Chapter Thirteen
“Thank you for seeing me.” Lily slipped through the door Don Pierson held open. “I know this party is your baby.”
“Now is fine.” He sauntered farther into his personal office, a gorgeous room decorated in slick brown leather and dark paneling that screamed old school and pompous. Much like the lawyer himself.
The only outlier, a framed photo on the wall behind his massive oak desk. It was a lovely picture of him standing at the top of some mountain with his arms around a gaggle of cute grandchildren and a needle-thin woman his age.
It gave her hope.
“I can’t stand hosting these damn events.” Ignoring the dizzying view of the Chrysler Building and the Manhattan skyline at his back, he pinned his sullen gaze on her once more. “Why everyone insists they start this late is beyond me.”
Late? Eight thirty p.m.? Lily fought a smile, some of her reluctance about this meeting melting away. Pierson was definitely Russell’s contemporary.
Plus, she wasn’t going to pretend it wasn’t nice to be away from a certain temptation. Tonight, her tormentor had looked as sinful as ever. His piercing, cobalt-blue eyes a stark contrast to the dark luxury of his custom black tux.
Trying not to stare had taken too much damn energy.
But she’d marshaled her focus and implemented her plan—and here she was. Even if it made her skin crawl.
“You should have come to me before.” It was a repeat of what he’d said during their awkward elevator ride. “I might have been able to save that pretty ass a lot of pain.” He gestured toward two leather chairs positioned next to one another, his tux jacket bulging around the middle. “Sit.”
Smile wiped clear, she sat.
Because the man wasn’t simply a doddering pompous coot who thought eight thirty was late. He was head of the Winslow board and wielded tremendous power.
And tonight, she had to convince him to throw all that smug influence behind her rather than Paul or Kazankov.
“This whole vandalism mess…” Pierson remained standing, a definite tactic. “It’s a real tragedy.”
For an instant, she thought he might behave like a human being—until he continued talking.
“I don’t need to tell you it’s got the board worried.” Of course, he made no mention of the horror of the act itself or the flagrant disrespect and dishonor to a man he’d once pretended was his friend. “Such bad press. Bringing the whole mess with Russell and you and the will back into the limelight. It’s a blood bath all around.”
“I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration.” Shoving her sorrow and rage down where she could deal with it later, she forced herself to stay in business mode. “The story will disappear in a day while my profit numbers continue to move upward. Many on the board know that. It’s why I was able to stave off Paul’s recent mutiny, and why I was on my way to gaining a number of supporters before this cowardly attack on Russell’s grave.”
“Which means exactly shit. You can’t come close to the Iceman’s or Paul’s votes, you have to beat them.”
“I’m well aware of that.”
“If you know it, why didn’t you come to me earlier?”
Here was the crux of it. Pierson’s ego was hurt.
“Ignoring your friends in this business is foolish, little girl,” he admonished. “There’s a good chance I could have convinced the board to go easier on you.”
A prime example of exactly why she’d avoided Pierson and sought to drum up support elsewhere.
He’d been a condescending bastard since Russell introduced them—smacking her ass instead of shaking the hand she’d held out in greeting. Repeatedly referring to her as Russell’s prime piece of real estate. Sending her to fetch drinks so “those in charge could discuss real business.”
But desperate times called for desperate measures. The survivor in her knew that well.
“I don’t need you arguing the board should go easier on me.” Her hands curled around the armrests, but she modulated her voice as best she could. “I need you insisting I’m the best candidate for the job and the right choice for this company…because I am.”
“A lot of board members are saying Paul should be in charge.”
“A lot? Or just Paul?”
Pierson loomed closer. “I think you should seriously consider stepping down and letting Russell’s son take his rightful place.”
“If the position of CEO was meant to be Paul’s, Russell would have put him there. Instead, he chose to hand the reins to me. That should tell you something.” She forced the snark from her voice. “What I need from you isn’t a discussion about Paul, it’s a commitment you’ll give me your public support at the next board meeting. Nothing will calm the board faster than your stamp of approval.”
Without warning, Pierson folded himself into the chair next to hers. “You’ve certainly found your voice over these last few weeks.”
Somehow, he didn’t sound complimentary.
“I remember when Russell brought you back from France. How shy and timid you were. Obviously breakable.” The unmistakable stench of wistful longing seeped into his tone. “I don’t think you said a word the first few times he brought you round.”
She hadn’t been shy. She’d been traumatized. And using all her strength to stay off whatever drugs Francoise had hooked her on. “A lot has changed.”
“But a lot hasn’t.”
Wrong. If the last few go-rounds with Kazankov had proven anything, it was that she was a lot tougher than she’d ever realized.
She was done pretending otherwise.
Fingers steady, she reached into her clutch and pulled out her phone. “This is a screenshot of financial records from a recently discovered offshore account. They stretch back two years. Right around the time Russell’s health really took a turn for the worse.”
When Pierson’s bushy eyebrows rose, she knew she had his attention. “Go on. Give the circled accounts a look. They belong to Paul. And you. As I’m sure you’re aware, they indicate an awful lot of company money shifted between the company and the head of the board—you—without express approval from Russell. Almost as if it were some kind of payoff from Russell’s son while his father was too sick to notice…”
The tightening of Pierson’s jaw brought a rush of satisfaction.
See how much has changed, you condescending bastard? No shyness. No timidity. Lots of words now. And no chance of someone like you breaking me.
“That is technically not illegal.” Pierson tugged at his jacket cuff.
“I know.” Unfortunately. “But it’s unlikely to make the other board members happy if it were to become public information. It doesn’t make you or Paul look too good, either.”
“Attacking board members won’t make you popular with the board. Or me.”
Batting down a flutter of nerves, she went for it. “I’m not saying I have to reveal these findings.” Paul was out anyway and the revelation would only hurt Winslow Industries’ bottom line. “What I am saying is you should stop calling me little girl and recognize I am a force to be reckoned with and very serious about retaining my position as CEO.”
A heavy silence descended.
She forced herself not to shift. Not to blink. Not to breathe.
“Where’d you find these records? Jim show them to you?”
She hid a grimace. “Found it all by my little lonesome, actually.”
He considered her for a few more long seconds before leaning in, his shoulders relaxing. “I’m impressed. I didn’t know you had it in you to play hardball.”
“Impressed enough to give me your public stamp of approval?”
He paused. “Maybe.” But there’d been a nod as well.
She threw a mental fist pump into the air. She could do this. She could serve as CEO. She could save the company. Victory was in sight.
A warm, clammy hand landed on her thigh.
“I like a little hardball myself.” Pierson squeezed her limb, his voice low and smug. “Russell and I did always have similar taste. Here’s my counteroffer, pretty girl. You want me to accommodate you?” His hand inched higher, leaving a trail of slime. “You accommodate me.”
Her blood turned to ice, memories of another time wrapping around her muscles and locking her in place.
She’d been equally unprepared then.
Francoise.
Fifteen years her senior.
The product of a random meeting at a truck stop where she’d been waitressing.
Handsome and sophisticated, Francoise Dubois had handed her his agent/photographer card, a couple lines about her “potential as a model,” and she’d been certain her life had finally taken a turn for the better.
Naive, reckless, and plain stupid, she’d quit school, packed up the trash bag of stuff that qualified as her possessions, cashed in the last of her earnings, and taken her first flight ever to a place where she knew no one and didn’t speak the language. Certain she was finally about to prove wrong all the haters who’d said she’d end up like her mother.
Her only regret was leaving her baby sister behind. But Francoise had assured her she’d be able to send for Beth soon.
Twelve hours after arriving in Paris, the man about to change her life for the better put his hand on her knees, his tongue down her throat, and made it clear that in exchange for his services, he expected her to provide certain ones of her own.
You want my assistance, Cherie? Then, you’ll assist me.
Alone, isolated, without funds or transportation back to the States, she’d had no choice but to comply. And keep complying, even as his demands got darker, his control over every aspect of her career and life more absolute.
She’d learned a lot about accommodation during that time—as well as the painful consequences of a stupid girl’s reckless, rash acts—but she’d found a way out of the darkness in the end.
Thanks to Russell. Who’d given her a protective cocoon where she could spend the last six years trying to become someone different. Someone better. Someone untouchable. Someone people wouldn’t treat like they were good for one thing only.
But here she was, right back where she’d started. An unwelcome hand on her thigh and the air thick with the degrading, entitled presumption that she’d be accommodating because she had no other choice.
Except… Kazankov’s scowling face flitted through her mind like a beacon of light.
You’re turning out to be a far more impressive adversary than I initially imagined.
When it came to business, he treated her like a legitimate rival. Negotiated with her like an equal. And, damn it, that was what she deserved.
Not this clammy palm inching up her thigh.
Her hand curled into a fist. It was time to rip Don Pierson a new one.
Time to channel Kazankov in all his glory.
By the time she was finished speaking, she fully intended to have not only Pierson’s resignation, but his figurative balls for breakfast. This bully was going down.
“Get your fucking hand off her before I break it and every bone in your body.”
She and Pierson swiveled toward the door.
Kazankov loomed in the entranceway, his arctic blue gaze locked on the hand gripping her thigh.
It’s not my business how you go about securing your support. Everybody’s got their style. Another Kazankov statement flitted through her brain, far less welcome.
She knew exactly what this mess with Pierson looked like—and a little part of her died inside.
So much for earning Kazankov’s respect.