Coup: A BWWM Romance (The French Connection Book 2)

by Brooklyn Knight

  “What do you need me to do?” He dipped his head towards mine. “I could easily pull some of my guys and poke around a little. You know my firm is touted as being the number one private investigation firm in Miami.”

  “How can I forget?” I replied, referring to the last spontaneous investigation he’d taken on. I scrubbed the back of my neck. “Check it out for me,” I sanctioned. “Let me know if you come up with anything interesting.”

  “On it,” he confirmed. “I’ll put a team together and start the investigation as soon as I get into the office.”

  “Thank you.”

  Silence.

  Stefan rubbed his jaw. “And what about Sawyer?”

  I shrugged. My shoulders felt like rocks. Now that I’d exerted most of my energy sprinting on the Riverwalk, I wasn’t sure how much I had left. I needed to save the remains for ma belle fille. I was eager to see her when I got back home. I needed to make things right before we parted ways, or my day would be that much more difficult. I already had Max and the Board of Directors breathing down my neck. An unresolved spat with Laila would be the icing on the cake of frustration.

  “Let’s leave it for now,” I decided, shaking my head. “Carter and the Board is the big rock. I don’t give a damn about Michael.”

  I looked down at my TAG Heuer smartwatch as it suddenly illuminated on my wrist and frowned when I saw a message from an unidentified number.

  Unknown Number: Well, that certainly looks like a PB to me...

  I looked around the immediate vicinity, wondering who had seen me running and sent me a message commenting on my personal best record. The Riverwalk was busy with other athletically-minded people, and now that the first rays of sunlight had dawned, more had arrived. But there was no one that I recognized, and whoever the person was, I didn’t have them listed as a contact in my cell phone.

  “What’s the matter?” Stefan asked.

  I showed him my watch, just as another message came through.

  Unknown Number: Look ahead. Under the cluster of palm trees.

  I stalled but pulled my eyes up.

  Emily Walton was sitting under the foliage with her pristinely white giant poodle, wearing a pink and white workout ensemble; yet not a bead of sweat could be found on her. Our eyes locked, and she lifted her hand, wiggling her slender fingers in a flirtatious wave.

  “It’s Emily,” Stefan said.

  “I can see that,” I scoffed, inserting an expletive. I clicked the side of my watch before turning in the opposite direction and heading for my car.

  “Where are you going?” Stefan called after me, hastening to follow my lead.

  “What do you mean, where am I going? You said it yourself: it’s Emily. She’s the last person I want to see right now.”

  “Dylan, wait!” Emily’s voice sounded amongst those of the chattering birds in the trees.

  Stefan tugged at my arm, and I groaned. When I turned around, she was hopping of the bench and hurrying towards me. The poodle, Maximillian, trotted next to her, as if he was also aware of the urgent matter.

  I pulled my arm out of Stefan’s grasp and marched ahead. “What do you want, Emily?” I spat as she approached.

  “Dylan, are you really walking away from me like we haven’t seen each other in almost a year? As if we don’t know each other?”

  “There’s a reason we haven’t seen each other in almost a year,” I informed her. “We broke up.”

  “But I thought we were going to be friends. That was what you said.”

  “And I’m getting married.” I added. “Maintaining a friendship with you wouldn’t be appropriate.”

  She stopped walking and so did I.

  “I heard,” she muttered. “Congratulations. Should I expect to receive an invite to your wedding? Prince Harry invited his exes...”

  Silence.

  “Emily, what the hell are you doing here?” Stefan asked, huffing, no doubt bored with the mundane back-and-forth.

  She turned her eyes on him. “And hello to you too, Stefan. It’s been a while since we’ve seen each other, but I can’t say I’m surprised by this reception.”

  Stefan shook his head in disbelief. “Dyl, I’ll meet you at the car.”

  I glared at him as he shrugged and trotted away, leaving me to pilot the unwelcome conversation alone.

  Emily’s eyes tracked him, and when he’d disappeared, she focused her attention on me.

  I blew air out of my mouth. “Emily, what do you want? How did you get my new number? How did you even know that I was here?”

  “It wasn’t hard to get your number, Dylan,” she sassed. “I simply called your job and asked for it.”

  “And they gave you my personal cell phone number?”

  “Of course they did,” she responded, as if it was a trivial matter. “I’m Emily Walton, your girlfriend of six years.”

  “My ex-girlfriend,” I reminded her.

  Somebody is going to be unemployed the minute I get into the office.

  “So that explains how you got my number...”

  “And I know your schedule, Dylan. You run the Riverwalk every morning. You’ve done it for years.”

  I shrugged. “Fair enough. Now how about you tell me what you want?” I folded my arms across my chest.

  Maximillian sat on his haunches.

  “I guess I just wanted to see you – and apologize,” she added quickly.

  “Apologize for what?”

  “The last time we saw each other, we were in the foyer of Hamilton Associates and I was extremely rude to your fiancée. I was aggressive to her and disrespectful to you. I never got the opportunity to tell you how sorry I was for my bad behavior.”

  “If anybody deserves an apology, it’s Laila,” I informed her. “I wasn’t surprised by your behavior. She, on the other hand, was appalled and had every right to be.”

  “And if I ever had the opportunity to meet her, I’d apologize to her too.”

  My eyes flitted over her face, as I tried to assess her sincerity.

  It was hard to tell.

  Emily was a glamor girl. It was five-thirty in the morning, but she looked like she’d been awake for hours. Her face looked fresh, and her skin was bright. Pink gloss made her mouth blush, and her bright, green eyes were vibrant. She had loved the pomp and circumstance our relationship afforded her. She also liked to spend my money, and aside from being a suitable piece of eye-candy one could take to galas and gatherings, she offered no substantial value to my life.

  Laila was eye-candy and more, and Emily would never be able to hold a candle to her. I didn’t regret ending our dead-end relationship. It was the best move I’d ever made.

  Sudden thoughts of my argument with Laila assailed me again, and my chest burned with pent up emotion. I didn’t have time to waste shooting the breeze with Emily. I needed to get home and make things right.

  Emily narrowed her eyes. “Are you okay?”

  I fixed my shoulders and pulled my car keys from my pocket. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Give me some credit, Dylan. Even though you’ve committed yourself to another woman, I still know you like the back of my hand. You have that look on your face.”

  I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. “And what look is that?”

  “The one that says something isn’t right.” She paused and pursed her lips.

  I didn’t respond. I didn’t know what to say.

  Emily exhaled and tugged Maximillian’s leash.

  He stood promptly.

  “Look, it’s early and I know you have to get in to the office. Now is not the time to talk. But I want you to know that there are no hard feelings here. I loved you.” She paused. “I love you, and despite us not working out, our friendship is worth more to me than anything else. Just like when we were in university.” She smiled, and my mouth turned upwards.

  Slightly.

  I raked the back of my hot neck. “I appreciate that.”

  “Good. Call me,
Dylan.”

  I glowered.

  “Seriously,” she pressed. “If you ever need to talk, process things...” she shrugged. “I’m here as a friend.”

  I offered her another tight smile and remotely unlocked my car. It beeped in response a short distance away, and I left Emily and Maximillian standing on the sidewalk amidst the morning runners.

  BY THE TIME I GOT HOME, Laila had already left for work. I knew because the Audi was not in the garage. I looked at my watch, even though I was well aware of the time, and overcome with angst, I pushed the front door open and scanned the foyer.

  Pots and pans clanked in the distance, which meant that Ignacio had clocked in. Still, I hurried to the kitchen, and disappointed that it was, indeed, Ignacio and not Laila. My shoulders slumped.

  “Buenos días, señor.” Ignacio flipped a hotcake with a spatula and set a glass of orange juice on the counter, next to the daily.

  “Good morning,” I grumbled.

  He frowned.

  I gripped the glass up in my hands and took an unsatisfying sip, then set it back down. I ran my hands through my hair. “Laila...” I paused. “Is she – ”

  “No, señor, she’s not here,” he answered before I could even finish the question. “She left early for the office.”

  My mouth went tight. I rubbed my jaw. “Thank you. Did she... say anything? Did she leave me a message, perhaps?”

  He shook his head. “No, señor.”

  My neck was stiff when I nodded. I took the glass of juice and the newspaper that was next to it and headed up the stairs to the bedroom.

  I needed to start my day. I had too much to do to worry about Laila and her immature response to our disagreement, but the minute I stepped into the room, remnants of her flirty fragrance blitzed me. Normally I’d watch her get dressed, but this morning I’d missed the peep show. I sat on the edge of the bed and let my head fall into my hands.

  She was the only woman who could do this to me; cause me to lose focus, and it had been that way from the moment I’d set eyes on her. She was also the only woman who could rip me to shreds with her stubbornness. I understood her more than she gave me credit for, but my mission was to let her thrive. I just hoped my willingness to stand back and let her chart her course without the full benefit of my wisdom didn’t come back to haunt the both of us.

  I exhaled and sat up straight. I would worry about this later, I decided. Right now, I needed to put my head in the game and get in to the office and deal with Max and my Board of Directors.

  Thirteen

  Laila

  ‘Every Facet’

  I clicked to the final page of my PowerPoint presentation and scanned my captive audience. The three men and two women peered at me, fully engaged and on the verge of signing the dotted line. I marveled at the women, who wore dashikis and sported natural hair in a variety of shades and textures. The men were strong characters, exuding every bit of masculinity and machismo as Michael himself. And as for Michael, he sat in a business-casual pose at the head of the table. His eyes were fixed on me as he observed my performance.

  My voice rose to the fore. “Ladies and gentlemen, the bottom line is that Sawyer, Inc. is recognized as one of the leading reinsurance firms in the state of Miami. I’ve effectively demonstrated our proven track record of the skillful management of emerging local and international firms and have established that there a clear benefits available to your company, Af-Tech, should you choose to embark on a business relationship with us. Are there any questions before I hand this over to Michael?”

  A brief moment of silence lapsed before the CEO of Af-Tech raised his pen. “Miss Renaud, I must say: this presentation has almost certainly cemented our decision to do business with Sawyer, especially since we were passed over by Hamilton Associates.”

  Michael bristled.

  “Your thorough demonstration of the firm’s asset management capabilities is bar none.”

  I bowed my head. “Thank you, sir.”

  “But I do have a question.”

  “Of course.”

  The man steepled his hands. “It’s a known fact that there are other firms that could effectively manage our business affairs. For example, Hamilton Associates is touted as being the cream of the crop for businesses wishing to insure their assets in the e-market. As I mentioned, we were denied an opportunity to do business with Dylan Hamilton, but we’re strongly considering revising our proposal to secure another meeting with him and his team in three weeks’ time. If you can, I want you to convince me to reconsider our plans.”

  Michael’s jaw twitched.

  “Hamilton Associates has a formidable reputation within the business community, and said reputation comes a considerable cost to the client,” I noted.

  The man pursed his lips. “No, their rates are not bottom-of-the-barrel,” he agreed, “but neither would be the returns on our portfolios.”

  “Indeed,” I agreed. “But Af-Tech is an emerging company, and I can’t help but wonder how the bottom line of such a fledgling firm would be impacted by Hamilton Associates’ rates. Sawyer, Inc. manages mid-sized to large businesses with notable success. Our rates are not nearly as high as Hamilton Associates’, but you’d get the same value and level of service. I invite you to refer to the spreadsheet in your handout.”

  Michael shifted in his seat.

  “I recall the data and you make valid points,” the man acknowledged. “But Hamilton Associates manages several Fortune 500 Companies and has tripled their values.”

  I opened my mouth to respond, but Michael’s imperious voice interrupted. “Mr. Farmer, is Af-Tech a Fortune 500 Company?” he questioned bluntly.

  My mouth snapped shut.

  Farmer’s eyes darted to Michael. “Not yet,” he responded, and his colleagues chuckled.

  Michael ogled him until Farmer’s eyes began to waver, and then he turned to me. “I’ll take it from here, Miss Renaud.” He gestured to the empty seat beside him and I sat, grateful for the save. The task of tooting Sawyer’s horn at the expense of Dylan’s was uncomfortable.

  Michael sighed and stood to his feet. He ran his hand over his tie and half-sat on the edge of the table. “I have several thoughts,” he said, staring beyond the room. He ran his hand over the dark, silky waves of his close haircut. “I love what I’m seeing here this morning. Look around this table,” he instructed. “What do you notice?”

  The men and women’s eyes surveyed the environment, but I kept my eyes on him. Already, I knew where he was going.

  He answered his own question. “This boardroom is filled with influential people of color, and we’re sitting here collaborating and discussing potential ways in which we can maximize our collective value.” He paused. “There’s unmitigated power and potential in this room. How many newspaper articles do you see written about what we’re experiencing right now? We’re people of color who have accumulated wealth by buckling down and playing a game they didn’t want us to learn. And yet!”

  The men and women startled around the table.

  “Your second thought is to take your hard-earned assets and pour them into a community that has very little to do with us.” He shook his head. “The problem is, we don’t trust our people,” he said with conviction. “We’d much rather take our talents, our skills, and our livelihoods and commit them into the hands of a group that, at the end of the day, doesn’t care if we sink or swim.”

  A heavy silence erupted.

  Michael stood tall and gestured in my direction. “Miss Renaud has competently outlined our resume. Hamilton Associates may be the leading firm in the sector, but I can guarantee you that Sawyer, Inc. is coming after them to take their place, and Af-Tech can indeed take its rightful position amongst the other prestigious Fortune 500 Companies, because Sawyer, Inc. will propel them there.”

  I ran my hand across my collarbone, trying to tame the animated rise and fall of my chest. Michael’s rousing speech had impacted me.

  He was right. He
was wrong. He was...

  I gnawed at the inside of my cheek. Confusion was beginning to overtake me. I didn’t question Dylan’s love or loyalty, but the things Michael was saying... the things I’d been seeing and hearing on the news... politics, social ills. Was I missing something?

  I rolled my eyes upward, trying to force the water back.

  Farmer pulled his eyes off Michael and glanced at his team. “Well,” he said, perhaps trying to find words that effectively matched Michael’s. He smiled, but it flickered. “That was a stirring discourse.”

  “I’m passionate about my people,” Michael clarified.

  Farmer nodded. “So am I. Thank you, Mr. Sawyer. We will certainly be in touch.”

  “I look forward to that,” Michael replied.

  The group started to leave, and we stood side by side, shaking each of the executives’ hands as they departed the boardroom. When they had left, Michael turned and walked to the table, packing up his belongings.

  I stared after him and ran my hand over my arm. “How did I do?” I asked. My voice was smaller than I would have liked. I cleared my throat.

  “You were fabulous.” He didn’t look at me when he said it, his voice stern.

  I opened my mouth to say something, and then I closed it. I pressed my lips together and tried again. “Do you think they’ll sign?”

  Michael closed his attaché and looked up at me. He placed his hands flat on the table. “I know they will,” he confirmed, “and when they do, I want you to manage their portfolio.”

  I gasped, shocked.

  Grateful.

  He groaned and ran his hands over his face. “Laila, I’m sorry about last night. I um...” he chuckled, shaking his head, squeezing his eyes together. “I think I lost my professional composure out there with you and your boyfriend, and for that, I apologize.”

  His reference to Dylan made my chest hitch.

  I squared my shoulders. “Dylan is more than my boyfriend. He’s my man,” I clarified.

  Michael glared at me.

  “And I agree,” I continued, ignoring his posture. “It became very tense last night. The history you and my fiancée share is explosive, and I admit that I was very uncomfortable standing between the two of you. Dylan is a phenomenal man,” I said lowering my voice. “Not only that, he’s very protective of me. Sometimes it gets in the way of my professional growth, but I love and appreciate him for who he is.”