Twisted knight, p.15
Twisted Knight, page 15
Because that’s my dilemma, isn’t it? I need Holden to like me enough that should this go through, he decides to keep me around. At the same time, I want him to understand that if I can stop him, I sure as hell will.
It makes every conversation with him feel like walking through a minefield—this one included.
“Your point?” I ask.
“You’d tell me to fuck off and die in a heartbeat. Me, the only person in the company who is holding his hand out to help you, the only man who seems to see you for your worth and intelligence, while you stand steadfast by the side of a man who clearly doesn’t give a shit about your place there.”
His words hit me like a battering ram. The truth to them. The man speaking them.
Holden pushes off the hood and stands to his full height. “This woman right here,” he says, pointing to me. “The one who lifts too much and refuses help. The one who barks back when she thinks I’ve wronged her in the slightest. The vitriol you seem to reserve only for me? That’s the woman I want to see in the boardroom battling things out on our behalf.” He moves around the side of his car and opens his door. “I know I’ve asked you to team up with me, but I take that back. I only want you to if that woman shows up. She’s the one I want. She’s the one I’m offering a seat at the table to.”
And without another word, Holden slides into the seat.
“What do you mean a seat at the table?”
He shuts the door.
“Holden. Wait.”
And backs out of the spot and then out of the lot.
I stare in the direction he went long after his taillights disappear into the distance.
What the hell did that mean?
TWENTY
Holden
“There’s potential there, Bob,” I say with my cell to my ear as I shuffle through stacks of financials on the corner of my desk. Financials that my accountants have flagged during their due diligence for me to look closer at.
No doubt there’s more Rhett Rothschild fuckery all over them.
“Potential? I think moving to the South has fucked with your head.”
“If you were here, you’d understand how true that is, but I still want you to pursue it.”
I can hear the hesitation in his sigh over the line. His want to refuse me but his knowledge that if he does, I’ll just get someone else who’ll do what I need. He’s seen me cut ties before for less. “I still don’t understand what got this wild hair up your ass to go and buy this company. Alcohol? You’re a fucking software engineer for god’s sake.”
“Mmm,” I say. “Was a software engineer is more accurate.”
“You created the program most financial institutions in the world use to protect their customer data.”
“Thanks for the biography update,” I say wryly.
“My point is, just because you sold the company, that doesn’t mean you’re no longer a software engineer.”
“Noted.”
“It just … I’ve seen you invest capital before, but you’ve never been hands-on like this. Why the change? What are you not telling me?”
Distracted, I watch Rhett and Chad stand in the parking lot below having what appears to be a heated discussion. The sight amuses me.
Way more than this conversation does.
“I have my reasons,” I say.
“Great. Holden Knight is being cryptic. Just what the world doesn’t need. The last time you were like this, firewalls were breached and money went missing.”
“You mean it was found.”
He snorts. “Whatever you say, Robin Hood.”
I shrug, still smug about that one. When one of the richest capital funds in the world tried to pretty up its scandalous reputation by advertising that they’d made sizable donations to Feeding America and their records showed no such contributions. Was it really so bad to give that money a little helping hand to get where it needed to be? To move funds from their account to the charity’s? “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
At least I provided them with a receipt for their donation so they can write it off against their taxes.
“Of course you don’t.” He chuckles. “And you’re avoiding my questions. Why this random company? Why pump money into something that you plan on piecemealing apart in a leverage buyout until there is nothing left of it?”
“That’s between you and me for now.”
“It always is. I just don’t under—”
“So you’ll get me a list then?”
His sigh is as heavy as his frustration with me. Fine by me. “Yes. Sure. I’ll start looking for potential buyers. Still doesn’t make sense to me.”
“It doesn’t have to, Bob, so long as it does to me.”
“You’re the boss with many irons the fire.”
I sure am.
“I need updates,” I say.
“Potential buyers on the property. You want me still applying pressure to anyone looking for info on it?”
“Yes.” There is no room for misinterpretation. Every lead being logged into the real estate agent’s database is automatically being rerouted to Bob through a few behind-the-scenes keystrokes. He is then contacting those leads and promptly deterring them.
“Is the land for sale really contaminated?” he asks, questioning the information I’ve given him to use to spoil any potential buyers.
“Does it matter?” I give him more than I normally do.
“So, what? You just don’t want anyone buying it?” He searches for a reason as to why. He’ll never figure it out. The less anyone knows, the better.
“Correct.” I’m feeling generous today, so I give him another answer.
“Watch out, someone might claim you talk too much,” he jokes. When I don’t respond, he presses his luck with a third question. “Are you planning on buying that property, then? Scaring people off until they lower the price so then you pull the trigger?”
“No. Just making sure no one else does.”
“Hmpf.” Judgmental silence he’d never dare put a voice to. He knows where my proverbial bodies are hidden. He knows I wouldn’t hesitate to put his there either. “Whatever you say, boss.”
“Exactly. Whatever I say.”
I wouldn’t give Rhett or Chad a dime of my money to bail them out. And I’ll make sure no one else does. A loan default. An impending repossession. A life’s savings gone.
More like an entire family trust gone.
Can’t imagine what that would do to the reputation—aside from the private family shitstorm—of two of Westmore’s most prestigious families.
“What about the campaign stuff? Am I touching that or leaving it alone?” he asks.
“Keep whoever you have on the staff there. I need to stay in the know on promises made behind the scenes.”
“You think he’s running to forge shit about the WillowBend property, don’t you? Get on the council to fix his fuckup.”
“Yes,” I say in a quiet, even tone. “I do.”
“Last thing,” he says. “You saw the attempted firewall breach on your personal server the other night?”
“I did.” Someone’s fingerprints were all over my firewall. Amateur at best but still fucking there. No doubt it leads back to Rhett somehow. The fucker is rich enough to try to buy an ugly painting, but too broke to hire a good hacker. Fucking par for the course, but it never should have gotten that far in the first place. “You took care of it?”
“I’m sitting back and watching, waiting to see if they leave more of a digital trail.”
“If that digital trail makes it past my defenses, Bob, I’m not going to be a happy man.”
“So you’re telling me to, what—”
“Shut it the fuck down. Plant malware in their hard drive. I don’t fucking care but get it stopped.”
“Yes, sir.”
I end the conversation and steeple my fingers as I watch Chad point a heated finger at Rhett. Then Rhett waves a hand at him before he stalks away and toward one of the warehouses.
Trouble in paradise.
Perfect.
Why are they trying to get into my shit? That was an amusing—and admirable—surprise the other night. But the question is why? Do they doubt me? Was it just a private firm they hired to investigate me and make sure I’m kosher? Were they trying to figure out how someone is ruining their plans at every fucking turn?
Go ahead and look, assholes.
You’re not going to find what you’re looking for. Only what I want to give you.
I take pride in the slump of Rhett’s shoulders as he stares after where Chad just disappeared.
Poor fucking baby.
Time to tackle the first set of notes from my team on the due diligence for the purchase. I expect there to be a whole lot of red flags from shit Rhett’s tried to hide. Red flags that most purchasers would use to devalue the company and have a reason to lower the purchase price.
For me on the other hand, they just provide more leverage to hold over the fucker’s head. Making his life miserable is my new hobby.
I’m about a quarter of the way through the first report with eyebrows raised and head shaking when a pair of footsteps come through my door.
I glance at my computer and note the time. Thirty minutes since she pulled in the parking lot to come see me. That took longer than expected.
Guess I need to try harder next time.
“Look who’s finally back in the office,” I murmur without looking up.
“Back in the office?” she asks, her voice riding that fine line of irritation and frustration. “Says the man who hasn’t picked up his phone or shown his face in here since last week.”
I glance up, a smart quip getting lost on my tongue when it ties itself up.
That damn sweater.
Jesus Christ. How many fucking colors does the woman own it in? My eyes stutter over her cleavage. It’s hard not to when her nipples are hard and pressed against the cashmere while her crossed arms only serve to push her breasts up higher.
Images of me clearing off the desk in one swoop of my arm and fucking her on it flash through my head. The soft sigh of her moan. Her pussy tightening around me. The half-hooded eyes as we watch each other. The goddamn rush of emptying myself into her.
It’s Rowan I suddenly want.
There’s a reason I’ve made myself scarce in the office this week. Her presence and my thoughts that suddenly spiral out of control when I think of her. That’s one of the major reasons.
“I’ve been busy.” My smile is smug, my expression nonchalant, and my gaze lingers longer than it should on her lips.
You’re only prolonging the torture, Knight.
“What the hell did you mean?”
“What the hell did I mean about what?” I say innocently. How much longer until you’re beneath me, Rowan Rothschild?
Her eyes dart down the hall and then back to me. “In the parking lot. At the gym.”
She’s talking about a seat at the table, Holden. You set the hook. Now she wants the bait.
Get her fucking out of here.
“I have a long list of shit to do and a conference call waiting for me.” I wave dismissively to her as I pick up my cell. “I don’t have time for this right now.”
She huffs. “Yes, you do.”
I push a button on my phone—calling my own voicemail—and pretend. “Yes. Holden Knight calling in for the meeting.”
Rowan remains standing there, arms still crossed, jaw still clenched, eyes still glaring.
I point to the door. “Shut it on the way out.”
Sometimes playing hard to get makes the other person want it that much more.
Her expression—irritated, impatient, furious—says I’m getting exactly what I want out of this stunt. Her to want me.
I lift my eyebrows to her and mouth, You’re still here.
Our eyes hold, battle, challenge.
She remains a few more seconds before emitting a strangled groan and stomping back out of my office.
I track the exaggerated swish of her hips as she stalks down the hallway. It’s not until she enters her office and slams the door shut that I chuckle and drop my phone on my desk.
Mission accomplished.
And as if on cue, Audrey walks right through it with a disapproving tsk on her lips. Ever ready with her notepad and pen in hand, she takes a seat opposite me.
“What?” I ask like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
She levels me with a look. “What are you playing at, Holden?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit,” she says, a rare curse. “I’ve worked for you for ten years. I know you almost as well as your mother does. In some aspects maybe even better. You’ve turned on the charm and when you turn on the charm, that, my dear, means you are most definitely up to something.”
I laugh. Never can get anything by her. There’s a reason Audrey McClain has remained my right hand for so very long. Through owning the software company. After selling it. And now managing my day-to-day among other things.
And she’s the only one who knows my reason for being here. The what. The where. The why. The need.
She’s my conscience when I choose to ignore mine.
I’m never letting her go, and I pay her accordingly.
“I’m innocent as charged.” I lift my hands up but emit a mischievous laugh.
“Lord help us,” she says as she stands and heads to the door. “Oh, and call your mother. She’s probably missing you about now.”
TWENTY-ONE
Holden
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
“Please?”
I grit my teeth and look over to Mason, who has been nagging me since we got home. He’s standing on the other side of the table, skateboard in one hand and his helmet in the other. That poor board has seen better days, but we’ve done our best to keep the bearings oiled and gliding smoothly.
“Dude. You have to stop asking.” I look down to my laptop and my half-written history paper on whether democracy is the best form of government. A bullshit, I-need-to-give-the-class-homework type of assignment if you ask me. But an assignment that’s so much easier to do now that I have the computer where I can cut and paste instead of erase and rewrite by hand.
“I’ve been in a classroom all day. Is it so wrong that I want to get outside for some fresh air? Get some exercise. Have a mental health break.”
I level him with a look. “Do you seriously think that’s going to work with me when most days you’d prefer to be inside with your butt on the couch watching TV?”
He shrugs, but a shy corner turns up the edges of his lips. “I’m turning over a new leaf.”
“You’re so full of shit.” I sigh and lean back. “What is it? Why are you so desperate to go outside and skate?”
“Mia comes home from soccer practice between four and five.”
“Mia?” Christ. When did this happen? Do I need to have “the talk” with him already? He’s way too young for this shit. Hell, I’m way too young to have to give it.
“Yeah. She’s just a girl. A friend. Her parents don’t let her hang around the complex after she gets home.” He shrugs. “You know why and all.”
Yeah, for the same reasons Mom forbids me to let you play outside alone.
“Yeah, I know.” I look at the flashing cursor and the stack of other homework I have. Guilt eats at me. It’s not Mase’s fault Mom’s working two jobs. He shouldn’t suffer because I’ve worked three days in a row and am trying to finish a paper I should have done on Sunday night. I scrub a hand through my hair. “My teacher gave me until five to get this done or else he won’t accept it for a grade.”
“But—”
“I don’t have a choice.”
“Yeah, you do. I can go outside by myself. You can leave the front door open or whatever.”
“Those aren’t the rules.”
“But Mom’s not here, right?” He makes a show of looking around. “It’s not like she’d ever know if I went outside by myself for a few minutes.”
He’s right. I know he’s right. He knows he’s right. Mom would never know, but … still. “Mase…”
“C’mon, Hold. I’ll stay right outside on the sidewalk. You can leave the door open so you can hear me. I won’t talk to strangers.” He rolls his eyes on that one. “I know all the stuff.”
I sigh. This paper isn’t going to write itself and it sure as hell isn’t going to get a dent in it with Mason sitting here bugging me every five seconds to go outside with him.
What’s it going to hurt?
“Fine—”
Mason whoops and throws his fist in the air that’s holding his helmet in the air and we both laugh when the chin strap flails and hits him in the face. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”
“But.” I hold a finger up. “You can’t go past the complex or off the sidewalk. You can’t go in anyone’s apartment. You can’t—”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Mom will have my ass if she—”
“Quit being an old man.” He waves a hand at me as he opens the front door.
“Whatever. Leave the door open.”
“’Kay,” he says as I look back to my screen. “Holden?”
“Mmm?” When he doesn’t speak, I look up to see him standing in the open doorway looking at me, his grin wide and eyes bright.
“Thanks.”
I just nod as he stands on the porch buckling his helmet on and then rides his board down the walkway. I have one brief moment of hesitancy, but … a glance at the clock tells me I need to get my ass in gear.
Mase will be fine.
I get lost in trying to grind out my paper, getting up every five or ten minutes to check on my brother when I can’t hear the click of his board’s wheels going over the cracks in the sidewalk.
I’m making good time and am just starting my conclusion when I hear the screech of brakes, followed shortly thereafter by the squeal of tires. Those sounds are nothing new in this neighborhood—the end of a drug deal, someone taking off after doing something they shouldn’t be doing—but it’s nothing I want Mason near. I’m out of my seat in seconds and jogging to the front door.
