T he emailed announcement of an emergency meeting came at 6:14 a.m., addressed to all board members. When Tamara Price walked into Hildon’s principal board room, six minutes before the meeting’s scheduled start time of 10:30, the place was already crowded with gray-haired, balding, suited men, burning caffeine to stay on their feet.
Tamara found a narrow gap between Tom Hall and Nick Fields—two members who held a combined four percent ownership share of Hildon. The men whispered to each other. Sounded like they had to cancel an early tee time in Miami to fly down.
Across the room, in front of windows overlooking the Atlantic, Arlen Burkhart joked with the men gathered near him. They hung on his every word. Having him there turned out to be better timing than Tamara had anticipated, because even in times of crisis, Mr. Burkhart radiated strength and confidence into the room. Given the news about to hit them—news Tamara Price was already clued into—Hildon needed every ray of confidence they could find.
Burkhart was an asset. He’d been ranked among Forbes’ top business minds for years, and it was clear why.
The doors on the opposite end of the room opened. Rachel Little marched in, flanked by her assistant, Grace, clutching a stack of papers close to her chest. Everyone went quiet. All eyes turned to Rachel, who now stood at the head of the long, glass table, with her hands planted on it, her head bowed.
“Gentlemen, I know rumors are already starting to fly, so I won’t waste your time with a preamble. One of our contractors has been murdered, and a Hildon employee is suspected of having done it.”
A scandalized murmur bubbled through the room. Even these old masters of the universe chittered like a barbershop parlor.
“Order,” Rachel said. “Order, please. I didn’t call this meeting to gossip.”
They didn’t listen well. The talk turned to groans and mutterings about earning calls, derailed stock buybacks, and bank executives knocking on the door. Until one man’s voice cut above the rest.
“Who was killed?” Mr. Burkhart asked in a way that didn’t suggest he was worried, more than he was running numbers through his head. “And by whom?”
Rachel straightened up at the end of the table, one hand holding onto the other’s fist. She didn’t want to say it but holding too much back from the men in this room would send Hildon into financial freefall.
“An employee named Gabriela Ramos is suspected of murdering a long-time contractor,” she said, clearing her throat to give her a moment to gauge the room. “Dr. James Markel.”
The room almost burst at the seams.
“Jesus!” Tom Hall called out from Tamara’s left. “It’s actually true!”
Dr. Markel was known to most of the men in the room. Their outburst was not because the doctor was a top mind in his field; they only worried about the loss of his productivity and Hildon’s potentially tarnished reputation affecting their bottom line.
Rachel waved her hands and said something at the front of the room, lost in all the noise.
“The police found—” Rachel shouted, her body pushing to get the words above the rest. “The police visited Dr. Markel’s home—and I shouldn’t have to say this, but this information is privileged and doesn’t leave this room—they found a car at the scene yesterday, registered to Gabriela Ramos. I’m told by a contact that they’ll have her in custody by lunch time.”
“She was at his house?” a man shouted.
“Why would she kill him?” Jack Tremble, a round, red-faced Midwesterner, who kept a hideaway from his wife and teenage daughters on a private cay near St. Maarten, asked.
“Once the police talk to her, they’ll find out.”
“Are we sure he didn’t leak internal documents?” somebody shouted. “Didn’t he try to do that once before?”
The tenor in the room was approaching unhinged. The men were acting as if they were ready to start gnawing each other’s windpipes if it got any worse.
“There’s no sign that Dr. Markel’s murder is connected to his past behavior,” Rachel responded. “But if he slipped out anything damaging, we’ll know, and we’ll sue his estate for breach of contract.”
Reminding them of the NDA Markel signed didn’t seem to ease any minds. A non-disclosure agreement only gave Hildon recourse once the cat was out of the bag. It couldn’t physically prevent someone talking, though Dr. Markel wouldn’t physically speak to anyone else now.
“I’m not losing my shirt over this!” someone shouted.
The meeting was almost beyond salvaging. Tamara saw panic gathering behind members’ eyes, calculating acceptable losses, which vacation house to sell first, and which mistress to dump if Hildon went under. Thank God the board room was on the second floor, or these panicky babies might try opening a window and taking the short way out.
“Sit down and shut up!” Rachel screamed back. Her tone was like that of a lioness chasing a pesky male off a gazelle carcass. “Nobody’s losing their shirt. Nobody’s even going to lose their lunch money. Markel is dead . And dead men don’t talk.” Her eyes stalked the room, daring challengers to step up.
“I don’t know about some of you, but I’m not going to chicken out because a squealer like Markel is dead. Good riddance.” She mimed clapping dirt off her hands. “We need to keep our eyes on the prize, gentlemen. We need to look forward. We should be concerned about Gabriela Ramos. She’s twenty-eight, and she’s been an employee here for six years. Whether he told her anything or not, we need to remind her that Hildon is the hand that feeds her. Give her a reason to stay in line.”
No one said anything as Rachel looked through the room, meeting eyes. Goosebumps prickled on Tamara’s neck when she looked her way.
“That’s a sound strategy, Ms. Little,” Arlen Burkhart spoke up. “Remind your employee that a loyal hand is repaid in kind. But the girl is out of hand—she’s being held by the state. How, then, do we reward her virtue?”
Rachel nodded at Tamara. Her signal to step up.
“Mr. Burkhart, she worked under me,” Tamara said. “Gabriela Ramos has a sick daughter. The cost of her medical care is an extreme burden. Frankly, she needs money. We’ll take care of that and get her daughter the best care she could ever ask for. And, more directly to Ms. Ramos’s current problem, we can hire the best defense team money can buy. With Dr. Markel gone, I suggest we send Ms. Ramos a bouquet to show her our appreciation.”
That got a few laughs from the room. Neckties and three-piece suits loosened up. Red faces returned a more natural color, and the men exchanged congratulatory glances, as if Tamara’s ideas had spilled from their mouths.
“We will handle this, gentlemen,” Rachel said. “Give it time. I’ve seen Hildon through eight of its most profitable years, and I promise, despite my planned exit, I will lay the groundwork for eight more.” Rachel looked directly at Tamara, then dismissed the room with a quick nod. The board members began filtering toward the exit, their delicate nerves soothed.
“And gentlemen,” Rachel’s voice had shed every trace of fury. “We do not talk about any of this outside this room. Not Markel’s death, not Gabriela Ramos, and certainly not the doctor’s NDA. If I see an article citing anonymous sources in The Wall Street Journal this week, I will find out who leaked, and I’ll do everything in my power to ensure your grandchildren are left picking scraps from a gutter by the time they graduate high school.”
A tickle spread across Tamara’s stomach. She couldn’t stop herself from smiling while she watched those miserable old men turn their backs, trying hard not to react. They’d practically left their balls in Rachel Little’s desk drawer.
Except one. An amused look played in Arlen Burkhart’s eyes. He cracked a smile at Tamara. She returned the gesture.
Back in her office, Tamara sank into the couch opposite her desk, gin and tonic in her hand. Her neck went limp, her head on the back of the couch. Her brain replayed the highlights of the meeting as she sipped her drink and watched clouds roll through the Puerto Rican sky.
There was a knock at her door. She hopped up, went to her desk, and pushed the intercom button.
“Collin,” she said to her secretary, “why didn’t you buzz me?”
“Sorry, Ms. Price,” he said. “Mr. Burkhart knocked before I had the chance.”
Rachel looked at her door, seeing two narrow shadows through the gap at the bottom. Her pulse quickened in her belly. She stashed the drink in a desk drawer, swiped down her hair, jerked the collar of her blouse, and, snapping her shoulders back and her chin up, went for the door.
“Mr. Burkhart? What a pleasant surprise.”
He returned her smile with one of his own. God, his teeth were flawless. The first step he took into her office felt like the star quarterback strutting into his girlfriend’s bedroom after a homecoming victory. His perfectly trimmed black hair shone under the crystalline light coming from the windows behind her.
“I hope I’m not imposing,” he said, as if she’d want to turn him away. The man was a power player. The closer she got to him, the better for her career.
“I would never be bothered by you. How can I help?”
For a moment, he stopped and eyeballed the bottle of gin sitting on the table in the corner. She’d forgotten to put it away.
“We’ve all had a morning, haven’t we?” he asked. “Rachel Little seemed especially fired up.”
“I don’t normally indulge during work hours.”
He laughed. “You should, dear. After what’s happened, the next few days are going to be hell. You’re going to need something stronger than gin.”
Arlen closed the door behind him and hooked a left for her couch. Then, he bent forward, opened the small door beneath the corner table, and took out a glass for himself.
“You don’t terribly mind if I have a sip, do you?” He motioned toward the bottle.
“Of course not, Mr. Burkhart.” Tamara slid behind her desk, then brought her glass out of the drawer, marched over to the table, and grabbed the bottle.
Standing in front of him, she held it at her waist while she worked the cap off. A bemused smile crossed his lips. His eyes danced over the pearl silk blouse covering her chest, then down to her merlot skirt, which clutched tightly to her wine-bottle hips. She felt the heat of his eyes slipping southward, skimming across the skin above her Louboutin pumps.
He was welcome to stare—she worked for this body seven days a week, and it wasn’t all for her health. Power was power, however given, however taken, and the power her body gave her over some men and women was as effective as the power granted her by diplomas and C-suite titles.
When she took his glass from him, she let his fingertips caress the back of her hand. Skin-to-skin contact, whether a handshake, knuckles to a jaw, or something much more intimate, was a powerful driver of human emotion. She wanted him imprinted by her touch, her smell, her emotions. Keeping her hand wrapped in his, she poured the gin into his glass slowly, commanding his eyes to linger on her.
A corner of his mouth turned upward, and beneath his lips, he licked his teeth.
“Did you come here for a quick drink?” She took her hand out of his, then stepped back.
He laughed, then drank.
“Mmm.” He held the glass up and looked through it, at Tamara. “I didn’t think it was possible to find such a bold, full-bodied drink down here. I take pity on the folks who’ve had this under their nose the whole time. These people don’t know what they’re missing.”
“The gin doesn’t come out for just anyone. Only for the people I think deserve a taste.”
“I’m humbled to be held among an elite few,” he said with a roguish grin. He leaned back against the couch and took another sip. “I have to come clean with you, Tamara—I’m not here for the drinks. Truth is, I’ve been wanting to meet you for some time, ever since I read about this intelligent, ambitious girl from Atlanta, I knew she was something special. When I saw your picture, I knew you’d be unstoppable. And now, you’re next in line when Rachel is gone. You’re an extremely impressive woman.”
“I appreciate the compliments, Mr. Burkhart.” She grabbed the gin and refilled his glass.
“They’re meant sincerely, I assure you. But my reading habits aren’t what I came here to talk to you about either.” He wafted the glass under his nose before setting the drink on the table and straightening up.
“I don’t know what’s got Rachel Little wound so tight, but I can tell Hildon has got a hell of a scandal waiting in the wings. Something that’ll bring on a changing of the guard as soon as it goes public—and despite any threats, you can rest assured that any juicy little secret will squirm its way out into the wild eventually.”
Tamara shrugged. “Ms. Little runs a tight ship. I will too.”
“Darling, I’ve been in business long enough to know that only dead men keep secrets. Markel might not talk anymore, but there simply isn’t a person in the world who can convince me he hadn’t talked before his untimely death. Which is why I want to know your thoughts on an insurance policy, of sorts.”
Arlen’s eyes settled on her. Was he testing her, or was he being genuine? To his credit, he did have a considerable sum tied up in Hildon. Still, Tamara had learned never to do anything for free.
“I think I owe Ms. Little some amount of loyalty,” Tamara said.
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to question your loyalties. I meant what I said back in that boardroom. But are you for the name on the back of the jersey or the one on the front?”
Tamara knitted her eyebrows. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Be loyal to Hildon, not Rachel. She’ll be gone soon, and you’ll be captain of this ship.”
That’s what this was about. He was offering advice—he wanted to get in Tamara’s good graces early. She kept her face blank.
“Rachel’s making a mistake if she thinks she can play this cleanly. A good leader knows when it’s time to fight dirty. Word’s already out there. Yesterday it was Markel, tomorrow it might be someone else. You gotta watch out for your flock, understand?”
His point couldn’t be argued. Months ago, Tamara knew this thing with Markel might sink the entire company if Rachel didn’t play it right.
“I appreciate the advice, Arlen.”
Burkhart rose, walked toward the door, then stopped in front of her desk. He picked up the lone picture frame sitting there and cut a bemused smile at the photo of Tamara and her niece, who everyone said resembled her more than her brother, Andre. Burkhart stared at the picture, seeming to get lost in it.
He grimaced at the photo before returning it to her desk. Even then, he seemed to dote on it until he turned his back.
“One more thing, Tamara,” he said, walking toward the door. “I suggest you pay a visit to Gabriela Ramos. See how she’s holding up.”