“I haven’t. It stands to reason, though. The plane disappeared, and they haven’t shown up anywhere. If there was mechanical trouble and the pilot was able to land the plane at some podunk airstrip, or on a road, in a field—we’d have heard. They’d have radioed in. They haven’t been heard from, so that means the plane crashed, and they’re dead.”
“A court wouldn’t see it that way,” Grant said in a cool tone. “Until Bailey’s death is confirmed, or a reasonable length of time has lapsed and she’s declared dead, she’s still officially in charge of your trust fund.”
Seth could see it in Grant’s face: he thought that was why Seth was here, to find out how soon he could take control of his own money, part of which was tied to stock in the Wingate Group. Grant was also one of the trustees of the fund, but only in an advisory capacity; all final decisions had been Bailey’s.
“She can’t be, if she isn’t here,” Seth said, struggling to keep the temper from his voice.
“Provisions were made for automatic dispersal, so you don’t have to worry. You’ll still get your allowance.”
Allowance? The word burned through his mind. He was thirty-five years old, and he was relegated to the same level as a ten-year-old. The indignity had never occurred to him before; he’d seen the trust fund as his rightful inheritance, not an allowance.
“I want an audit,” he heard himself say. “I want to know how much the bitch siphoned off.”
“Absolutely none,” Grant barked, his sharp gaze narrowing as his temper rose. “In fact, the fund has had a very healthy growth, thanks to her. Why do you think your father chose her?”
“Because she screwed him into blind stupidity!” Seth shot back.
“On the contrary, the whole idea was his from the very beginning! He had to talk her into it, into marriage, the whole—” Grant broke off, shaking his head. “Never mind. If Jim didn’t tell you what his plan was, I certainly won’t, because he knew you better than I ever will. All I’ll say is this: Bailey has taken as much care with your money as she has with her own, and that’s saying something. She’s one of the most careful investors I’ve ever seen, and there hasn’t been a dime taken from the fund other than the monthly disbursements to you and Tamzin.”
Seth’s attention sharpened and he skipped over everything Grant had said about the money. “Plan? What plan?”
“Like I said, it’s not my place to tell you. Now, if that’s all—”
“It isn’t.” Seth stared down at the coffee in his hand, furious that he’d let himself be sidetracked. He hadn’t come here to talk about Bailey, or ask about his money. He hesitated for a moment, trying to think of the best way to approach the subject, but nothing occurred other than just saying it. The necessity galled, but it was now or never.
“I need a job. I’d like to start learning the business…if there’s an opening.” He hated having to ask; this was his father’s company, he should automatically have a place here, but he himself had deliberately distanced himself from it and there was nothing automatic about it now.
Grant didn’t immediately respond. He leaned back in his chair, that shark gaze giving nothing away. After a moment he asked, “What kind of job?”
Seth started to say “Vice president sounds good,” but he bit back the words. He was acutely aware that he was the supplicant here, that he hadn’t built up a supply of goodwill from which he could draw. “Anything,” he finally replied.
“In that case, you can start tomorrow in the mail room.”
Seth went cold. Mail room? He hadn’t expected a corner office, but he had expected an office…or at least a cubicle. Hell, in that case, why not make him a janitor? Then he gave a wintry smile as the answer occurred to him. “I suppose the cleaning is done by a professional service, huh?”
“Exactly. If you’re serious about working here, you’ll take the job seriously, no matter what it is. If you blow it off, if you get here late—or don’t bother showing up at all—then I’ll know you’re just fucking around as usual. My time is valuable. I don’t see any point in wasting any of it on you until you’ve proven it won’t be wasted.”
“I understand.” Seth hated saying that, hated being in the position of begging, but he’d put himself there; he had no one else to blame. “Thank you.” He put the coffee cup on a table and stood; as Grant had pointed out, his time was valuable.
“One thing,” Grant said.
Seth paused, waiting.
“What brought this on?”
He gave another wintry smile, this one underlaid with bitterness. “I looked in the mirror.”
16
BAILEY PUSHED THE TRASH BAG OF CLOTHING AWAY from the shelter’s opening and began crawling out into the gray morning light. She paused with one hand in the snow, staring at the whiteness around her. “Crap.”
“What’s wrong?” Justice asked from behind her.
“It snowed some more,” she growled. “The plane’s covered.” Not completely, but near enough. The snow cover made spotting them from the air even more difficult, even if the mountains weren’t wreathed in misty clouds, which they were. Visibility was no more than fifty yards, max. This latest development was almost like adding insult to injury. Why couldn’t they have a heat wave, a nice warm chinook to melt some of the snow and make waiting for rescue just a tad easier? She was cold, and she wanted to be warm. Her head still ached; her entire body ached. She still had a fever. All she wanted was to be rescued off this damn mountain, and now—more snow. Great.