“Penn Station, please,” I choke out.
Tears sting my eyes and my chest heaves so fast, I can’t get a good breath. Thankfully, the driver puts the cab in drive and gets us the hell out of there.
Indignation eats me up as we wend our way through the congested streets toward Penn. My father ruined my life, too. Mine, and my mother’s. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to let him destroy Nana’s last good years.
My mind is made up. I’m going to visit The Quattuor Group and work out a new deal. I’m going to take charge of my own destiny.
3
NATE
The office is blessedly quiet.Everyone has clocked out and left. Finally.
It’s been one thing after another all day. I’ve barely gotten through the first phase of drafting a finance agenda for next year, which I’m updating thanks to an influx of new investments. I’ve had back-to-back calls and meetings with staff, my partners, and potential clients. It’s been chaos.
On top of all that, I’m working on closing a matchmaking deal with one client in particular—the founder of a cloud computing startup whose very eligible daughter is about to graduate from Stanford—that I hope will smooth over the loss of the Barclay girl, a much-needed coup to make up for the hole in my roster. Unfortunately, the client has been difficult regarding terms. Nothing that I can’t handle, of course. I just need time, and patience.
The latter I seem to have less of these days, and I can’t explain why.
I hear the sound of soft, measured footfalls in thehallway outside. My door is cracked but not enough for me to see who’s out there. Probably an employee who forgot something. Ignoring the distraction, I return to the budget sheet I’m working on and turn up the music on my computer.
“Hello?” a female voice says.
Looking up, I see a long-legged brunette standing in the doorway. She’s beautiful, with high cheekbones, a pair of distractingly plush, wide lips, and big hazel eyes that are pinned on me with a skittish expression. She must be lost. Though she’s dressed in simple head-to-toe black, she reeks of money. The sweater is cashmere, the loafers giving niche Italian handmade craftsmanship.
“The modeling agency is the next building over,” I snap before my brain can really process the whole picture.
“I’m not—this is the office for The Quattuor Group, right? I Googled the address, and the hotel receptionist sent me up to this floor. I’m here to see Nathaniel Windemere?”
She lifts her chin, pushing her shoulders back as I lift my gaze to her again. It takes me another moment to recognize the young woman standing in my door.
Well, I’ll be damned. I’ve seen her photos many times, but those were nothing compared to the vision on my threshold.
“Piper-Lily Barclay,” I say out loud.
“Yes.” A look of relief washes over her face. “I?—”
“Your father’s contract with us has been cancelled, as I’m sure you’re aware. If you’ve come to ask me to return the retainer fee, I’m afraid that’s not on the table. The clause clearly states the terms.”
“No. I didn’t come for that. I was hoping we could work out a new agreement,” she pleads, her eyes searching mine.
I frown. “I can’t help you, Ms. Barclay. Please see yourself out.”
She flinches a little, clearly not expecting the dismissal. “May I have just a few minutes of your time? Please. If you’ll just listen to what I have to say.”
“No.”
Instead of backing down, she steps into my office and closes the door behind her. “I’d like to still be auctioned.”
“Ms. Barclay?—”
My voice trails off as I get a full look at her up close. She’s on the tall side, fit, lean. Athletic. My memory supplies the reason; she’s a dancer. Ballet. I had forgotten that detail. Her legs look a mile long in those tight black leggings and her face is flawless, her fine-boned cheeks tinged pink with emotion. She’s effortlessly elegant, clearly a product of good breeding and a pricy upbringing complete with etiquette or cotillion classes, no doubt.
But she’s also more than the sum of her parts. There’s a magnetic quality to her that I can’t deny. She draws the eye. Maybe it’s her performance background. Maybe it’s just her. Unfortunately, though, it’s not enough to be different when you’re broke.
“I’m serious,” she presses. “I want to be auctioned. There must be some way.”
"Impossible. Our clients have very exacting standards. You no longer qualify." It's a harsh response, laced with the compounding frustration of my day.
