cell phone. Had he really just invited Emmy to the DeVeau Ball? And had she really just said yes? His father would have a shit fit the moment they walked in together. You brought Emerson Doyle as your date? Tell me it’s only to make it easier to sign the bill of sale. Blake tugged at his tie as he imagined the conversation. It wasn’t any of his father’s business who he brought to the ball, or why, but that was a lot easier thought than said out loud.
He was doing it because it was the right thing to do. Because the Drake Isle cops were getting nowhere. Because he didn’t want to go to the ball with an Icelandic actress he didn’t know. But mostly, and he couldn’t kid himself about the most important reason, because he wanted to see Emmy again.
Outside, a stiff wind whipped against the building. Thick clouds had moved in since morning. The local weatherman had predicted a heat wave through much of the week, but then again, that guy was wrong just as much as he was right, so who the hell knew?
Should’ve gone into weather reporting as a career, he thought as he balled up his sandwich wrapper and tossed it into the trash. As long as I closed the deal fifty percent of the time, no one would complain.
He checked the time. A half-hour until his meeting with the lawyers to go over yet another acquisition, this one planned for eastern Connecticut. No resistance on this property, a short, vacant block that the owners were more than happy to hand over. Blake stood, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and studied the picture of his great-grandfather that hung on the wall. Jerome Carter posed in front of a long wooden fence, riding crop in hand, a sober expression on his face. He’d grown up on the island but moved to the mainland after dropping out of high school at fifteen. Hadn’t mattered in the least, though. Along with growing the family business, he’d made money racing horses on the side. The Saratoga Springs track had a suite named after him.
“From what I hear, he was quite the ladies’ man,” Linda said from the doorway.
Blake turned. “Really? Doesn’t surprise me.”
A faint smile played over her lips.
“You’ve been here how long?” he asked.
“In your office, sir? About five seconds. I apologize. I thought you heard me knock.”
He cracked a grin. “I meant, how long have you been with Eastefire? Is it thirty years? Or more?”
She folded her hands at her waist. Today’s dark green suit looked identical to last week’s blue one and last month’s black one. Her hair, short and gray, lay flat against her head, and Blake realized he’d never seen it any other color. He had only the vaguest idea how old she really was.
“This will be my forty-third year with the company.”
“Holy shit.”
Her lips pressed together.
“Sorry. Didn’t meant to swear. I just meant that’s a heck of a long time.”
“I started here right out of high school. Your grandfather was kind enough to offer me the job.”
Blake nodded. “I remember visiting his office when I was a kid. On the days I didn’t have school.”
“I remember that as well.”
“Did you think I’d wind up here?” Blake kept his eyes on the painting. He knew he resembled the man in the frame, even more so than some of the other men in his family. Same jawline, same hair color, same intense eyes, same set of the shoulders when he knew someone was watching.
“To be honest, no. I didn’t. I thought your father would have a difficult time wrangling you in.” She chuckled, a sound Blake rarely heard. “You were always a bit of a dark horse.”
“I always felt like one.” Yet somehow he’d ended up here anyway, despite his determination back in college to make his own way, to open a different kind of company, one more devoted to creativity and invention than technology start-ups and software development.
“For what it’s worth, I do still think you’re a bit of a dark horse.” Then, to his utter surprise, she winked and walked out.
Blake’s lips twitched in humor. Dark horse, huh? He kind of liked the image. He had a feeling he’d become anything but in the last few years. Maybe I need to change that. He strode down the hall toward the men’s room. He chose a stall rather than a urinal, needing space and privacy. As he sat there, the outer door opened and closed.
“Nice damn place you got here. I think this shitter’s bigger than my whole apartment.”
Laughter from Nikolas. Blake would recognize the sound anywhere. But he didn’t know the first voice, deep and gravelly and obviously belonging to someone who didn’t work at Eastefire. Both men unzipped, and Blake heard nothing but the sound of pissing for a few seconds.
Then Nikolas spoke. “You’re set for Saturday?”
“Uh huh.”
“Don’t fuck around. I want the good shit.”
Blake frowned. The good shit could refer to anything, though the first thing he thought of was the remnants of cocaine on the table in the conference room. Don’t tell me that asshole has the balls to be dealing in the office. In the middle of the day. Was Nikolas talking to a new client? An old friend?
“When have I fucked around? I’ll get what you asked for.”
“Don’t forget I hooked you up.”
Blake strained to hear the rest of the conversation, but the automatic faucets turned on, and he lost the rest of the men’s words in the splashing of water. He hurried to zip up, but the door opened and closed before he could, and they were gone.
Blake hurried out to the corridor, but Nikolas had vanished. He stuck his head into the break room. “Hey, Linda?”
She looked up from a bowl of soup. “Sir?”
“Was Nikolas just here? With a client?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t see him. Were you looking for him?”
“No, no, it’s fine.” Maybe he’d imagined the strangeness of the conversation. Nikolas and his buddy could’ve been talking about anything. Hookers, stock tips, Italian leather shoes only available on the black market. Just because Blake didn’t like Nikolas didn’t mean he had to read suspicion into every last conversation the guy had.
He put the thoughts from his head. If he caught Nikolas screwing around again, certainly if he found evidence of drugs anywhere in the office, he’d mention something to his father. Plus, it wouldn’t be the worst idea in the world to remind security that visitors were supposed to be screened before they came upstairs. He sat at his desk and pulled out his cell phone.
Trey answered on the first ring. “Hey, man, how’s it going? You take that yoga class like I suggested?”
“Actually, yeah.”
“Good for you. So how’s progress on the Emmy Doyle situation?”
Blake filled him in. “...it’s a little complicated,” he admitted.
“I bet. You want to screw her literally and figuratively, and you’re dancing around every possibility to figure out how to do it. Except if you’re actually successful, you’re both gonna end up with broken hearts.”
Blake stared at his computer screen and didn’t answer. He’d already thought about that. All day long, in fact.
“Wish I could’ve seen you in that class. How does she look in leggings?”
Blake grinned. “Just like you’d think.”
“Good for you, man. Your father know?”
“That I went to a yoga class or that I’m bringing Emmy to the ball? No on both accounts. He’d shit a brick.”
“Ah, so you’re going for the element of surprise. Bold, but possibly wise.”
“Only possibly?”
“When it comes to Emmy, man, you’re never that damn wise, and we both know it.”
“You goin’ to the ball?” Blake asked.
“Open bar and a chance to schmooze and pick up new clients? Of course I’m goin’.”
“Who’re you bringing?” Blake could never keep track of Trey’s women. There hadn’t been a serious girlfriend in his friend’s life as long as he could remember.
“No idea. I got two or three who’d love the invite, but they’re the jealous types who’d hang on me all night.”
Blake laughed. “Well, I can’t help you figure that one out. Good luck. See ya there.” He didn’t think Emmy was a jealous type who’d hang on him all night, unless she’d changed into a different person in the last ten years. Trey disconnected, but Blake sat at his desk with his heart in his throat, a college kid all over again.
What was he doing, bringing Emmy to the ball? Was this the biggest mistake of his career? Possibly. No, probably. Trey was right; he’d never been wise when it came to Emmy. He’d do best to rescind the invite and just finish the deal, cutthroat-style. Yet he couldn’t stop thinking about her no matter how hard he tried. The lilt of her laugh. The furrow in her brow. The building she’d rehabbed. The heartache she’d endured, and the business she’d built from the ground up. The curve of her ass. The color of her hair. The way she felt in his arms.
All in, he thought, as if he were playing the trickiest game of poker. I’m going all in with this hand. It was what his heart was telling him to do. He’d let the chips fall where they might.