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‘Have you and Cain rearranged my dairy for this week?’
Now she’s turning pink, and this time John definitely colours. The pair of them are looking at me as if I’ve just caught them snogging behind the bleeding bike sheds.
‘Yes,’ she blurts, her lips returning to a zipped-up line almost immediately.
‘And didn’t you think to check it with me first?’
‘Well, I... It’s... I... It’s important...’
‘Very important,’ John adds for her.
I’m a simmering pot of rage, but I know it’s not them I should be angry at. No, it’s Cain. And when I get my hands on him I’ll make sure he knows never to pull such a stunt again.
But at least he’s not running...
No, he’s not—he’s asking me to come to him. For business. But still...
And if I’m honest, it’s not all rage that has my body overheating.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I AM NERVOUS. More nervous than I can ever remember. I wasn’t even this nervous when I played in the big football matches at school, when I took my driving test—hell, at my first corporate job interview without the family name to help me.
In fact what I felt then was excitement—overwhelming excitement. Because I knew I was going to succeed. I was going to get what it was I had my heart set on.
Now I have no clue.
The biggest gamble of my life and I have no idea which way it’s going to go.
Lexi is either going to kill me, and go to great lengths to make me suffer while she’s at it, or she’ll make me the happiest man alive.
I cast my eye over the room one last time. The penthouse suite is the finest New York has to offer, both inside and out. The towering view over Central Park beyond the expanse of glass—beautiful by day, atmospheric by night—will soon be cast in the soft glow of the setting sun. Perfect. I hope.
The scene is set and this time I won’t get it wrong.
I can’t.
* * *
By the time I’m Stateside I’m not just a simmering pot of rage. I’m bubbling over and steaming.
I’m angry that I’ve had no chance to prepare for this meeting, that I don’t even know who the investor is—least of all why they’re so important.
John and Janice would give nothing else away. They just insisted on me coming, showing the kind of fear that would make you think their jobs were at stake. And Cain didn’t respond to a single email or phone call.
I’m angry that he’s wasted good company money on first-class plane tickets—an expense too far, in my book—and then topped it off with a private chauffeur-driven car to get me from the airport to this place. Which brings me to another reason why I’m fuming. The hotel is ridiculously OTT. Every stretch of glass, gold and perfectly polished wood floor tells me that those plane tickets were a mere drop in the ocean when compared to my accommodation fees.
But more than all that I’m angry that he hasn’t even shown his face yet. Not even another email to explain the purpose of this visit in detail, or a Hey, no hard feelings, right? Work is work... message.
I would have taken that. I would have taken any personal contact over the last three weeks in preference to this.
‘Here you go, Ms O’Connor,’ the receptionist says to me, her smile perfectly polite. ‘Andrew will take you to your room.’
‘I can take my—’
‘Ma’am.’ Andrew is beside me, one hand already on my suitcase, the other gesturing towards the grand lifts.
I feel my cheeks colour, as if my mental tantrum has been outed, and I force a smile through my teeth as I fall into step.
