Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 63311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
“What idea?”
He went quiet on the line. “Where did I lose you, sir?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose and willed myself to concentrate. “Sorry. Possibly at the beginning. What did you say?”
“Blower wants to keep Deverley Manor, and Lloyd’s hasn’t told him he’s delusional.”
I scoffed. “He’s an officer of the company Mint and Cooperton, not a Cooperton. That’s borderline insane. What’s he thinking?”
“He’s asserting that he’s owed ten million pounds by the trust, and in lieu of payment, he’ll graciously take the property.”
“That sodding, bloody prick,” I grumbled. “Is there any record to support his claim?”
“Blower says he’ll provide it shortly. Assuming it can be confirmed, I have a source that says Lloyd’s will grant the title to him in order to speed things along. They don’t care about property,” Sanjay explained.
“Really? Eleven fucking million pounds, and they don’t care?” I raked my fingers through my hair and paced the length of the windows, the view long forgotten. “No chance. Blower doesn’t think anyone is going to hand over that kind of money or asset. There’s got to be a third firm in the mix.”
“But who? We’ve gone round and round on this for a year.”
“Don’t know, but I know that arse. Blower is talking to someone else. He’s got us on a merry hunt while he’s flirting with a new competitor. Bloody bastard,” I growled. “Find out who it is. Get Julia and her new assistant on the job, and put together a team. Do whatever you must. I want information now.”
“Yes, sir.”
I flopped into my chair and popped an antacid into my mouth, sucked in a deep breath, and counted to a hundred backward before ringing Julia’s line.
She answered immediately. “We’re on it, sir. I just hung up with Sanjay.”
“All right. Good. Carry on and report back.”
“Of course. By the way, The Times left another message this morning and—”
“I’ll talk to them.”
“Oh, I thought you wanted to wait for the deal to close,” she hedged.
“We’ll try a different tactic. Promote our brand and make Mint and Cooperton a side note that we’re patiently and confidently ready to close. A little press might be a good thing.”
“I’ll ring them now.”
I got on with my day in the usual grind of meetings and conference calls, but I welcomed the distraction of an appointment with my tailor later that afternoon just to step away from my desk.
Buzz buzz
I glanced at the new message on my cell.
FYI- The rocks were amazing. You missed out.
I flipped through the accompanying selfies of Raine in front of Stonehenge. Something tells me those rocks aren’t going anywhere. I’ll have another chance.
Good point. What are you doing now? Don’t tell me. I’ll guess. Thinking emoji. Working?
No.
Jacking off at your desk?
No. And rude.
Ten laughing emojis. I give up.
I’m running an errand. Join me? I’ll take you for a pint afterward. I typed the address, slipped my cell into my pocket, then smiled for the first time in hours.
I greeted the salesperson at my Savile Row tailor, Ives and Harris, and declined the offer of tea, informing her that I was expecting a guest.
“Certainly, Mr. Horsham. May I have his or her name, please?”
“Ray-n Edwards.”
She cocked her head curiously. “Pardon?”
I gave a sheepish nod, surprised at my lazy accent. “His name is Raine.”
“Lovely.” She motioned toward the elegant adjoining parlor. “Lawrence is ready for you, sir.”
Ives and Harris was a London institution that had fashioned elegant suits for kings, dukes, and noblemen for two centuries. And now…a gay man from the wrong side of the River Wear.
Mind you, I hadn’t had the guts or money to enter the building till I’d started my own firm and put my first million in the bank. With my rough manner of speech, untidy beard, and the poor fit of my off-the-rack suit, I’d probably looked like a bloke who’d lost a dare. I figured there was a good chance the staff had tossed a coin to see who’d have to shoo the fly away. Lawrence won, and he’d been my personal tailor at Ives and Harris for almost fifteen years now.
Lawrence was a handsome balding black man in his midfifties who spoke with the poshest accent I’d ever heard. His eye contact was on point, his manners were infallible, and he walked with his head held high, his spine straight, and one arm at his back or in his pocket. Lawrence was always friendly yet slightly aloof.
I’d wanted to be just like him. I still did.
He shook my hand politely, asked after my health, my family, and chided me gently for working too hard before wooing me with bolts of herringbone, tweed, and linen.
Was this my mature self’s idea of fun? No, not really. I might wear impeccable three-piece suits, but I was infinitely more at home in joggers and a T-shirt. This was my daytime armor, nothing more.