"Mr. Ashworth. Welcome to New York."

Ed glanced at the executive assistant sent by his American headquarters and inwardly groaned. Another model-type with long nails and tons of makeup. He doubted she could type at a decent speed. Why was it that everyone assumed that he was more interested in his employees' proficiency with their tongues than in their efficiency?

He could be wrong. Maybe she was pretty and smart.

"Any news on the Kings deal?" he asked her.

The assistant stumbled to open her bag and pull out a tablet. Starting it up took her a whole three minutes. His driver had arrived by the time she said, "Kings? We have an email from King Industries from yesterday…hang on, let me read it."

He tried not to let his annoyance show, because he was going to have to work with the girl until he found a decent replacement.

"Please do. In silence."

He got in the car and checked his own messages, definitely rattled. Edmund Ashworth wasn't one to let things rattle him, but he had to admit: Hester was getting on his nerves. Quite an achievement for a little old lady he'd never even seen.

He had started a simple transaction that should have been completed within seventy-two hours a month ago, and he still wasn't any closer to buying the harbor he needed.

Bloody hell, they'd warned him that doing business with the Kings wasn't easy, but he had imagined power struggles in the boardroom. That hadn't made him flinch. Fucking businesses was what he did. Ed had never thought that'd he'd get cock-blocked by an octogenarian before he'd even gotten to first base.

"The email says that Mr. Desmond King is currently unavailable, except for emergencies."

He tapped his armrest impatiently. From one corner of the world to the next, a meeting with him was considered an emergency. Who the fuck did those Kings think they were to dismiss him like that for a whole fucking month?

"Who signed the email?"

"A Hester Hall, sir."

That twat again. She was seriously getting on his nerves. Some nobody called Hester shouldn't have that much power over the schedule of a man like Desmond King.

"Try to go around her. She's got something against me personally."

He didn't think they'd ever come across each other, but he had no other explanation as to why the deal was still not going through.

The driver started the car, and they left the private airport, heading toward the center of the city.

Ed was a London man through and through, but he did love the energy in NYC. He wasn't exactly here for a leisure trip, but he'd try to make the best of it.

"To the Trent residence, sir?" the driver asked through the intercom. "No, directly to the lawyer."

He had an estate to settle, and a huge family of vipers to deal with. If he could manage that in a couple of weeks and close the King deal, too, he'd be on his way back to Europe in time for his grandmother's birthday. God knew Cici Trent would have his balls if he didn't make it.

The driver joined the New York traffic, and they advanced at a snail’s pace. Ed’s fault for arriving in the middle of the day, but he hadn’t had much choice in the matter. One does not schedule a trip like this one in advance.

His great-uncle, Malcolm Trent, was one of the very few people he could stand from his grandmother’s side of the family. The man had been smart, funny, and, unlike most of the Trents, kind. He’d struggled since his stroke, and his passing, though deeply affecting Edmund, hadn’t been a surprise, or even a sorrowful event. He’d hated to see the man suffer.

For a time, Malcolm had stayed in Fairweather, the Ashworths’ land in northern England, but the Trents had bullied him into going to a luxurious care facility in upstate New York a year ago. Ed knew it wasn’t out of concern for his well-being. When Edward Trent passed away thirty years ago, Malcolm had inherited a share of his father’s company, like all of the nine Trent children, Cici included. Edward’s will had been written in a way that obliged the beneficiary to keep ten percent of their inheritance in trust for their children and grandchildren; a trust managed by a third party.

The nine Trent ancients had gotten about a billion apiece, but there was a large chunk they’d just had to sit on, unable to get their greedy paws on it. The trusts were only passed to the children when they got married, as per Edward’s stipulation. The man had fought in both World Wars, for heaven’s sake; it wasn’t a surprise that he’d been so old-fashioned.

Almost all of Edward’s children had had at least two kids of their own, and those two kids popped out two or three children each. There were hundreds of thousands in trust. Cici didn’t give two shits about her father’s money; she’d married Edmund’s granddad, an Englishman with lands and a title. The rest of her siblings were another matter.

Malcolm was the exception in the large Trent litter. Unlike the rest of them, he never married and never fathered any children. He had access to his entire inheritance, and he’d invested it wisely.

Malcolm wasn’t an asshole; he’d given his siblings jobs when they’d needed them, cuts of his company’s profits, allowances. They’d always acted like ungrateful assholes entitled to it. Malcolm hadn’t even been invited to his own niece’s wedding fifteen years ago, because he’d come out of the closet and introduced his boyfriend the year before that.

The Trents had never been Ed’s favorite people, but the event created a real divide in the family. He’d been twenty-two at the time; old enough to take a stand. From that point onward, he hadn’t even spoken to anyone using that last name, save for his uncle.

The stroke hadn’t changed anything. The Trents continued to ignore Malcolm. When his partner died, they didn’t so much as send a sympathy card.

About a year ago, Malcolm’s doctor had told them that they needed to get ready; his body and mind were failing him. He didn’t have long to live.

Edmund didn’t know how the Trents heard of that, but they closed in on the sick old man, involving lawyers, sending investigators, doctors, until the poor old guy cracked, telling them he’d go to New York. They claimed the Ashworths were only taking care of him to get to his fortune. Yeah, right. Like Ed, or anyone in his family, needed it. They’d wanted to get their paws on him in his final hours, and peek at his will.

Abut sixteen hours ago, the call Ed had dreaded for months had come in the night. Ten hours later, after working through the night to settle every important document on his desk, he was on the first flight to NYC.

He was named executor of Malcolm’s will, so it was time to see if the Trents had gotten their wish.