as if I bought them just for the fundraiser. I’ll do dramatic cat eyes with the dark eyeliner, keep my eyes blue, and wear ruby-red lipstick.
Faker: A Fake Relationship Romance Page 3
