?
Alex turned dark mocking eyes toward the girl. As he had listened gravely to Mr. Hardesty’s greeting, he had thought he heard a small gasp. Now he saw that her eyes were wide upon him, her face as pale as the white lace on her gown. He was immensely pleased that she recognized him. The little rich girl who had played out her games in Rome knew well who he was.
Giana felt her heart plummet to her toes. She saw his dark eyes sweep over her, just as they had that long-ago night—confident, even insolent—and now, oh, God, he knew. She felt a shock of remembered terror and humiliation of that night. Her eyes were drawn to his hands, large with long blunt fingers, fingers that had caressed her. She remembered her nails raking over his face in her fear, and the black pain when he had hit her jaw.
She wanted to run, but instead she sagged in her chair. Never, Aurora had preached to her, never let a man rile you—and believe me, Giana, some of them will try. They will be condescending, arrogant, even stupidly flattering. Men like that you must treat like wooden sticks. You can laugh at them; it makes their tongues stick to the roofs of their mouths. Or, if you prefer, be indifferent; it makes them question their manhood and their confidence. Even as Giana remembered her mother’s words, her mind screamed at the man: what are you going to do? Will you accuse me of being a whore in front of all these men? She knew that her complexion had turned sickly white. She felt a morbid sense of the inevitable, but she refused to let him see her discomfort.
She said from her chair in a creditably calm voice, “You must be Mr. . . .” She stumbled on his name. “Saxton, is it not? How do you do?” She started to offer him her hand, and quickly withdrew it when she saw he did not move to take it.
A thick black brow rose a good inch at the calm indifference in her voice. His eyes held hers for a moment, and he admitted to being impressed with her bravado.
“Forgive me for being somewhat late,” he said. “I should leave that prerogative to the ladies, who so richly deserve it.”
So that was the course he was going to follow, at least for the time being. “Forgive me, Mr. Saxton, for forgetting your name—a fault that is certainly more grave than being a mere ten minutes late. But men in business—” She shrugged elaborately. “You seem to look so much alike—it is difficult sometimes to keep names and faces straight.”
“Then I shall have to be sufficiently memorable so that you won’t forget my name again, won’t I, Giana?”
God in heaven, where had he heard her nickname? The cold-blooded bastard.
Thomas Hardesty observed their interchange with incredulity. What kind of perverse game were they playing? And why was Saxton deliberately insulting her?
Hammett Engles was staring at Alex as if he had lost his mind. He turned nervously to Raymond Ffalkes, and motioned him to be seated. He said to Alex, “Please, Alex, sit down. It is time to get to business.”
“Business?” Alex said, flicking his eyes toward Giana. “Certainly it is always pleasant to while away a morning with a lovely lady, or an evening. But business, my dear fellow?”
Giana felt a rush of rage. He was clearly going to continue toying with her, hoping, undoubtedly, that her composure would shatter. Dammit, she would not give him the pleasure.
She saw that of all the gentlemen only Drew wasn’t flustered. He was staring at Alex Saxton with narrowed, assessing eyes.
Giana said quickly, “Do not, I beg you, be offended, Drew. Mr. Saxton is, after all, an American, and doubtless he is unused to dealing with women.”
But quite used to dealing with harlots, Alex’s narrowed eyes said to her. Surely, she thought wildly, she could explain everything to him, make him understand that it had all been a mistake, a ghastly mistake.
“Business it is,” Alex said aloud. “I have no other plans for the morning.” He eased his powerful body down into a chair, crossed his long legs, managing to look insolently bored. “Well,” he said to Ffalkes, “let’s get on with it, man.”
Raymond Ffalkes tugged briefly at his cravat, noticing as he did so that Saxton was not wearing a cravat, but rather the thin black tie newly in fashion. “As you know, gentlemen, ma’am,” he began in a pompous tone, “this merger will be of ultimate benefit to both parties, and a particular boon to the Van Cleve interests.” Giana stiffened at his condescension, wishing she but had her mother’s poise and her wit. But her tongue lay dead in her mouth.
“Under Mr. Saxton’s direction, I have prepared a summary of the gains to be realized by Van Cleve, gains, I might add, that render Mr. Saxton’s offer more than generous.” He looked down at the papers in a neat stack on the table, and extracted one of them. “If you will allow me to enumerate the profitability projections, based upon the active control to be exercised by Mr. Saxton’s management.”
Thomas Hardesty said calmly, “It is, of course, a point of negotiation, Mr. Ffalkes, as to the control such a merger would bring to Mr. Saxton.” He looked toward Giana, and to his relief, she seemed perfectly in control of herself again.
She said in response to his look, “Please continue, Mr. Ffalkes, with your discourse. I am certain we will find it most enlightening.”
Despite herself, Giana looked warily toward Alex Saxton. She stiffened for he was regarding her as if he expected nothing she could possibly say to be of any importance. We shall shortly see, she thought, forcing her eyes back toward Mr. Ffalkes. “Let poor Raymond have all the rope he wants,” her mother had said. “It is you, Giana, who have all you need to spring the trapdoor when he has wrapped it about his neck.”
Mr. Ffalkes beamed. He had let Hammett Engles convince him that Miss Van Cleve, the little chit, was as sharp as a tack. He thought of his wife, Lenore, commiserating with him but that morning, shaking her gray head. “My poor dear, to be forced to sit through a meeting with a young woman. It is unheard of, and quite improper. I but hope that you can flatter her enough to please Mr. Saxton.”
Giana let him drone on, citing his figures.
“. . . and with the stowage of the twelve Van Cleve ships, and of course, taking into consideration the loss of the Constant, it would appear that—”
“Excuse me, Mr. Ffalkes,” Giana said. “You have not accounted the present total cargo stowage of the twelve Van Cleve ships, merely projected an increase to eight thousand tons. Would you please tell me how you developed that figure?”
Raymond Ffalkes was mildly annoyed. “Just a moment, Miss Van Cleve, and I will give you the information.” He shuffled through the papers and withdrew the ledger a clerk had prepared for him the previous week. “The stowage is currently thirty-eight hundred tons.”
“How very odd, Mr. Ffalkes,” Giana continued, as if perplexed. “I find it most gratifying that with a simple change in management, and the eventual addition of six ships, cargo space can be so impressively increased. Perhaps Mr. Saxton has developed a special technique to stretch a ship’s hold?”
“No, Miss Van Cleve,” Ffalkes snapped. “There must be an error here, yes, I’m afraid there has been an error.”