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Still in school…and a girl.
Nicolo was sure that “tradition,” to James Black, meant handing the reins of the company to an heir, not an heiress. Black had never made a secret of his feelings about women in business.
And that was probably the one thing the two men could agree on, Nicolo mused as he stepped from the shower. It was what he would build his argument on, Monday morning.
Women were too emotional. They were unpredictable and undisciplined. They did well as assistants, even, on occasion, as heads of departments, but as ultimate decision-makers?
Not until science figured out a way women could overcome the dizzying up-and-down ride of their hormones.
It wasn’t their fault—it was simply a fact of life.
And that, Nicolo thought as he dressed in gray flannel trousers, a black cashmere turtleneck and mocs, was his ace in the hole.
Nicolo was the only investor who could afford the indulgence of buying SCB privately. That meant that Black had nowhere to turn except to him, unless he wanted to sell his venerable institution to one of the giant conglomerates hungering for it, then live long enough to see it disappear within the corporate maw.
He was the old man’s salvation and they both knew it. The moment of truth had come last week when Black’s secretary phoned and said her employer would agree to a brief meeting solely as a courtesy.
“Of course,” Nicolo had said calmly but when he hung up, he’d pumped his fist in victory.
The meeting meant only one thing: the old man had admitted defeat and would sell to him. Oh, he’d undoubtedly make him dance through a couple of hoops first, but how bad could that be?
Nicolo slipped on a leather bomber jacket and shut the door to his suite behind him.
He wouldn’t dance, but he’d move his feet in time to the music. Do just enough to placate the old bastard.
Then Stafford-Coleridge-Black would be his.
Not bad for a boy who’d grown up in not-so-genteel poverty, Nicolo thought, and pressed the button for the elevator.
The rain had stopped, though the skies were gray and soggy.
The doorman flagged a cab.
“Sixty-third off Lexington,” Nicolo told the driver.
He was meeting friends at the Eastside Club. The three of them had agreed, via e-mail yesterday, on the benefits of a quick workout, especially since both Nicolo and Damian had just flown in.
Private planes or not, a man felt his muscles tighten after a seemingly interminable international flight.
Then they’d go somewhere quiet for dinner and catch up on old times. He was looking forward to that. He, Damian and Lucas had known each other forever. For thirteen years, ever since they’d met at a pub just off the Yale campus, three eighteen-year-old kids from three different parts of the world, all of them wondering how in hell they’d survive in this strange country.
Survive? They’d flourished. And formed a tight friendship. They saw each other less frequently now, thanks to their individual business interests, but they were still best pals.
And still single, which was exactly how they all wanted it. In fact, they always began the evening with the same toast.
“Life,” Lucas would say solemnly, “is short.”
“And marriage,” Damian would add even more solemnly, “is forever.”
The last part of the toast was left to Nicolo.
“And freedom,” he’d say dramatically, “freedom, gentlemen, is everything!”
He was smiling as his cab pulled up in front of the Eastside Club. It was housed in what had once been a block of nineteenth-century brownstones that had been gutted, completely made over and combined into one structure.
A very exclusive health club.
The Eastside didn’t advertise. No plaque or sign identified it to passersby. Membership was by invitation only, reserved for those who valued privacy and could afford the steep fees that guaranteed it.
