For All the Wrong Reasons (8 page)

“Don't take too long, all right? We truly believe Green Eggs is the firm for us, but the chairman is keen to buy something—if it isn't you it'll be somebody else. I don't have the leeway I would like.”

“Buy the company?” Cicero asked, bluntly. Ernie noted the square, stubborn set of the man's jaw, and swallowed. The thickly muscled body made him nervous and ill at ease, and Michael was some schmuck, some years younger than Ernie and over a million bucks poorer. He detested the way Cicero looked at him as though they were equals. Didn't he know who Ernie Foxton was?

“Not buy the company”—that was a slip of the tongue, and Foxton chided himself—“buy ourselves a partnership. Think about this. All the other houses offered you a salary. We are offering you partnership, because we believe in you.”

Michael hesitated. He loved passion. The figures sounded good. Was it a smart move to turn down a winning lottery ticket? That's what this sounded like.

Ernie shook his head. “No pressure right away. I'll send the suits back to the grind”—he flashed his troops a charming smile—“and you can come out with me and my wife. We're a personal firm, here. Blakely's cares who it deals with.”

“Sounds good.” Cicero extended a ridiculously firm handshake to Ernie.

“Great. Great.” Damn it, Ernie thought, I got him. And in about three months I'll have the firm, too. Once this arrogant little bastard's taught us all we need to know. “Diana's actually got a table for me over at the Russian Tea Room. Come along and have a drink.”

“Sounds very good.” Michael relaxed.

*   *   *

The waiter deferentially ushered them to one of the choicest banquettes in the house, and Michael tried to ignore all the rubbernecking businessmen who were leaning out from their tables and staring at Ernie and him. He understood that they were trying to figure out who he was.

You haven't seen me before, he thought, thrilled, but soon each and every one of you will know who I am.

“You can't let business encroach on your pleasure time,” Ernie said genially. Michael couldn't have disagreed more, but kept silent. The guy was making a lot of money. He must know what he was doing.

“There she is.”

Ernie waved at a female walking toward them. “My wife, Diana Foxton.”

“Excuse me, darling, I was just freshening up,” she said. She leaned forward and kissed the air at the side of her husband's cheeks. “And who's this?”

“Michael Cicero. A new business associate of ours. At least, I hope so,” Ernie said. “You'll thank me for introducing you, Diana, it's somebody your own age to talk to.”

Michael stared at her. He knew he was staring, but he found it hard to stop. There was something so wonderfully, vibrantly beautiful about the girl … was it the arch of her slightly thick brows, the daring comfort of the tiny, perfect little sweater that draped over those stunningly sexy breasts, that tilted upward at him, almost aggressively … or could it be the sweet blue eyes and lusciously shining platinum hair, that he longed to dive into, just breathing in the clean scent of her shampoo? She smelled of baby powder layered over the sweet breath of perfume from her skin.

“Delighted, Mr. Cicero. Or can I call you Michael?”

Diana smiled charmingly at the rude boy who was staring at her. Honestly, did Americans have no manners at all? She extended one hand in a delicate, well-bred gesture.

Cicero shook it. His handshake was firm and dry. There was a lot of power in his grip. He was a big, coarse sort of a man, Diana decided. Look at those muscles; he must lift an awful lot of weights. She rarely met men of this sort; they made her edgy. Cicero's dark eyes and fighter's nose were too much, altogether. He was bristling with testosterone. It was strange to see a man with a body like that in a suit. Surely his natural job would be as an extra in some Hollywood action flick, possibly starring Sylvester Stallone or Arnold Schwarzenegger? He was shorter than Ernie, but so much stockier. And why were his eyes raking over her tights and shoes? Was there a run in them, or something?

Diana resisted the urge to look down and check. Why give him the satisfaction? Anyway, who cared what he thought? A man like this would not appreciate the finer points of fashion.

“Michael, please, Mrs. Foxton,” he said.

The voice was deep, too, Diana thought, and coarse. He was probably another working-class boy made good, much like her husband. Oh, well, it didn't do to be snobby. But he was so young for Ernie to be applying a full-court press.

“Then you must call me Diana, and that's settled,” she said, bestowing a radiant smile on him.

They sat down to drinks for Diana and Michael, and a light lunch for Ernie. He ordered Beluga, and wolfed it down like it was a hummus dip. Meanwhile, Michael nursed an espresso and watched Diana while he talked business to Foxton. He tried not to drool all over his saucer, but keeping his control got a little easier as the minutes passed. Michael didn't think he had ever met a more beautiful and stylish girl but, on the other hand, he'd never met a more vapid, stupid, spoiled little princess, either. Listen to her. She was discussing landscape gardeners and bitching about her so-called friends' masseuses. The prices she was flinging around would have paid the rent on his shitty little apartment for a month.

“Excuse me.” Ernie stood up. “My beeper has just gone. I have to get back to the office. Here, Michael.” He fished in his well-cut pocket and handed over a business card; it was stiff vellum, embossed with tiny gold letters. “This is Jack Fineman, my lawyer. He'll be able to help you out, go through the figures and such like. I'll get a copy of the contract messengered to you.”

“Thanks,” Michael said. He pocketed it, stood and shook Ernie's hand. “I'll be in touch.”

“Like I said, don't be too long. The chairman is breaking my back to get a deal with somebody. We really want it to be you.”

“I hear you.” Michael grinned at him, and then Foxton was gone.

He looked across at Diana Foxton. She didn't seem particularly thrilled to be stuck with him.

“I'll drink up and you can get going,” Michael said.

Diana arched a brow. She could, could she? Who did this man think he was? Ernie had asked for the dog-and-pony show, and he'd got it—and surely she wasn't required to lay it on any thicker. She felt a small wave of resentment wash over her.

“Thank you. Very kind,” she said.

“Not that I mind spending the time with you,” Michael added. Her tone was extremely cold. Stuck-up little madam. He guessed it wouldn't do to tell her to grow up and get a life.

“What a relief.” Diana arched her back a little, like a cat. “But I'm in no hurry. I missed several appointments to be here and rushing out of the door won't change anything.”

“That's bad. Really.” He was apologetic. “It must have been something important.”

“It was
vital,
actually. It takes forever to get an appointment with Marcus Walker,” Diana informed him, frowning lightly.

“He's your doctor?”

“My manicurist,” Diana said, pouting.

Michael laughed. He couldn't help it. He squared his shoulders and looked at her. “For pity's sake, girl, listen to yourself.”

“What do you mean?” Diana demanded, stung.

“Your manicurist is hardly vital. Air's vital. Water's vital. You need to get your priorities sorted out, lady.”

“My priority is to look good.”

“I'd say you've already achieved that.” Michael gave her a lazy grin. “Why don't you do something with your brain?”

“I used my brain to make Marcus squeeze me into his client list,” Diana snapped, “and thank you for the career advice, but I think I've done just fine on my own.”

Cicero tried to make himself shut up, but he couldn't. “Well, you've married a rich man. So I guess that's mission accomplished.”

“You are an extremely rude person,” she said, drawing herself up. Partly to frighten him with her superiority, and partly because when he leaned forward, she caught the masculine scent of him, and those dark eyes were fixed on her. He was disturbingly unreconstructed. Over the top button of his shirt she could see the thick wiry hairs of his chest, curling up. Ernie was smooth as a baby down there.

“I get that a lot.” Michael stood, his dark eyes still boring down at her. He was angry at himself for losing his temper, and angrier at her for being such a goddamn bimbo. No woman was perfect; when you found one with a decent body and a little elegance, she turned out to be grasping and as dumb as a rock.

Maybe he'd even blown the deal. Cicero suddenly wanted to get it signed before Ernie Foxton talked to his wife. “Here, allow me.” He pulled out his wallet and slapped down a hundred.

Diana looked at the bill like it was something nasty she'd found stuck to the sole of her shoe. She lifted it in her long fingers and handed it back to him.

“I don't think so. I'm sure this place is a little rich for your blood. Ernie would want me to settle up.”

Flushing, Michael took his money back and left her without another word.

What a stuck-up little bitch, he thought.

*   *   *

He hailed a cab on the street. Fifteen minutes later, he was back in his office, and Susan greeted him with an expectant look.

“Mr. Cicero, welcome back. How did it…”

He turned to face her and her voice trailed off. He had the slightly reddened face he got when he was truly angry—and that was a real bad time to be around him.

“Not well.”

Susan didn't press the point. Timidly, she handed him over the thick package that had been sitting on her desk for an hour.

“Blakely's had this messengered over. They said it was your contract.”

Michael ripped open the envelope and took out about eighty pages of densely printed legalese. He fished the embossed vellum card out of his pocket and tossed it to his assistant.

“Get me Jack Fineman on the phone,” he said. “Quick as you can. We
may
not have much time.”

Once Diana Foxton went bitching to her husband, she would blow this deal for him. Blakely's was offering a partnership. Michael wanted to kick himself. Why couldn't he just have kept his mouth shut around the selfish, spoiled little princess?

*   *   *

Fineman was brisk and businesslike. “I would love to represent you in the matter, but I can't. Conflict of interest.”

“Fair enough. Tell me, who should I be talking to?”

“Let me see … somebody skilled, not connected with Ernie…”

And not too expensive, Michael felt like saying, but his pride wouldn't let him.

“… Jane Grenouille, she's your woman. Grenouille and Bifte, they have an office on Fifty-fourth. I recommend her,” Fineman said warmly. He gave Cicero the phone number. “I can fax the contract over to her right now, if you like. It's standard, shouldn't take too much of her time. Oh, and Michael—Ernie Foxton already signed it from his end, so if you countersign within twenty-four hours it's nice and binding.”

“What if I delay beyond that time?”

“Then you need to get him to sign another copy. I guess they put a time limit on it in case another deal gets worked out in the meantime and you force them into bed with you.”

“Thank you,” Michael said quietly.

It never occurred to him to ask how Fineman knew Ernie had signed the contract.

He called Jane, who sounded young and vivacious and a little ditsy, but seemed to have an excellent grasp on the legalities. She suggested a few changes and told him he should jump on it.

“We'll get a few things policed up, though.”

“Are they vital?”

Michael suddenly had an image of Diana Foxton going home and sobbing on her husband's shoulders. If he signed today, the deal was valid, and Ernie couldn't rip it up.

“No. You'd lose the twenty-four-hour window by the time we got the renegotiation back.”

“I'll get back to you in a little while,” Michael said.

He hung up and looked around his tiny office, breathing in the wafts of moussaka and lamb with minted yoghurt from the taverna. His prints shook slightly on the walls as the booming bass of the record store leaked up through his basement.

He was hesitating. And why? Because he didn't like Ernie and Diana.

But Ernie Foxton had promised him a partnership, not a salary. They had offered up financials, editorial rights, distribution, new offices and a sign-on bonus of a hundred thousand dollars.

If he signed he would have a real company. If he signed, he would have a real office. If he signed, he could afford to take Diana Foxton out to a fancy restaurant, and get a suit that people would not sneer at.

Michael visualized Diana's look of arrogant pity. He took the contract and put it in his briefcase.

There was a timid knock on his door. Michael looked up to see Susan Katz smiling at him breathlessly.

“So what do you think?” she asked.

Michael grinned.

“I think we're in business,” he said.

EIGHT

In the half light of the early morning, Ernie Foxton woke and looked at his wife. The first rays of dawn had slunk across Manhattan, creeping up from the hustle of the fishing nets and the fresh-produce markets, covering Wall Street's bustling bankers all striving to be at their desks before the other guy, until they were washing the sleek high-rises of the skyscrapers and the elegant brownstones around the park. From his bedroom window, all he could see was sky and greenery. Central Park was attractive, if you liked nature, which Ernie didn't. And he had the terrace garden his talented bride had thrown together.

Diana lay there, sprawled over his bed—he still didn't think of it as their bed. Her long, dyed-blond hair was gorgeously disheveled on the satin pillowcases she'd ordered so as not to tangle it. One hand was flung sleepily over the cream silk sheets, manicured to perfection with a simple French polish. Of course, Diana would never go for anything tarty like scarlet red talons, the type that Mira liked to wear, that she wanted to rake across his back. He longed to let her do it, but it would leave a mark. Mira said he deserved it, that Ernie was a naughty little boy who ought to be punished. He felt a twitch in his cock just thinking about her.