Total pages in book: 235
Estimated words: 224334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1122(@200wpm)___ 897(@250wpm)___ 748(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 224334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1122(@200wpm)___ 897(@250wpm)___ 748(@300wpm)
Odd.
I turn into the lane and hit the fob to open the gates, humming and tapping the wheel, thoughtful. I go to my phone and log in to The Manor’s database, searching for a member and calling the number on his file. “Ward?” Steve says in answer as I crawl through the gates and down the driveway, the sun fighting its way past the dense, lush branches, hitting the ground in peppered, blinding sprays.
I pull the sun visor down. “Yeah, sorry it’s so early.” I can’t say I like this bloke. He’s cocky and self-important and, frankly, despite her being somewhat cool with me—or downright rude—his ex-wife seemed anything but.
“No problem, I just got to the station. You calling about Baxter joining?”
“Wh—” I stop myself from asking. The immigration cop. “No, actually, I’m after a favor,” I say, slowing to a stop and turning off the engine, remaining in my seat.
“Sure thing,” he says, quite sure he can help me. “You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.”
I frown. I’m not scratching his fucking back. If anything, I’m watching it. Sarah mentioned he was a bit loose. “If I give you a registration number, can you get me the owner of the vehicle?”
“Absolutely. Can I ask if there’s a problem? Anything I need to look into?”
“No, just a car I’ve seen a few times hanging around The Manor entrance. Probably just a random, curious someone.” But my gut is telling me otherwise. “I’ll text you the registration.” I get out of my car as Sarah appears at the entrance, looking impatient. It prompts me to glance at my watch. Five past eight. I’m late. But really fucking early too. “Call me when you have something.” I hang up and send the image over to Steve as I walk up the steps and past Sarah. The sound of The Manor in the morning—just staff, no music, glasses and crockery clanging, kitchen appliances buzzing—brings an unexpected smile to my face.
“You’re late,” Sarah says, flanking me. I ignore her, stopping at the round table in the foyer, looking at the elaborate spray of various stems and bursts of color. They’re beautiful, don’t get me wrong, but . . .
“Have these changed for callas,” I say, getting on my way, leaving Sarah behind, no doubt frowning at the stunning bouquet. “Has our meeting arrived?”
“In your office.”
I march on and push my way in, finding a young guy on the couch. He looks like he’s just stepped out of Eton. “All right?” I ask, as he looks up, standing, sweeping his floppy hair off his face. Have I got something wrong? I swore we had a meeting with the toy supplier. This kid looks like he supplies to the local plane watchers. I turn and look at Sarah, who’s caught up behind me.
“This is Niles,” she says, her head tilted, seeing my silent question. “He’s new to the company and has been put in charge of our account.”
So he graduated from college and steps into the role for account manager for one of the most elite sex clubs in the country? The fuck? What the hell did he study? I face him again, taking him in. How? “My father owns the company,” he says, obviously reading my interest. “In case you’re wondering.”
“I was,” I confirm, grabbing a water and lowering to the couch opposite him. “So I’m told your prices have gone through the roof.”
He smiles. “Not through choice or greed, I assure you.” He lowers too, and Sarah joins us, slipping a catalogue onto my lap. I look down.
“Fluff,” she says quietly, reminding me of the alternative.
I roll my eyes. “So, come on . . .?”
“Niles,” he says, and I smile. “Mr. Ward, your club is the most renowned in England. Probably even Great Britain.”
“Compliments will get you nowhere, Niles.”
He laughs lightly. “I’ve done a thorough assessment of the market and the competition.”
“Whose competition?”
“Ours and yours.”
“Oh? But we don’t have any competition, Niles, as you have just pointed out. We are the best.”
“Therefore, you must supply the best. It’s expected, is it not?”
I inwardly scowl. Smart-arse. “It is.”
“I have a proposition for you, Mr. Ward.”
“And that is?”
“We’ve signed an exclusive deal with a new manufacturer out of the Netherlands.” He passes a file across the table. “The quality is second to none, and I mean none.”
I open and browse the collection, really fucking impressed. Definitely no fluff. But . . . “It looks expensive, Niles.”
“It is, I won’t lie. But”—he holds a finger up, eyebrows high—“I would be prepared to sign an exclusive supply deal for The Manor alone, and I’d honor the previous rates plus ten percent.”
“Are you saying you’ll not supply this collection to any other establishment?”
“That is indeed what I’m saying, but of course, they’ll market through other channels.”
Just supply to The Manor? “Why?”