The Billionaire Next Door

“Where the hell have you been?” Ah yes, Mick Rhodes. Lawyer. Friend. And when in that tone of voice, bearer of bad news.

“Just spit it,” Sean muttered. “What’s on fire?”

“Condi-Foods. Name ring a bell? Damn it, I called you five times this afternoon. Where have you been? You know the deal is shaky—”

“Skip the lecture and give me details.”

Mick swore a couple of times then launched into a news flash that set Sean’s teeth on edge. “The revised tender offer from the acquirer is coming in two hours from now. Condi-Foods’ board chair wants you and only you to render the opinion and he wants to hear it in person. So you need to drop whatever you’re doing and get your ass into Manhattan now .”

Sean cursed and reached back down for his trousers. Then realized he wasn’t getting dressed unless he made a quick trip to the bathroom. “I’m on my way.”

“Hey, there’s an idea—”

“I’ll call you from the plane.” Sean hung up. Dropped his arm. Looked over his shoulder. “I have to go.”

“Was that your boss?”

“Basically.” Actually, he was Mick’s boss, as he’d hired the guy to work on the legal aspects of these deals. But his pal was right to goose him. He’d left a two-billion-dollar negotiation hanging in the breeze today. So he could play Frisbee for God’s sake.

Not a smart career move. Or a responsible one.

Sean went into the bathroom, snapped off the condom and washed up. Without looking at himself in the mirror, he put on his boxers and his pants and headed back to the bedroom.

“I’m really sorry about this,” he said, picking up his shirt from the floor. He pulled it over his head and shoved his feet into his running shoes. “I’ll call you.”

Lizzie’s eyes grew remote. “Have a safe trip.”

“Lizzie, I’ll call you. I promise.”

She smiled slowly. “Okay…I’d like that. I’d really like that.”

***

Chapter Nine

Four nights later, in a conference room high above Wall Street, Sean lost it. Just lost it. And not in a calculated way intended to impact difficult negotiations.

He simply hit the wall. Then plowed right through it. “To hell with this.” He planted his big hands on the glossy mahogany table and rose from his seat. Leaning into his arms, he glared good and hard at the idiots who were wasting his and Condi-Foods’ time. “Get out.”

The head of the acquirer’s investment team blinked like a bad lightbulb in his Brooks Brothers suit. “Excuse me?”

“Get. Out.” This meeting had been a bad idea to begin with, but as the deal was at a standstill, Sean had agreed to the request for some face-to-face. He was not surprised they remained deadlocked, but it sure as hell didn’t put him in a good mood.

Then again, since he’d left Lizzie’s Saturday night, nothing had given him a jolly.

“Our share price is fair!” the man across the table hollered.

“No, it isn’t, and it’s backed up by air. You find yourself some better financing and come up on your number, then we’ll talk.”

“Damn it, O’Banyon! We’ve been working on this for the last four days—”

“And time has not improved your offer. Get. Out.”

There was a long pause and then they just started yammering on again about their low-ball valuation of Condi-Foods’ assets. One of them even had the nerve to push a spreadsheet at him.

Sean balled the thing up and tossed it into a wastepaper basket across the room.

Which effectively ended the meeting.

All six guys across the table stood up and, amid much huffing and offense, funneled out of the room as if the door were a drain. Before he left, the team leader glanced back at Sean. The man’s eyes were shrewd and that was when Sean knew. What had just transpired was a test of his resolve by the opposing side, not any kind of genuine stalemate.

They were going to meet his demands. He could feel it. And as Mick Rhodes chuckled a little in the seat next to him, it was clear his buddy knew it, too.

In the aftermath of the drama bomb, Sean eased down into his chair.

As silence reigned, the two young guys he’d picked up from that gala, Freddie Wilcox and Andrew Frick, were frozen-statue speechless.

“Do we leave now?” Freddie asked.

“Nope,” Mick replied. The lawyer’s sardonic grin, which was as sharp as his Brioni suit, made a quick appearance. “Twenty-seven, SOB. Don’t you think?”

Sean rubbed his face and played along out of habit, not because he was interested in the game. “Thirty-nine. Because I balled their—what did I throw?”

Andrew spoke up. “I believe it was their financial projections for the coming fiscal year.”

“Ah, then I put them in the right place.” Sean leaned back in his chair and rolled his Montblanc between his thumb and forefinger. The fountain pen was one of his signature props, a big black cigar of a writing instrument known on Wall Street as the Club for all the damage he’d done with it.

Usually at this point, when he knew in his gut he was going to get what he wanted, he’d feel a simmering triumph. After all, making the other side break and submit was the goal, and sure as hell, those highfliers who’d just fluffed out of here were going to call back within the hour with a reasonable offer that he could recommend to the Condi-Foods board.

He’d been through this countless times. It was the cycle of challenge that had kept him juiced for years.

But the problem was, on this particular walk through the minefield, he really had lost his temper. Unlike the other side, his anger hadn’t been for show. His frustration level had been on hard-boil since he’d come back to the city and now he was stretched as thin as a hair. The three-ring circus of these negotiations, coupled with that grossly inadequate offer, had just pushed him over the edge.

And there was nothing more dangerous in a multibillion-dollar negotiation than one of the principals getting truly emotional.

He told himself he was just strung out. Hell, he’d been working until three in the morning every night since he’d come back, and although that wasn’t unprecedented, it certainly didn’t put him in his happy place. Plus the fact that these negotiations had been going so slowly made it all worse—

Oh, who was he kidding. It wasn’t business that was razoring him up.

His conscience was wearing on him. Badly.

Lizzie Bond was wearing on him.

He got to his feet and started to pack up his briefcase.

“You’re leaving?” Mick said.

“I already know what they’re going to do.” Sean slipped the Club into his breast pocket then text messaged his limo driver. “They’re going to come up twenty-five cents a share and get real on the interest payments before the balloon five years out of closing. And I will accept that. Call me when the new offer comes through.”

Andrew cleared his throat. “But how do you know that’s what they’re going to counter with?”

Sean picked up his leather document holder. “Because it’s the only move they have. If they back out after getting this close, everyone on the Street will think it’s because they don’t have the corporate will to be a player and that lack of confidence would be bad news for their stock. As usual it all comes down to pride and math.”

The hero worship that flared in the kid’s eyes was hard to bear so Sean looked around the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s been real. Mick, I’ll be hearing from you shortly.”

On his way out, he checked in with his assistants and picked up a stack of phone messages as well as the schedule for the next week and the so-called social file. When he told his staff he was going home, they looked relieved, as if they needed a break from him.

He didn’t blame them in the slightest.

He hit the elevators and exited the building. His limousine was waiting out front in the sweltering heat and he slid into the air-conditioned backseat with relief. As the Lincoln eased into traffic, he opened the social file with no enthusiasm. The thing was stuffed with invitations to galas and messages from women and favors he was being asked. Typically he would run through the morass in about ten minutes, turf the RSVPs to his assistants and call back a couple of the ladies.