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“Ah, yes, that. Your father asked me to monitor your accounts. Your spending has gotten out of control.”
“Excuse me?”
He smiles slyly. “Your father’s words. Not mine.”
“My money is my own. Not his. Not yours.”
“I’m sure you see it that way, but a four-hundred thousand dollar donation to some random charity? Surely, Anderson, you must understand why we cannot allow that.”
“Random? It’s the Chamberlain Mansion. How can you call that random? It’s a Boston institution.” That’s the whole point of hosting the auction there. To make this look legit.
“I could have allowed for a smaller donation, understand? But such a large one?” He shakes his head, still smiling that slimy smirk. “I’m afraid that is out of the question.”
Oh, he is fucking loving this. Me, having to come to him for permission to spend my own money? The asshole is eating this up. “You’re being a bit ridiculous, don’t you think?”
“A four-hundred-thousand dollar donation is ridiculous for a man who has never shown the slightest interest in building preservation, Anderson. Did you win one of their auctions or something?”
Yes. “That’s rather small-minded of you. I know a worthy charity when I see it. Don’t need to win an auction to want to help a good cause. I’m surprised you’re not as charitable as I am, considering how hard you’ve worked all your life. I’d think seeing how much work goes into things would make you more altruistic, not less.”
He cocks an eyebrow at me. “Let me guess—there was some pretty girl you wanted to impress with the size of your wallet?”
I am dangerously close to snapping at him. “What I do with my money is my business, Alan. Not yours.”
“It might not be my business, but it is your father’s. I was only following Elliot’s orders. If you want, you can take it up with him.”
Giving me permission to speak to my father? He is weaving his way between us, isn’t he? If Dad does not see the way he’s attempting to control the situation, then I will show him.
Alan tries to maintain a cool exterior, but I see the cracks. The way his hand slowly inches toward his call button. The somehow stiffer position of his shoulders. A tightening wrinkle at his temple. He’s waiting for me to bark at him or attack him some other way. He’s been wanting a confrontation with me for a long time, and this gives him the perfect excuse. To prove I am not CEO material. If I escalate this, I’ll look like the dangerous hothead he’s always told Dad I am.
So, I laugh, and the sound makes him jump a little. “Good talk, Alan.” I leave his office without another word. I should have known better than to argue with Alan. There is someone above him.
-
Chapter 22
ANDERSON
Dad’s office is on the same floor as Alan’s, but on the other side of it. When his secretary—Margaret insists the old school title is her preference—sees me, she smiles the way a grandmother beams at her naughtiest grandchild. But only an idiot would mistake her soft appearance for a soft heart. She chides, “What trouble are you stirring up today, laddie?” Her Irish accent is one of the things about her that makes me smile.
The other is her crochet.
Dad had always told her she could do whatever she wanted at her desk, so long as all of her work was done. I’d almost never seen her work. What I’ve always seen her do is knit. Didn’t matter the time of day, Margaret Hannigan always had those needles in her hands unless she was typing, and I’d only rarely seen her do that. No clue how she got anything done, but after forty years at my father’s and my grandfather’s desks, she was on top of every detail. Margaret was an institution of West and Sons.
“I need to see my father. Is he in?”
Green eyes give me the once over, while her hands are busy at work. “He is. But that doesn’t mean he’s available.”
I smirk and take a breath. She’s not being rude. She’s being purposefully obtuse to remind me of my manners. “Margaret, would you please be a dear and let him know I’d like to see him?”
She giggles and teases, “All you had to do was ask.” Then she shifts in her seat, fingers still flying with her needles. “Mr. West, Anderson is here to see you.”
“Excellent. Send him in.”
Why is he happy about this? That can’t be good. But I keep my smile in place.
She blows a gray curl from falling in front of her eyes. “Go on, love. And don’t stress him. He’s having a time with the accounting department about billable hours again.”
“Thank you, Margaret.” As I pass her, I pause to ask, “How did you page him without moving?”
