by Sosie Frost
Takeover (The Complete Legacy Series)
Copyright © 2017 by Lana Grayson
Published by Lana Grayson
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you’d like to share it with. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Cover Design: Pink Ink Designs
Cover Images Purchased from: http://www.periodimages.com
Created with Vellum
Note To Readers
This story is a DARK romance.
Very dark. Sexy…but dangerous and wild.
You’ll squirm. Your heart will race.
Some content might be a little too non-consensual for certain audiences.
But, for those of you who like their romances over-the-top, rough, and remorselessly passionate…this series is for you.
Takeover is a menage romance, but no characters will cheat on their way to a happily-ever-after. And, though this is a taboo book, the characters are not blood-related.
Are you willing to try?
Don’t be scared…
This is the dark romance you’ve always desired…
Other Novels By Lana
The Anathema Motorcycle Club Series
(Dark Romance)
A war torn club.
One grizzled president out for blood.
One hardened man exiled from his family.
One traitor desperate to reclaim his honor.
The world of the Anathema MC is brutal, passionate, and deadly. The only thing that matters more than their patch?
The women they love.
Warlord
Exiled
Knight
Takeover (Legacy Book 1)
1
Sarah
It wasn’t just a hostile takeover.
It was war.
The email jolted my phone. A flurry of text messages and calls rumbled it off the library’s desk.
I let it fall. My laptop dinged and threatened to blue-screen as it lagged over the invasion of alerts. A blizzard of emails flashed over the desktop, all attaching stock reports, portfolios, bond liabilities, and profit and losses. My life was a tangled disaster of graphs and spreadsheets that, until this quarter, predicted a booming year for my family’s farm.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!”
My voice bounced off the library walls, followed by a particularly angry hush from the students studying below. My apology carried too far, and I cringed as the next shush hissed into an unfriendly word.
God, did I envy the students just fretting over their midterms.
My thesis minimized under the mess of emails, reports, and numbers. The lab would have to wait. Again. I rubbed the exhaustion from my face. I’d have to redo the titrations before I finished the damn thing. That’d set me back another day.
It was okay. I could handle it.
I flipped through my planner and scribbled a quick note for Wednesday. The little block was filled with names, notes, and numbers. I scrawled in the margin instead. Titration. I could fit it in between my Soil Fertility exam and the presentation for the irrigation proposal designed for our south cornfield.
My phone didn’t stop vibrating. Maybe the battery would drain before I was forced to take a call from a nervous investor? A girl could hope. I snapped the buckle around my planner and shoved it into my laptop bag.
Dad warned about this. He knew it was coming, but he thought Darius Bennett and the Bennett Corporation would make the move when he announced the cancer. They didn’t, and the suspense poisoned us as much as his chemo. We prepared anyway. In the hospital, Dad told my brothers every last secret about our company, the farm, and the Bennetts. They were ready when he died.
But no one prepared for Josiah and Mike dying in a private plane crash just four months later.
And Dad never thought to share his secrets with me.
I shouldered the bag and burst from the library, nearly tumbling down the steps leading from the Agricultural and Biosystems Engineering loft. Studying in the loneliest section in the library didn’t bother me. No one was around to watch the CEO and prime shareholder of a multi-billion dollar company crash on her behind. Even better, no one spied me taking a hit from my inhaler.
The albuterol sucked, but it was effective. I blamed my trembling on the meds.
The Bennetts targeted my family for the past thirty years, but never once stole a single stock from my father’s control.
But Dad was dead now.
I hid the inhaler in my purse. In a way, the tightness crushing my chest composed me. I couldn’t rush, and I took greater care saving my breath on the most important words—all sound business practices according to my father. Fleeing from Broughton University’s library in a burst of paperwork and bumbling backpacks was not proper Atwood behavior, and I would not grant the Bennetts the satisfaction of seeing me rattled.
That bastard family deserved only the same grief they caused me.
My phone rang three times before I made it to my car. Our attorney, Anthony Delvannis, did his job well, but he had a bad habit of calling me during lectures and labs. He charged enough that he could have purchased some patience while I failed my classes for his conference calls. And it wouldn’t have hurt to buy a little bit of good news every so often. Apparently, that wasn’t part of the attorney/client privilege.
“We have a problem.” Anthony didn’t greet me. He never did—a relic from Dad’s time. Josiah had inherited the same abruptness, but Michael used to tolerate the pleasantries. “Bennett held a press conference.”
My fingers tightened over the steering wheel. “And?”
“You better get over here.”
“How bad is it?”
“I’d advise an immediate response. And I’d convince your mother to make a public appearance.”
“She hardly gets out of bed—”
“Force her, Sarah. The marriage spooked the board and dropped your stock prices. And now Bennett’s making these statements. Best not to hemorrhage any more money.”
Like we had any money left to lose.
“I’ll be there in five.”
Uttering an uncouth word might have relieved some stress, but my chest still ached. Darius Bennett didn’t deserve a single breath wasted over his name.
“Damage control,” he said. “Start thinking.”
The call ended. I hated this. I wasn’t Sarah Meredith Atwood anymore. I became Sarah Damage Control Atwood, though Sarah Criminally-Underprepared-But-Faking-It Atwood was probably more apt.
The University faded in my rearview mirror. What had been my life’s ambition now shifted. I was Mark Atwood’s only living heir, the last member of my family competent enough to act as owner of the farm—even if I was never intended to touch the books, make the decisions, or involve myself with the corporation. My role was to help Mom, study, and distract the guests at our parties with my pretty dress and sensible conversation.
I had a lot to represent. Our farm grew from a little homestead out west into a major, multi-thousand acre empire of diversified crops and ranches stretching throughout Southern California and encroaching deeper into the Southwest. The Atwoods didn’t trade seeds for a pail of milk anymore. And, once I finished my degree and conducted my own research, our seeds would be the foundation for an entirely new division of the company.
Dad sent me to the best schools, put me in the best agricultural engineering university, and ensured I had every opportunity to place the family first. But, instead of working in the lab, I was on damage control. Investor problems. Worker grievances. Irrigation administration. We had vice-presidents to handle the day-to-day, but only an Atwood could ease the trigger-fingers of our stock holders.
I much preferred the lab.
Anthony’s paralegal waited for me outside. I tossed him the keys to Josiah’s Mercedes and hurried inside as he parked. The receptionist handed me a bottle of water, and I cracked it open before bursting into Anthony’s office without knocking. He hated that.
Anthony wasn’t a man who tolerated interruptions, impropriety, or disrespect. He was far too handsome for such strict business practices. If Anthony was anywhere near as intimidating in the court room as he was frowning at his desk, I pitied his targets. Luckily, he represented us.
His office hid under a stack of papers and thick files. Dad hired his family’s firm based on their superb organization. Now? Rolled plans, endless contracts, blueprints, and banking statements cluttered Anthony’s tables. Dad’s death didn’t just leave our house a mess. The remnants of his legacy mixed in the papers and clutter left behind by my brothers.
Nothing was where it should have been, and everything that made sense was lost in redundant duplications.
Except the paper trail telling me where most of our money went.
That documentation, conveniently, was missing.
The television paused on an image of Darius Bennett. The clean-cut, aging business man decked himself out in imported suits, diamond cufflinks, and a sleek smile that bared more teeth than genuine excitement. His only honest quality was the grey in his hair, and that hadn’t spread fast enough.
I sunk into a spare chair. “A press conference?”
“Classic Bennett,” Anthony said.
He pressed play. The staged conference was meant to be a resource for the company—one of Dad’s initiatives. Face-to-face contact wasted time, but Skype meetings calmed irritated stock holders and quieted jittery investors. Darius adopted it—like he tried to adopt everything else.
“Family.” Darius Bennett’s serpent tongue rolled over the word as if it meant anything to him. “It’s the most important connection in this world. The past few months have been a difficult time for my family—all our families. Tragedy shadowed our hearts, but, slowly, we’ve begun to heal with new projects, new friends, and, of course, new love.”
“What’s the point of this?” I couldn’t look into his slimy, toad-brown eyes even when he was only a digital representation. I wrinkled the one paper that hadn’t been lost amid the clutter on Anthony’s desk. The marriage certificate weighed as heavily on both our minds as any of the contracts or negotiations Darius could ruin with his publicity stunt. “What’s he trying to do?”
Anthony tapped the desk and ordered me to be quiet. I huffed.
Deep breath in.
Deep breath out.
It didn’t calm me, but it kept me from choking. Even over a video, Darius wielded a malicious power. The coiled rage pitted my stomach. He didn’t deserve any reaction from me—not disgust, not rage, and certainly not a response from my stock holders.
“Since the unforeseen and tragic deaths of Josiah and Michael Atwood, the Bennett family has supported, comforted, and loved the Atwoods. Nothing replaces the loss of two children, but the compassion of a new family has lifted the veil of mourning and encouraged a new era of prosperity.”
I sipped my water. The chill did nothing to extinguish the flaring of my temper.
Compassion?
Mourning?
Michael and Josiah weren’t even buried before the vulture circled their gravesites and scavenged what remained. But what remained was me, and I hadn’t given him a single taste of our company.
The water bottle crumpled in my grip. I didn’t answer Anthony’s glance. Nothing Darius Bennett said shocked me anymore. Anyone not drugged into oblivion on Vicodin and a cocktail of other soul-sucking pills should have realized what he wanted.
The grief and drugs had to be the only reason Mom was blinded to his charm.
“The Bennett Corporation is committed to the same excellence and success which created Atwood Industries so many generations ago. Family built this farm, and the blood, sweat, and tears of its children forged an empire of new technology blended with good, old-fashioned hard work.”
Darius Bennett spoke the truth. He was a snake, but even the ultimate tempter graced the world with honesty every once in a while.
“Just a few months ago, I joined my family with the Atwood’s in a quiet ceremony, and this flicker of happiness has blossomed into a unique partnership between two souls lost in a life of darkness and...dare I say, solitude?”
I bit my lip and tasted blood. The copper twang of Atwood pride prevented me from pitching my water at the screen.
“I wish to extend that partnership.” Darius softened his voice for the camera. It sounded false and sour. “The Bennett Corporation and Atwood Industries have lived in competition for far too long. As our families have merged, so have our hearts, ambitions, and visions for the future. Beginning today, I am announcing a new conversation—one between business partners. Friends. Family.” He lingered over the implication. “A business proposal between a father and his new daughter.”
My profanity wasn’t dignified.
I didn’t remember standing. The room swirled a bit too quick, and my cough silenced the string of un-pleasantries bitter on my tongue.
Anthony stopped the video. The coughing intensified, but he respectfully waited until I recovered.
“Never,” I said.
He nodded. “I assumed as much. This is not a formal offer, but the message broadcast to your Board of Directors. Has your mother said anything about Bennett’s end game?”
“Mom’s not...” Not the mother I remembered. “I can’t talk to her. She trusts Darius. Always did, even before...”
Before she drugged herself beyond the pain of losing most of her family. I was still there, still trying to keep her in one piece. But she was the first battle I lost to Darius. It’d be the last.
“He has no claim over the company,” I said. “Doesn’t matter how many times Mom flashes the ring. Atwood Industries is independent of the family. He gets nothing but money. At least I can thank Josiah and Mike for being thoroughly irresponsible and losing it all.”
Anthony exhaled. “You aren’t destitute, Sarah. What money remains buys influence.”
“The Bennetts are wealthier than us. Always have been.”
“Certain members of your board might be interested in this partnership.” He anticipated my frown with a raised hand. “It would make for one very powerful, very wealthy company.”
“All under Darius Bennett’s control.”
“It doesn’t have to be—”
“It’s what he wants. Atwood Industries destroyed, ripped apart piece by piece. He doesn’t care about the money or the company. He can’t wait to cast us out into the street after he’s robbed us of our land.”
“He doesn’t have that power.”
“Nothing will stop him until he has it,” I said. “I’m not indulging this. He has no right to call me...to talk about me like I’m his...his...”
I wheezed. Anthony had the discretion to pretend he didn’t hear it.
My foot bumped my book-bag as I collapsed into the chair.
I was only twenty years old. Even Dad was closer to thirty when he took the company from Papa, and he had worked with him from his teens to learn the business.
I picked through my memories of dinners where Dad sat still
long enough to offer wisdom. Never to me though. He looked to my brothers to protect the company like the warriors our success demanded. Atwood Industries wasn’t supposed to be mine, but it sure as hell wouldn’t fall prey to Darius Bennett.
“We have to make the clause public.”
Anthony rolled away from his desk. He shook his head, but he didn’t argue as he pulled my father’s will from his shelf. Until two years ago, I had never seen the damned thing. Now, it felt like all I did was pour over the intricacies of Mark Atwood’s Final Will and Testament and the poorly defined agreements my brothers had only started to organize for themselves.
“This clause makes it harder on you, Sarah,” Anthony said. “Legal issues, trusts, every difficulty. We could argue against it—the company can be yours.”
“I would rather lose everything than let Darius Bennett touch a single share.”
“This is your farm too, Sarah.”
“That’s why I’m doing this.” I took the copy of the will. “It’s what my father wanted.”
Anthony never showed frustration, but he tightened the dashing pony tail that swept most of his dark hair from his face. Neither of us was used to doing business with the other. Anthony was once just the charming attorney who visited us at home and brought Mom and me a box of chocolates before dealing with Dad and my brothers. Now? We were sick of each other—spending too many hours trying to fix too many problems. I hadn’t had a piece of chocolate since the plane crash.
“I’m well aware of what Mark wanted for your brothers and what he expected of you,” Anthony said. “But he’s gone. You can take control of your own life now. So the question is...what do you want?”
I stuffed the will in my bag next to the homework I had forgotten to complete and the paper I’d never turn in.
