“You didn’t ask him?” What kind of lawyer was this guy if he wasn’t advising his client correctly?
“I did. He wouldn’t tell me. But you guys have a history, don’t you? Why don’t you ask him?”
I sighed. “Thanks for the call.” There was no point wasting my breath on chitchat. I needed a new plan. So much for Gabriel and Tristan’s brilliant suggestion. I chastised myself for cutting him off. There was no need to make an enemy of Charles. He might prove useful. “I might do that. Thank you.”
“Just a thought. You know Bob is a people man. He’s old school. He believes in doing business with people he likes.” I wasn’t an idiot. Most people preferred to do business with people they liked. “Well, he’s not said anything—not recently and certainly not in relation to this offer—but I’m not sure he’s your biggest fan.”
This wasn’t news.
“The feeling is mutual, Charles. But this is business.”
“Business or not, no one wants to feel like a fool. You’ve been pretty clear that you don’t like the way he runs Verity. And now that it’s doing so badly, I’m putting two and two together and guessing that he doesn’t want you proving yourself right.”
I nearly dropped the phone—partly out of shock at the idea that someone would, through pure pride and vanity, refuse a great offer for a failing business, and partly as the reality dawned that I wasn’t going to get my hands on Verity. Not if Goode had anything to do with it.
“So he’s going to cut his nose off to spite his face?”
“I’m speculating.”
“Well, if your speculations are correct, Bob’s a bigger idiot than I already thought he was.” I was frustrated but at the same time, grateful for Charles’ insight. “I appreciate you being straight with me,” I said.
“No problem. You know that’s how I like to do business.”
I owed Charles. There was no point wasting precious time and energy chasing after Verity. It was hopeless. He’d saved me some time and left me with a little heartache. It looked like my grandmother’s legacy wasn’t salvageable.
Nineteen
Sofia
Just because Andrew Blake didn’t have a twin didn’t mean I couldn’t pretend he did. It was the only way I could make sense of him being so different in and out of the office. Last time I’d sat on this bar stool, he’d whispered in my ear about wanting to make me come. This morning he’d barked at me because I didn’t have the lights on in my office.
He’d fulfilled his promise during our night together. More often than I could remember. And then the next day, it was as if we were two different people and the previous night hadn’t happened at all. Part of me thought it was easier. This way, we weren’t about to get caught bent over the photocopier at work. But there was also a part of me that wondered what the fuck was going on. The only way to deal with it was to pretend Andrew had a twin brother called James.
I was only on my second sip of my Vivian Leigh when the bell over Noble Rot’s door rang. Though a familiar presence loomed in the doorway, I resisted the urge to look him over.
Something in the air shifted. I knew heads turned as Andrew strode between the wooden tables to reach the bar. I didn’t blame them. His confidence seemed to envelop him in an almost-visible bubble. The enigmatic smirk he wore was as compelling as the Mona Lisa’s. Everyone’s focus was on wherever he was going or whatever he was doing.
I couldn’t tear my eyes from him. I couldn’t judge anyone else for feeling the same.
He slid gracefully onto the barstool next to mine.
“Sofia,” he said, his voice a low, deep growl.
“James,” I responded, trying to ignore the fizzle of excitement snaking up my spine.
A drink dutifully appeared in front of him. Tony wasn’t on today. It was a new guy who clearly knew the drill. I didn’t waste time getting to know the new guy. There was only one man I wanted to talk to tonight.
“How was your day?” I asked. I’d wanted to ask him all day about how he was feeling about the offer and what had happened during his phone call with the lawyer I’d put through to him just before he left the office. But I knew better. Andrew didn’t do chitchat. Not in the office, anyway. But I knew he wanted to buy Verity. I’d never seen him so agitated at work, waiting for the call.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said. He sighed and dragged his fingers through his hair as if tortured. “I shouldn’t be here.”
Here was just a bar. But . . . a bar where I was. And then it dawned on me: I worked for him. Maybe finding me very attractive was against some moral code or something.