“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” Felicity Tennant clutched the kitchen table for support.
The check was for $15 million.
It was going to be a good day after all.
Yasmin Ross smiled at her boss when he walked into the office.
“Morning Mr. M. The mail’s on your desk, next to the latte and skinny blueberry muffin. I moved the morning meeting to a quarter after so you’d have time to eat something.”
Gabe smiled back gratefully
“Yaz, you’re an angel.”
Poor man. Yasmin watched him go into his office, shoulders slumped, head down. Gabe’s smiles didn’t fool her, or anybody else at the charity offices. Ever since he’d broken things off with Lexi Templeton, the joy seemed to have drained out of him like air from a punctured tire. Lexi must be crazy, letting him slip through her fingers. I wouldn’t kick Gabe McGregor out of my bed, not for any money.
Sitting at his desk, Gabe picked at his muffin. He knew his assistant was worried about him, and her concern touched him. He hadn’t been eating well lately. Or sleeping, for that matter. Sighing, he turned his attention to the mail. Every day Gabe received scores of begging letters, asking for gifts from his foundation. Saying no was the part of his work he liked least, but it had to be done. If they spread themselves too thin, they’d achieve nothing. There was still so much work to be done.
Recently Gabe had been saying no even more than usual, thanks to the hole in the charity’s funds made by Lexi. Legally, Gabe was obliged to report the theft to the police. But he hadn’t been able to bring himself to do it. Not yet, anyway.
When he saw the handwriting on the plain white envelope, he choked on his coffee, spraying brown liquid right across the desk. Gabe hadn’t heard a word from Lexi since that awful day in the Hamptons.
What could she want? A reconciliation?
Is that what I want, too?
He opened the letter. Except there was no letter. Only a check.
It was for exactly three times the amount Lexi had stolen.
August Sandford was suspicious.
“I don’t know, Jim. Who else is going?”
Jim Barnet was the head-ex-head-of Kruger-Brent’s manufacturing division. Along with a select group of other divisional heads, Jim had been summoned to a meeting by the firm’s receivers. Apparently, a potential cash buyer had come forward, interested in bidding for some of Kruger-Brent’s more profitable businesses.
“Me, Mickey. Alan Dawes, I think. Tabitha Crewe.”
“Tabitha? They want mining?”
“Apparently. And real estate.”
“And nobody has any idea who this mystery benefactor is?”
“Nope. But come on, man. It’s not like we’re exactly inundated with offers. Most of the market still seems to think we’re toxic.”
August hung up the phone.
“Who was that, darling?” Leticia, his mistress, rolled over in bed, pressing her soft breasts against his chest. Since Kruger-Brent went bust, August’s performance as a lover had dropped off a cliff. It was like there was an invisible thread connecting his dick to his net worth. When one shriveled, so did the other.
“Jim Barnet. Some cash-rich buyer wants to talk to us apparently.”
“That’s good, right?”
Reaching beneath the Frette sheets, Leticia gently ran her fingers over August’s balls. He used to love that in the old days.
“Maybe.” August felt the first stirrings of an erection. A good sign? “I hope so.”
Mandrake & Connors was one of the largest, most respected accounting firms on Wall Street. In Kruger-Brent’s glory days, it’d made a fortune acting for the firm. Now, in an ironic twist of fate, it found itself handling its bankruptcy. Unraveling the accounts of such a vastly complex network of businesses was expected to take months, if not years.
August Sandford sat with five of his former colleagues in one of Mandrake & Connors’s conference rooms. A month before, the six Kruger-Brent board members would have called the shots at such a meeting. Today, Whit Barclay, the accountant, was in charge. He was loving every minute of it.
“You all know why you’re here.”
Whit Barclay was a small man with a weak chin, receding hairline and permanently wet lips. A drone who had made it to the top of his anthill full of drones by the simple expedient of staying in the same job for thirty-two years.
“It goes without saying that everything that is discussed within these four walls today remains strictly confidential.”
The Kruger-Brenters murmured their assent.
“A company known as Cedar International has approached us, expressing an interest in a number of Kruger-Brent’s more profitable business areas.”
“And mining,” muttered August Sandford. Tabitha Crewe shot him a venomous look. Everybody knew that Tabitha’s division, which had been responsible for Kruger-Brent’s gold and diamond mines, was a lame duck.
“Indeed,” Whit Barclay averred. “In any event, Cedar International-”
August Sandford interrupted again. “Who are these guys? I’m sorry to piss on everybody’s picnic. But has anyone heard of this company?”
“Really, Mr. Sandford. There’s no need for coarse language.”
“I haven’t,” said Jim Barnet.
“Me neither.” Mickey Robertson and Alan Dawes agreed.
“How do we know they’re for real?”
Whit Barclay flushed with anger. He was supposed to be chairing this meeting.
“I can assure you, Cedar International is a legitimate, highly capitalized firm with-”