“I’m only twenty-eight.”
“The perfect age. Your father married when he was twenty-eight, as did your grandfather. You’re out of school, well established. You’ll be a prize to whatever lucky woman you choose.”
“Aunt Beatrice, I’m not ready to——”
“You will marry within the year,” she said, her serious tone like a royal decree he didn’t dare contradict. “On your one-year wedding anniversary, as a gift I will give you my shares of ANS stock and name you my sole beneficiary. Then you can truly breathe easy knowing your network is secure, and I can know this family will be cared for when I’m gone.”
She couldn’t be serious. “You can’t force me to marry.”
“You’re right. You’re a grown man and you make your own decisions. So the choice is entirely yours. Either you marry and get the company you want and more money than most people dream of…or you don’t and I sell my shares to Ron Wheeler. Tough choice, I understand.” At that, she returned to her soup as though they’d been discussing the weather.
Liam didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t used to anyone else calling the shots in his life. But he’d given himself a vulnerability she had been waiting to exploit. She’d probably planned this from the very moment he’d come to her about buying ANS. Liam leaned his head into his hand and closed his eyes.
“If you don’t know any suitable ladies, I can make a few recommendations.”
He was sure she’d just love that, too. Thankfully she’d stopped short of deciding who he should marry. “I think I can handle that part, thank you. I’ve been seeing someone,” he said quickly, hoping she didn’t ask for more details about the fictional woman.
Aunt Beatrice shrugged off the bitter tone in his voice. “Then it’s time the two of you got more serious. Just remember, you have a year from today to marry. But if I were you, I wouldn’t dawdle. The sooner you get married, the sooner ANS will be yours.”
*
Francesca had deliberately avoided Liam since they’d returned to D.C., but she couldn’t put off speaking to him any longer. She needed to know if they were going to be sponsoring the Youth in Crisis gala or not. It was a week and a half away. It was already too late to pull out, really, but if he was going to insist they couldn’t do it, she needed to know now.
She waved as she passed his assistant’s desk. “Afternoon, Jessica.”
The woman looked up at her with a wary expression. “You don’t want to go in there.”
Francesca frowned. Did she mean her specifically, or anyone? Liam couldn’t still be mad about the whole elevator thing. Could he? “Why?”
“He’s been in a foul mood since we left New York. I’m not sure what happened. Something with his family, I think.”
“Is everyone okay?”
Jessica nodded her head. “He hasn’t had me send flowers to anyone, so I would assume so. But he’s not taking calls. He’s been sitting at his desk all morning flipping through his address book and muttering to himself.”
Interesting. “Well, I hate to do it, but I have to speak with him.”
“As you wish.” Jessica pressed the intercom button that linked to Liam’s phone. “Mr. Crowe, Ms. Orr is here to see you.”
“Not now,” his voice barked over the line. Then, after a brief pause, he said, “Never mind. Send her in.”
Jessica shrugged. “I don’t know what that’s all about, but go on in.”
Francesca gripped the handle to his office door and took a deep breath before going inside. She’d dressed in her most impressive power suit today and felt confident she would leave his office with what she wanted. The emerald-green pantsuit was striking and well-tailored. Her black hair was twisted up into a bun, and she had a silk scarf tied around her neck. Not only did she feel good in the outfit, she felt well-covered. Liam had already seen too much of her body. She intended to keep every inch out of his sight from now on.
As she opened the door, she saw Liam sitting at his desk just as Jessica had described. He was flipping through an address book, making notes on his desk blotter. As she came in he looked up and then slammed the book shut.
“Good morning, Ms. Orr.” His voice was a great deal more formal and polite than it was the last time they’d spoken. Of course, then they’d been recently naked together.
“Mr. Crowe. I wanted to speak to you about the Youth in Crisis gala. We don’t have much time to—”
“Have a seat, Francesca.”
She stopped short, surprised at his interruption. Unsure of what else to do, she moved to take a seat in the guest chair across from his desk. Before she could sit, he leaped up and pointed to the less formal sitting area on the other side of his office.