“I see how it is!”

Simone turns to me with a glare, lifting up her sunglasses to rest them on her head. “I have the responsibility of actually raising our nephew—not that I would expect Bette and Kevin to have it any other way,” this is stated with a meaningful twist of the lips, “and this one gets to hold all the purse strings.”

Babcock has finished reading both of our siblings’ final wishes. Neither one of us is entirely happy, but I’m certainly not going to be this blatantly candid about my feelings on the matter.

Simone is apparently reading from a different page.

“Well now Miss Parker, that’s not exactly how—”

“I’m sure Kevin and Bette knew what they were doing when they named you guardian over Stuart,” I say, interrupting Babcock.

Simone’s only reaction is to narrow her eyes with suspicion.

My face remains completely impassive.

She turns back to Babcock. “So what, I’m supposed to go running to him every time I need to buy groceries or school clothes or…whatever?”

“I’m perfectly willing to give you free rein. Like I said, I trust that Kevin and Bette had a perfectly sound reason for naming you guardian over our nephew.”

“And you guardian over the estate, whatever that means.”

“Oh not to worry Miss Parker, it simply means—”

“When was the last time you even visited your nephew?” Simone has spun her head back around to face me, cutting Babcock off.

“I fly to London on a regular basis.”

“Not London. I’m referring to Stuart. Your nephew?” She draws out the words, as though I’m slow in the head.

I can feel the deliberately relaxed muscles in my face start to harden into something approaching annoyance. “And when was the last time you were in London?”

She straightens up in her chair indignantly. “I Skyped with all of them every Thursday night.”

“Oh, well in that case,” I say in a droll tone.

Her mouth tightens in anger. “Do you even know anything about Stuart? What’s his favorite food? What food does he absolutely hate? What’s his favorite color? Book? Candy? Who his best friend is?”

Babcock, to his credit, tries to get the conversation back on track. “Perhaps it would be best if—”

“I simply don’t understand why either of them would hogtie me with the likes of him, knowing how little interest he’s ever shown in his own nephew.” She’s back to looking in his direction again, though all of this has obviously been said for my benefit.

“Perhaps they didn’t feel you were quite qualified to take control over Kevin’s half of a billion-dollar company,” I offer.

Dammit. I’ve let her get to me. What is it about this woman that manages to get under the iron-clad skin I’ve built up when it comes to human interaction?

There’s a sharp intake of breath on her end. I turn to see Babcock vacillating between the two of us with wide eyes, like a spectator at a boxing match waiting to see which of us is going to throw the knockout punch.

I, for one, don’t plan on being the one to satisfy him. My method of dealing with obstacles like Simone is far more lethal—figuratively speaking.

Simone somehow manages to recover. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch her calmly smooth down the skirt of her dress over her crossed legs. Her lips are pressed firmly together, no doubt to keep from saying exactly what’s on her mind.

Babcock clears his throat and straightens up in his chair now that the dust seems to have settled. “Well, now that that’s—”

“I suppose—”

“Listen, I’m—”

We’ve both spoken at once, causing Babcock to flinch in his chair. Simone turns to me with a cool look. I turn to her with the poker face that I use in every negotiation.

“Go ahead,” I say, ceding the floor to her.

“No, by all means, you first,” she says with a sweet smile.

I wait a moment, then talk. I have no desire to play games. “I have to fly out to London to handle transitioning the London office of Bennett Financial. Since you’re so concerned about my lack of interaction with my nephew, how about I take on the responsibility of bringing him back to New York? It will give us a few days to get to know one another. Perhaps I’ll even find out what his favorite color is.”

The last part was said in an almost sarcastic tone and I’m pissed at myself. That kind of low blow shows far too much weakness. All the same, I dare her to find fault with what I’ve just proposed. If she really cares about him, then she should have no argument with this idea.

There’s the tiniest hint of suspicion in the way she looks at me, as though trying to find the catch. Perhaps she’s smarter than I remember.

“That sounds like a wonderful idea,” she concedes without argument, much to my surprise. “I think you’ll find out that he’s a wonderful little boy and worth getting to know better.”

I’m a bit thrown by how easily she’s given in. Working on Wall Street has inured me to the idea that every proposal should naturally lead to a few rounds back and forth until a compromise is achieved. I stare hard at her face and find it completely void of anything resembling guile or cunning.

She actually meant what she said. Go figure.

“It’s blue by the way.”

“Pardon?”

“His favorite color.” She brings her sunglasses back down and turns to face Babcock.

I can feel one side of my face itching to quirk up in a hint of a smile. I quickly stamp it out. While my claws have been drawn back in, the wheels in my head are already spinning. I can’t—won’t—let emotion come into play here. There’s far too much at stake.

If all goes according to plan, by this time next month, both Stuart and I will be rid of Simone Parker for good.