Her Silver Fox Page 12

  With each step, the weight of his emotions pitched and rolled until Patrick decided he had to have more sense than to allow one woman to alter his existence so radically. Resentment souring his mood, he remained staunchly silent blaming Shoshana Haufman for upended his life.

  Tyson materialized out of nowhere. “All done?” he asked, his blue gaze bouncing between them.

  Shoshana handed over Patrick’s client card. “Measurements, style and color are all there.”

  “Awe-sum,” Tyson drawled, accenting the ‘um. “I’ll pass this to Flo so she can start your pattern. Should I refresh the tea room before your next appointment?”

  Patrick noted the way she stiffened and decided to have some fun for her sake.

  “Probably a safe bet. It got sort of stuffy.”

  Her brown eyes were studious without expression. “Maybe air it out a bit.”

  “I’ll brew some coffee,” her assistant said with a twinkle in his eye. “Maxwell House always has a way of making everything smell fresh.”

  Like the way he appeared, her assistant vanished, leaving them alone. Patrick stepped closer. “Can I expect your call?”

  “Of course,” she dipped her head and twirled her ponytail around her hand, reminding him of a shy teenager. For some reason, the gesture charmed him all the way to his balls. “You should have your preliminary fitting in about two weeks.”

  He wasn’t talking solely about suits, and he aimed to let her know it. “I—”

  Behind him, the doorbell jingled. “Ah…Mr. Peralta,” she exclaimed.

  He watched her shake the other man’s hand and a jolt of possessiveness surged through him. Outside his depths he stood there, watching her animated back and forth with a geriatric man he wanted to send to an early grave.

  Chuckling, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m freakin’ jealous of an octogenarian.”

  “Excuse me, what did you say?”

  Patrick blinked down at her. “I better get going.”

  “Oh, okay. Tyson will call you,” she said to him before turning back to her other client.

  Once again, she dismissed him.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A quarter past seven, Patrick entered his office. The day didn’t officially begin until nine, but he’d rather be productive than lying in bed staring at the ceiling or checking his cell phone every five minutes.

  Women. Correction one woman proved to be an antagonizing anomaly and in turn a baffling distraction.

  In spite of their sizzling connection, she hadn’t come begging for more.

  No call.

  No innuendo-filled text.

  Nothing.

  Normally, Patrick wouldn’t have minded her disappearing act. He was a pro at it. No fading away for him. No maintaining infrequent and distant communication for a few weeks before finally dropping off the face of the earth. Under any other circumstances, this treatment would’ve have been a welcome respite from always playing the villain.

  Unfortunately, this time proved to be different. Somehow, someway, Shoshana Haufman had crawled under his skin. So much so, he didn’t recognize himself. Where he rarely thought about a woman, he thought about her constantly, wondered what she was doing and with whom.

  Patrick tossed the New York Times on his desk before rounding it. With jerky movements, he removed his suit jacket, draped it over the back of his chair, and then took his seat. At his right elbow lay three remote controls. He used them to power up the three forty-eight inch flat screens on the opposite wall. Pre-programmed with the volume turned down, each would keep him abreast of the New York Stock Exchange, the Nikkei and Euronext.

  He didn’t see any of it. Once again, she nagged at his psyche. Involuntarily, his eyes loped to his cell phone. He could keep it professional, plead the excuse of uncertainty or even regret regarding his suit. He’d pour on the charm. Give her an opening to broach their seeing each other again. He would happily concede. And before the day ended, he’d have her sweet, mocha thighs wrapped around him.

  Or maybe he should plead temporary insanity. A derisive smile twisted his lips. That had to explain the particular brand of madness riding his back. Swiveling in his high back chair, he stared morosely at New York City’s skyline. Almost immediately, his eyes sought out the orange glow of HAUFMAN’S neon sign.

  Damn! Why couldn’t he keep his mind off a woman who treated him like a footnote?

  Frowning, Patrick noted the time on his Cartier. Only eight o’clock, and far too early for rye whiskey. If he couldn’t glut his present problem with a stiff drink, he needed to get his head in the game. By his own measure, he’d wasted enough time on over analyzing a woman’s motives or lack thereof. During the past week, his desk had become a chaotic testament to just that.

  His gaze flickered over the growing piles of manila folders covering his desk, particularly his on-the-fence pile or what he dubbed R.W.’s dirty work. At the top still lay the Burke account. Without thinking, Patrick chucked the portfolio in the trash can. If R.W. wanted to invest in them, he’d have to assign it to another one of his lackeys or do it himself.

  Patrick stared at the lip of the garbage can. What had come over him? When did protecting the environment trump the almighty dollar?

  “Christ!” he raked his fingers through his hair. “That blasted woman has me so messed up in the head, I don’t recognize myself.”

  A week ago, he didn’t possess any scruples. He had no problem with falling in line with R.W. Everything he knew about business and making money he owed to the Morrissey Group’s founder.

  He could’ve reached into the garbage can to retrieve the file, but he didn’t. He was tired of cow toeing to R.W. for a simple pat on the head and end of the year bonus.

  In a mood to suddenly purge, he thumbed the next folder open. Southern India Ltd., one of India’s leading garment manufacturers and exporters. Over the past year, they’d ardently campaigned for funds to build another factory in Bengaluru. The last one burned to the ground killing fifteen workers. In the interim, SAL greased palms and contributed to enough political campaigns to obtain the necessary building permits to construct another building. Only thing, they’d come up short with the cash. Surprisingly, quite a few investors had ethics, leaving SAL up a river without a paddle and unable to get their project off the ground. Smelling blood in the water, R.W. set Patrick on them.

  Extremely vulnerable, SAL’s representatives crumbled during open negotiations, quickly agreeing to R.W.’s desire to reap twenty-five percent of the company’s annual profits. They’d come to terms months ago with SAL eager to ink the deal. He’d given the go ahead for their attorney’s to draft a contract. His ticket to Delhi lay in his desk drawer.

  Three weeks ago something changed. He started finding something about the deal not to his liking. They’d re-negotiated twice and each time they’d conceded to his demands which always raised red flags. Sure they promised to build the factory to code and ensure a safe work environment but Patrick had the feeling they’d shake his hand with one, while they held the other behind their back with their fingers crossed. No doubt, they’d find some way to recoup the considerable loss of profits through their factory workers salaries.

  Patrick funneled the numbers through his brain. The annual commission alone would pay off his summer cottage on Shelter Island. And yet, this deal, like the Burke venture, still proved unsavory.

  “Come on, man get it together,” he coaxed, feeling his livelihood slipping through his fingers. Slave wages and facilitating a toxic empire had never been an issue for him. Over the years, he’d turned a blind eye to EPA violations, federal securities and exchange investigations and even an FBI indictment. None of them kept him from bankrolling an endeavor which guaranteed a windfall for the Morrissey group.

  Releasing a disgruntled groan, he sat back. Shoshana Haufman was proving to be career suicide. As of late, his conscience superseded greed. Making money melted away to thoughts of what would she think? Would her opinion of
him change if she got wind of his nefarious schemes to capitalize on a business’s weaknesses, his mercenary approach to closing the deal?

  “Damn, she’s done a number on me.” Patrick cast his gaze to the crystal whiskey decanter resting on the butler service. A stiff drink for breakfast now held an unusual appeal because this was the first time he cared for a woman’s opinion.

  Patrick burst from his seat. That wasn’t exactly the truth. Before his mother had abandoned them, he’d spent his every waking moment seeking her approval. It had all been for naught because Bonnie Barb was incapable of loving no one but herself.

  He had a tumbler in his hand filled with liquor before he could second-guess the impulse. “Never waste a good whiskey.” He glared at the golden brown grain a second longer, and then tossed it back.

  “Oh, Mr. Kelly! I had no clue you were here.” Dressed in a gray cardigan and matching skirt, Vanessa stood in the doorway. At least some things hadn’t changed.

  “Came in early.” Tired of lying in bed daydreaming about some woman.

  “Needed to take care of things.” But didn’t because I’m still fawning over the same woman.

  “You’re unusually early,” she murmured. “Do you need to me start coming back in at eight?”

  Patrick frowned. He’d been such a bastard, he demanded she come in just as early. If he needed her assistance, he wanted her available rather than having to wait until the office opened.

  “Remember it’s Patrick now. And no I don’t need you any earlier than nine.”

  “Sorry…ah, Patrick,” She brushed a lock behind her ear, “It’s going to take some getting used to.”

  “Like getting used to your new hours,” he said, stalking back to his desk.

  “No problem doing that. The extra hour in the morning is a blessing, thank you.” She walked over and sat down across from him. “Today’s pretty busy,” she remarked as her eyes scanned her daily planner where she kept every detail of his schedule. In sync, Patrick pulled out his Blackberry.

  “Of course, there’s the managerial meeting at ten, followed by lunch with Keith and Pat from finance.” She rifled through a couple of papers. “Here’s another copy of the prospectus on The Great ManScape.”

  “What do you think: gold mine or chasing airplanes?”

  Equally startled by his question, Patrick met her wide eye gaze with one of his own.

  “I-I-I’m not sure I’m the one to ask.”

  Patrick tapped his index finger against his lips, curtailing a smile. She looked fairly epileptic. Not surprising considering he’d never asked her opinion about anything just dictated his demands.

  Bastard.

  “If I remember correctly, you have an associate degree in business administration.”

  “But that was so long ago.”

  Swatting at her reticence, Patrick waved his hand. “Stop making excuses, and devaluing your right to a professional opinion.”

  “The Great Manscape seems to be—”

  “—never use cautious language when you’re pitching.”

  She cleared her throat. “The Great Manscape is an ideal product for the busy yet hip male.”

  “—the larger the demographic the better.”

  “The Great Manscape is an ideal product for the busy male who hates to shop. They provide convenience and foster brand loyalty. Also, their biannual discover product keeps the subscription fresh and it’s great for consumers looking to try something new free of risk and without all the footwork.”

  Impressed, Patrick rested his elbows on the desk. “I don’t think I could’ve come with a better pitch. Why haven’t you tried for a promotion?”

  She dropped her gaze to her hands. “I breached the subject a few years back when an assistant was needed in Acquisitions. You refused to sign transfer paperwork because you needed me as your secretary.”

  Dick

  “Sorry about that…I can be rather self-centered.”

  She responded with a timid smile. It didn’t ease the stab of self-reproach.

  He couldn’t do a damn thing about his past. He could work on his present.

  “Clear your schedule for the rest of the day.” All these years he’d bogarted her career to ensure she’d always be at his beck and call.

  “W-why,” she stuttered.

  “I want you to spend the day shadowing me.”

  Bastard

  “Are you sure?” In her excitement, she paused to lick her lips. “I-I mean you’ve never even afforded time to an intern. You said you didn’t have time to—”

  “—hold anyone’s hand.”

  Dick

  “That was a…different me. Let’s say I’ve decided to turn over a new leaf. Besides, I won’t be holding your hand. I’m very confident you can hold your own.”

  As she stood, he sensed something come over her. Self-confidence? A sense of self-worth? Maybe both. Whatever it was caused her to meet his gaze and throw back her shoulders.

  “Meet me at the elevators at eleven thirty,” he said, as she backpedaled toward the door.

  Smiling, she said, “Thank you, Patrick.”

  Maybe there was something to this not being a bastard thing.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  With some help from the legal department, Patrick pushed through the managerial meeting. All the hot air cut short by a briefing on the Securities and Exchange Commission’s new securities-based crowdfunding rules. The new investment structure couldn’t be applied by the firm. It beefed up the competition for the next big thing. Now their competition would include every Tom, Dick, and Harry off the street, not just a SEC accredited company. In layman terms, the application of the amended rule was now a game changer. Of course, it wouldn’t affect him. More players in the game wouldn’t change his. They only made it more interesting.

  Beginning his day on a high note, Patrick met his lunch party in a damn good mood. So good, he wasn’t too put out finding Keith Bertram and Marisol Peralta already seated, drinks sweating at their elbows while perusing the menu. Priding himself on always being first, this would have put him in a foul humor. Today, he didn’t mind so much.

  “You haven’t ordered have you?” he asked, pulling out Vanessa’s chair then his own.

  Marisol, a conservative brunette with a penchant for hairline-threatening buns and ultra-conservative suits, looked up from her menu. “We assumed you would be running late.”

  Patrick took her sarcasm in stride. Finance had no love for Acquisitions and the feeling was mutual.

  “Par for the course for acquisitions,” Keith added his grin a flash of white against his smooth, dark skin. “Now that I remember, you’ve always been unusually punctual, Kelly.”

  A master at reading people, Patrick sensed an “and you were a dick when others didn’t quite measure up” in the other man’s inflection.

  Marisol’s eyes darted to Vanessa. “You’re joining us?” she asked, her tone bordering on incredulous. As if the two of them together outside the office would’ve never happened in a million years. Two weeks ago that would’ve been true.

  Dick.

  “Why do you think she’s here?”

  “To carry your portfolio, maybe your cell or something equally demeaning and beneath her qualifications,” she quipped then softened her sarcasm with a barracuda grin. As he sat back, Patrick returned it with equal measure.

  “Good ol’ Marisol,” he rolled ol’ over his tongue for a couple of seconds, “You never did have a filter.”

  “Not when it comes to Acquisitions and you guys’ overt sexism. I’ve been waiting for a woman to join your ranks for over a decade.”

  “And you’ve been very vocal about it.”

  “And I’ll continue to be until something changes.”

  “I’m shadowing, Patrick, today,” Vanessa interceded.

  “I’m expanding her role from just a clerical one,” he expounded, earning himself a surprised clown face from Susan B. Anthony. “If Vanessa rolls with the punches, stay
s quick on her feet, which I’m sure she will, she’ll make associate before the years out.”

  In the face of his progressive machinations, Marisol remained staunchly pragmatic, “I’ll believe it when you announce her promotion at the staff meeting.” Abandoning her soapbox, she reached into a briefcase by her feet. “I brought you a copy of the financial prospectus you requested. I’ll have to admit the deal’s pretty impressive—”

  “How about we order first?”

  She and Keith exchanged a look. “You didn’t double up meetings?”

  Patrick smiled. He might be punctual but he rarely ate with any of the support staff or what he deemed slumming. He’d meet them in a restaurant, slurp on a scotch while they ran the numbers, cautioned him about the risks and underestimated the profits. After getting what he wanted he was off to the ‘next meeting’.

  “Not today, I’m starving,” he reached for a menu, “Plus, numbers and an empty stomach don’t mix. Gives me heartburn.”

  Marisol’s gaze traveled over him. “Who are you, and what have you done with Patrick Kelly’s soul?”

  “Your afternoon appointment’s in twenty minutes.”

  Half expecting to be bored out of his mind by a bunch of number crunchers, he’d lost complete track of the time. Flummoxed, Patrick glanced at his Cartier. Where did the time go? Even more novel, he regretted the end of their time together. For the first time in a very long time, he’d spent the afternoon with people unconcerned with one-upping the next.

  Sure, he continued to verbally spar with Marisol, the resident social justice warrior. Still, he preferred that over listening to some windbag discussing the merit of their greenkeeper or bragging about their overpriced weekend rental in the Hamptons.

  While Vanessa gathered up her things, he slowly rose to his feet.

  “Good luck,” Marisol offered.

  “I don’t live my life depending on luck. I make things happen.” He might come off as cocky but he wasn’t going to start pretending now that some uncontrollable force influenced his success. Whatever he had, he’d hustled for it. He wouldn’t have made it out of Boston’s Mattapan neighborhood and into a million dollar apartment in Soho without being good at the game. He wanted something he made it happen.