“It must be terrible to be so irresistible, darling,” Cora said dryly.
Jake ignored her. “Let's say that I do use Amanda Harper to build myself a new reputation as a born-again family man. What if she starts believing the hype?”
“That wouldn't happen,” Cora said stubbornly.
“I wonder. I see a lot of agendas involved with this plan of yours, and several of them conflict with mine.”
“Jake…”
“I'll tell you what else I see. Myself, in three months, being forced to choose between either marrying a woman I don't love, or facing another nasty public breakup and the loss of Harry Harper, my friend and most loyal board member. Not a pretty scenario, is it?”
Cora sighed. “All right,” she said. “I surrender. But you have to admit, it was a good idea.”
“Maybe. But to pull it off, we'd need a young, good-looking woman with a sterling reputation, no desire to use the press for her own purposes, and no interest in actually marrying me. We might be able to find a candidate at our local convent, but when you remember that she'd also need a talent for lying and deceit, it starts to look dicey. I don't know anyone who…” He broke off, startled. Unbelievable as it seemed, he actually did know someone who fit that bill.
“What?” Cora asked.
Jake frowned. Molly Shaw was more than attractive enough to make a believable fiancée. And he knew firsthand that she had a knack for lying and deceit. With her secret life as Sandra, and her associated paranoia about publicity, she was highly unlikely to start giving interviews à la Skye Elliot. And based on the way yesterday's encounter had ended, he felt safely able to say that she did not want to marry him.
“You're thinking of someone,” Cora said eagerly. “Who?”
“Someone who would never agree to do it,” he said. “Even if I decided to ask her. I'm not convinced that we need to take such drastic measures.”
Cora looked frustrated. “Well,” she said, “let me know when you are convinced. I just hope that by then, it won't be too late.”
CHAPTER 17
At nine A.M. on Saturday morning, Jake was back in his office at the villa. He had just finished breakfast on the terrace, and was attacking his e-mail inbox. He had almost a thousand messages waiting for reply or deletion, and that was only a week of backlog.
The phone rang. The villa had five lines, including a satellite link, but his private number was the only one that went directly to his desk without being answered by Cora's staff. He picked it up. “Yes?”
“It's me,” said Susan Horowitz, his executive assistant. “Good morning. I'm sure that it's much nicer weather where you are, but I don't want to hear about it.”
“Susan,” Jake said. “It's Saturday. Don't you have a personal life?” It was an old joke between them, and he knew for a fact that she did. Her ability to balance marriage, motherhood, the minute details of his business schedule, and a significant chunk of the rest of his life said a lot about her natural level of efficiency.
“Listen,” Susan said. “I just got a very strange phone call from Ed Thatcher's office at Atlas. His assistant tracked me down at home—I don't know how, and it's creepy to think about it—but the thing is that Ed wants to talk to you. Now. They gave me a number to call to connect you.”
“Why?” Jake asked warily. He didn't know Ed Thatcher personally, and he didn't want to. Ed was CEO of Atlas Group, Berenger's main competitor. They were by far the largest hotel and resort group on the planet, and also operated a line of luxury cruise ships.
“Don't know,” Susan said. “They didn't say.”
“Shit,” Jake muttered. Recently, Atlas had been swallowing smaller companies like a lion gulping down chunks of bloody meat. When an interviewer on CNBC had asked Ed about Atlas Group's latest acquisitions, Ed had chuckled and said that the current market prices of those companies had made it look as if the NYSE was having a fifty-percent-off sale, and he just loved to shop.
“Do you want me to stall? I can tell them that I can't find you.”
“No,” Jake said. “I'll talk to him. Put me through.” He had a bad feeling that he knew what this was about, and if he was right, he needed to confirm it immediately. Berenger stock had dropped again on Friday. If Ed Thatcher was calling now, on a weekend, just days before Christmas, it was not to wish Jake a happy holiday. It was to make him the Christmas goose.
Moments later, Ed was on the line. “Jake,” he said as genially as if they were old friends. “Hear you're at Gold Bay. Nice place. Good reputation. Enjoying the sun?”
“Not at the moment,” Jake said. “I'm indoors. How are you, Ed?”
“Fantastic,” Ed said. “I'm on the eighth hole at Crandon Park, how about that? Great cell phone reception here. You can hear me okay?”
“I can hear you fine,” Jake said. He could hear everything, including the unspoken message. You did not contact a business acquaintance from the golf course unless you intended to make the point that you were powerful enough to ignore protocol.
“Great,” Ed said, “great. Jake, I know you're a busy guy, so I won't keep you long. You know, I've always admired you; I like what you do at Berenger. You've got some fine properties. Well run.”
“Thanks,” Jake said. “What's on your mind, Ed?”
“Well, I'll tell you. I've been keeping an eye on Berenger's market value, and frankly, you folks are getting down to a place where Atlas would be interested in buying. I thought I'd give you a call, see what your thoughts might be on that.”
My thoughts? Try this: You'll see me dead before you take my company, you goddamned pirate, Jake wanted to say, but he didn't. He knew Ed Thatcher by reputation. If Atlas Group wanted Berenger, they would first try to make a friendly deal. Friendly was cheaper for everyone, involved fewer lawyers, took less time, and allowed management to play golf together after the close. But when friendly didn't work, the gloves came off and people stopped smiling. Jake had no intention of selling, so if Ed Thatcher was serious about acquiring Berenger, he would need to launch a hostile takeover attempt.
“It's an interesting idea,” Jake said calmly. The words felt like the vilest profanity in his mouth. He owned twenty-five percent of Berenger's stock—a huge amount, but not enough to block the sale if Atlas attacked. The only thing he could do right now was stall. The longer Ed thought that a friendly deal was possible, the longer Jake had to find a way to fight him off. But it was now a matter of a week or two, at most. “I'll need a couple of days for internal meetings, and some time to get the information together before we discuss it officially.”
“Sure, of course,” Ed said. “You talk to your people, do what you have to do, and then we'll get together. How about next week?”
No problem, Jake thought. Would that be right on Christmas Day, or would the day after be soon enough to suit you? He was going to have trouble getting the relevant people together when half of them were gone for the holidays, and Ed knew it. Jake suddenly suspected that Ed also knew him, knew that he would rather die than sell, and this “friendly” offer was a paper sheath for a very sharp sword.
“Next week sounds fine,” he said. “I'll send Oliver Arias, my COO, to Atlanta to meet with your team.”
“Looking forward to it,” Ed Thatcher said. “Good to talk to you, Jake. You take care, and enjoy your holiday. Don't spend too much time indoors. Life is short.”
Fuck you, Jake thought as he hung up the phone.
He sat silently for a few moments, staring at nothing, and then made a decision. Cora's words from the previous day had been more prophetic than either of them could have guessed, and he was now officially convinced that it was time for drastic measures.
“I don't know what I'm going to do about that girl,” Elaine muttered to herself. It was just before noon, and they were having another mostly silent breakfast in Cottage Five. Molly had already given Carter and Elaine a rough description of what had happened during her conversation with Jake the previous day, but Carter hadn't
been satisfied with her version and kept pestering her with questions until Molly finally told him to leave her alone. He sat, frowning pensively, gnawing on a blueberry muffin.
“Are you talking about Ingrid?” Molly asked.
“Yes,” Elaine said. She broke off a piece of toast and spread marmalade on it. “That unscrupulous parasite has her completely in his power. It's appalling. To think that she would abandon a perfectly good husband, on a whim! That girl has all the sense of a potted petunia.”
“Did he specifically say no to the idea of the book?” Carter asked suddenly. “Or was your impression that he just needed more time to think about it? Because if he didn't specifically say no, it could mean yes.”
“I'm pretty sure that it didn't mean yes,” Molly said.
“You didn't leverage the ruins,” Carter said accusingly. “You were too nice. That's not how guys like Jake operate. You have to play hardball.”
“It's not as if she were just a girlfriend,” Elaine lamented. “Or a mistress. She was a wife. She had it all, and then she just threw it away. Does she think it's easy to find a man like Michael? And then get him to the altar?”
Molly's head was starting to hurt. She put down her coffee cup and rubbed her temples. It was their last day at Gold Bay, and so far, it had not been anything close to an enjoyable vacation. She thought that she would go down to the beach and try to relax, and not think about how much money she had spent on this trip. Letting Carter and Elaine pay the bills might not have been such a bad idea after all.
There was a knock on the door, and Carter looked up. “The muffins are here,” he said. He had called five minutes ago for an additional basket. Carter liked to eat when he was depressed. He stood up, walked to the door, opened it, and yelped.
Molly jumped up, her napkin falling to the floor, and turned to see what had happened. Her eyes widened and her heart suddenly thudded in her chest when she saw Jake standing in the doorway. He looked equally alarmed, and was staring at Carter, who was staring back at him.
Quickly Carter composed himself. “Excuse me,” he said, backing away from the door. “We weren't expecting you. Come in, come in. I see that you have my folder of clippings. That's great, that's great. You've been looking over my work?”
“Molly left this at the villa yesterday,” Jake said, holding out the manila folder. His eyes met Molly's, and she felt a flush of warmth in her cheeks.
“Yes,” Carter said, waving it away. “I know. It's for you. Did you see the profile I did on Donald Trump for Esquire? I think I really captured the spirit of the man. We can sit down and discuss—”
“Actually,” Jake said, “I'm here to see Molly.”
A calculating look crossed Carter's face. “Molly is very busy with her research on the old plantation,” he said. “You probably didn't hear her latest news about the proof.”
Jake raised his eyebrows at Molly. “What proof?”
“Historical documents,” Carter exclaimed, moving to stand between them. “Very official. Very old. It looks like that plantation really did belong to Betty Mary.”
“Bonny Mary,” Molly said through her teeth.
“We just learned that the documents are in the archives of the…National Piratical Society,” Carter said, and shrugged ruefully, giving Jake a wouldn't-you-know-it look. “Obviously, we should have looked there first. Hindsight. Ha!”
Jake was still focused on Molly, who folded her arms against her chest defensively. She couldn't imagine why he was there or what he wanted.
“I need to talk to you,” he said. “Alone.”
“Why?” Molly asked. As far as she was concerned, they had nothing more to say to each other.
“Oh, these existential questions are so pointless,” Elaine said cheerfully from behind her. “Go right ahead, dear. Seize the day. Take your time.”
It was quickly becoming clear to Molly that going out for a private talk with Jake Berenger—unpleasant as that might be—was better than staying in Cottage Five with two lunatics. She pretended not to see Carter winking significantly at her as she walked past him to join Jake.
“I've never heard of the National Piratical Society,” Jake said as they left the cottage and began to stroll along the winding path that led to the main building.
Neither had Molly, but she had no intention of admitting that. “Carter was being hasty,” she said. “It's only one of a few possible leads. Why did you want to talk to me?”
He stopped and looked down at her. His gaze moved over her as if he were appraising her. Molly felt a fluttering sensation in her stomach. His mouth curved slightly, as if he was privately amused by something.
“Everything you told me about yourself was true,” he said. “You teach at Belden College. You have a reputation as a rising star of academia, and you've published an impressive list of research papers in notable scholarly journals. You also wrote a critically acclaimed book about eighteenth-century seafaring women. Very politically correct. I'm sure that the liberal establishment loved it.”
Molly felt wary. “I didn't tell you all of that.”
“No,” he said. “I spent the past two hours researching you. That all came off of the Internet. That's not all I learned, though. Your credit is good, you have no criminal record, and your neighbors in Belden say that you're quiet, hardworking, and nice.”
“What?” Molly sputtered. “You called my neighbors?”
“Not personally. I have people who handle that kind of thing for me. Mrs. Edith Olsen, who lives in the apartment above yours, says that you never play your music too loud, and that you haven't had a boyfriend in more than a year.”
“Mrs. Olsen is deaf as a post! She wouldn't notice if I blew up the microwave. And she doesn't know a damn thing about my personal life. I happen to have plenty of…” Molly stopped herself. “That's beside the point. What do you think you're doing, having your people investigate me? How dare you?”
He laughed. “Didn't you and your friends do the same to me? I also learned that you have a famous father. I had no idea that you were Stanford Shaw's daughter.”
“Oh, my God,” Molly said, and pressed her hands to her mouth, feeling as if her heart had just stopped. “You…your people, I mean…they contacted my father?”
Jake shook his head. “No. I know who he is, though. I heard him speak, years ago, at a White House luncheon. He seemed very well educated.”
“What's this all about?” Molly demanded. “You don't need to investigate me—you already know more about me than you should! Let me remind you that you promised that you'd keep my secret. I'm not threatening you over the plantation ruins, whatever impression Carter just gave you. I've washed my hands of the whole thing, and it's on your conscience now…”
“What if I told you that I won't start demolition of Dyer's Fortune until April?” Jake asked. “That's three months from now. Would that give you the time you need to find your proof—if it exists?”
Molly looked suspiciously at him. “You told me that postponing such a large project would be very expensive.”
“Yes,” he said. A smile touched the edges of his mouth. “It would. You have no idea how much this is going to cost me.”
“Then why would you do it?”
“As part of a bargain. I need your help, and I'll give you more time at the plantation in exchange. If you turn up your proof before April, then obviously I'll have to relocate the golf course. It's a risk for me, but I'm willing to take it.”
“You haven't told me what you want from me,” Molly said.
“It's interesting. If you overlook the business about Pirate Gold—which no one but you or I ever need to know about—then your public image is as angelic as mine is devilish.”
“So?”
“So I have a proposal for you. But first, I want to confirm something. Do you have any interest in marrying me?”
Molly thought that she had misheard. “What?”
“Do you want to marry me?”
He
was mocking her. Molly didn't know what his point was, but she knew that she didn't like it. “No,” she snapped. “Definitely not. I don't even want to be having this bizarre conversation with you.”
“Great,” Jake said cheerfully. “That's exactly what I thought you'd say. So how would you feel about a three-month engagement?”
“I need a cold compress for my head,” Elaine said. “I feel dizzy. Carter, call the butler. No—wait. Don't do that. Get a napkin, pour cold mineral water on it, and bring it to me. Not too wet.”
“But—” Carter protested.
“Quickly! Vite, vite!” Elaine exclaimed, and Carter scurried toward the kitchen. She sat down, fanning herself with a copy of French Vogue. “Molly,” she said, “we're going to need more details, dear. How exactly did this happen?”
“Not yet!” Carter shouted from the kitchen. “Wait for me! Where are the napkins? I'm coming back! Wait for—”
“In the drawer by the sink,” Elaine called impatiently. “Molly, sit down,” she said, patting the cushion next to her on the couch. “What did he say? Start from the beginning.”
Carter sped back into the room, holding a wadded-up, dripping linen napkin, which he slapped into Elaine's hand. Ignoring her look of annoyance, he sat down in the chair opposite the couch and fixed Molly with an intent stare. “Okay,” he said. “I'm ready now.”
“Would the two of you please calm down?” Molly asked. “I thought I made this clear. He doesn't want to actually get married. He wants someone to pretend to be his fiancée for three months. It didn't make much sense to me. He said something about his company's image being very closely tied to his own image, and that he needs to raise his stock price because of some emergency situation, and he thinks that making his personal life look more stable is going to help. It's all just a big ruse.”
Man Trouble Page 14
