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Kissing her had been bad enough. Challenging her to call the police…
Nicolo shuddered.
How stupid could a man be? He could have ended up with his face spread across Page Six. Not exactly the publicity one wanted before a meeting with the ninety-year-old head of an investment firm that prided itself on decorum and confidentiality.
The rain was coming down harder.
The doorman already had his suitcase. Nicolo picked up his briefcase and walked into the hotel.
His suite was on the forty-third floor, which gave him an excellent view of the park and the skyline beyond it.
When he started looking for a permanent place to live in the city, he’d want a view like this.
Nicolo tossed his raincoat on a chair. If all went well, he’d contact a Realtor after Monday’s meeting.
If? There was no “if” about it. The word wasn’t in his lexicon. He never went after something without making damned sure he knew when, where and how to get it. That approach was a key to his success.
He toed off his shoes, stripped away his clothes and headed for the shower.
He was fully prepared for Monday’s meeting and his long-anticipated buyout of Stafford-Coleridge-Black.
His financial empire was huge, with offices in London, Paris, Singapore, and, of course, Rome.
It was time for Barbieri International to move into the New York market. For that, he wanted something that would be the crown jewel of his corporation.
In the rarefied echelon of private banking, that could only be Stafford-Coleridge-Black, whose client list read like a Who’s Who of American wealth and power.
Only one thing stood in the way: SCB’s chairman, James Black.
“I have no idea what you’d think to discuss with me,” the old man had said when he’d finally agreed to take Nicolo’s phone call.
“I’ve heard rumors,” Nicolo had answered carefully, “that you are considering a change.”
“You mean,” Black had said bluntly, “you’ve heard that I’m going to die soon. Well, I assure you, sir, I am not.”
“What I have heard,” Nicolo had said, “is that a man of your good judgment believes in planning ahead.”
Black had made a sound that might have been a laugh.
“Touché, Signore Barbieri. But I assure you, any changes I might make would be of no interest to you. We are family owned and have been for more than two hundred years. The bank has been passed from one generation to another.” A brief, barely perceptible pause. “But I wouldn’t expect you to understand the importance of that.”
Nicolo had thought how good it was that they were not face-to-face. Even so, he had to work hard to control his temper. Black was an old man but he was in full command of his faculties. What he’d said had to be a deliberate, if thinly veiled, insult.
This high up the ladder, the international financial community was like an exclusive club.
People knew things about each other and what Black knew was that Nicolo’s wealth and stature, despite his title, had not come from legacy and inheritance but had been solely self-created.
As far as the James Blacks of this world were concerned, that was not a desirable image.
Probably not desirable as far as Fifth Avenue honey-blondes were concerned, either, Nicolo mused, and wondered where in hell that thought had come from?
What mattered, all that mattered this weekend, was his business with Black. It had mattered enough during that phone call to keep his tone neutral when he responded to the flinty old bastard’s gibe.
“On the contrary,” Nicolo had said. “I do understand. Completely. I believe in maintaining tradition.” He’d paused, weighing each word. “I also believe you would do your institution a disservice if you refuse to hear what I have to say.”
He’d gambled that Black would bite. Not that it was all that much of a gamble, considering what Nicolo knew.
SCB had, indeed, always been family-owned and operated. The problem was that the old man was facing his ninetieth birthday and his sole heir was a grandchild still in school.
