Built for Power

Copyright Page

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

An original
work of Kathleen Brooks

Built for Power
copyright @ 2014 by Kathleen Brooks

Cover art by Calista Taylor
http://www.coversbycali.com

Acknowledgments

I have been blessed with some wonderful friends over the years and these three ladies are no exception. They helped answer all my questions. I even got my own pink Bullard hard hat! Thank you, Wells, Rebekah, and Kate, for the frantic texts and weird "what-if’s" I posed to y’all.

I also have to send a big shout-out to Alicia, Amanda, and Lucy from my Krew for helping me with all things British. And to my whole Krew for all the support and fun we have. Thank you, ladies!

Built for Power Description

Somebody is out to destroy Elle Simpson and everything in her life. Elle has always depended on family to make her business run strong, but long work hours have left her without much of a private life. Just as Elle thinks she has met the potential man of her dreams, she also discovers an imposter determined to destroy her business and life. Can she trust this "Prince Charming" to help her defend everything she holds dear, or will she only leave herself vulnerable at the worst possible time?
Drake Charles’s work in the fast-growing mobile technology field made him a wealthy, powerful man. But he quickly sheds the fame and publicity for a more private life that earns him the label as a man of mystery. Drake adds to that mystery every year when he hosts a masquerade ball for charity. It’s also his best chance to find the one thing he really wants . . . true love.
Having met behind masks of anonymity, Elle and Drake enjoy a whirlwind night of romance that leaves them both wanting more. Elle's heart tells her to trust Drake, but years of fighting off business foes has taught her that anyone could be a potential threat. Will this new romance give them both a fairy tale ending, or spiral into a nightmare for the whole Simpson family?

PROLOGUE

Windsor Academy, fifteen years ago…

“There’s a
girl
in our class,” Nick said as if her sex were a curse. “She’ll probably break a nail and start crying.”

Bree Simpson’s archenemy sauntered into shop class and grabbed his safety goggles. He made sure to stop at every table along the way to his station to whisper a joke at Bree’s expense. Bree smiled as if his barbs didn’t hurt and gathered the equipment needed to build a birdhouse.

“What do you think, boys? I give her one class.”

“One class to what?” Bree asked with mock confusion. “To fall helplessly in love with you? To swoon at your feet over your manly use of a saw? Or maybe to realize how full of shi…”

“Miss Simpson!”

Bree batted her eyes at her teacher. “Yes, Mr. Voss?” she asked innocently.

“Enough talking. It’s time to build.”

“You think you run with the big dogs, do you?” Nick hissed.

“No. Why would I want to do that? I’ll be the one with the dog whistle telling you where to run and when to sit and beg.” Bree slid her goggles into place. Nick’s rant became lost in the buzz of the table saw.

Bree measured the wood and, with a steady hand, drew the cut lines with her pencil. She moved the metal ruler and measured again before cutting. The high pitch of the saw increased as she slowly but steadily pushed the wood through. Dust hit her goggles and lodged in her strawberry blonde hair, currently thrown up in a messy bun. The smell of freshly cut wood hung in the air. Bree smiled as she made cut after cut.

“Look at that mess of wood she has over there, boys. I told you she couldn’t do it. All I have to do is cut the roof and I am
d-o-n-e
,” Nick yelled to his friends over the hammering.

Bree smiled again as she looked at her large pile of cut pieces and then at Nick’s respectable, but simple, birdhouse. She picked up her hammer and with two good whacks, just like her father taught her, drove the nail home.

After remeasuring every piece, she assembled her birdhouse. No piece of wood was longer than the others. Every piece fit perfectly. After drilling a few quick holes, she hammered a peg in front of each door and smiled. Her birdhouse was done. She glanced up. No one was paying attention to her. Nick was busy recutting the roof of his house. It gave her time to admire her creation. She felt alive when she built things. It was a rush—the precise measuring, configuring the pieces of the puzzle—bringing the vision to life.

Bree had taken this class as a way to see if the fun she had building things with her dad was more than a hobby. And it was. She felt the excitement of engineering a birdhouse, even if it was just for shop class, run through her body. Her father had encouraged her to take the class and now she was glad she did—even if she had to put up with the boys teasing her. But her dad had also taught her how to handle them.

“Bree, just smile and let it wash over you. Everyone has to learn how to deal with bullies. You’ll have them when you’re six years old, when you’re sixteen, and when you’re sixty. Sometimes keeping to the high road is enough. But sometimes you need to make your voice heard without saying a word."

As Bree walked to the front of the class, she did just that. She sat her five-bedroom birdhouse next to Nick’s slightly crooked one without saying a single word. Her house was a bird mansion. There were three “rooms” on the bottom with two on the second story. An elegantly sloped roof finished the house beautifully.

Bree picked up her backpack and walked out the door to the sounds of the other boys teasing Nick.

CHAPTER ONE

Downtown Atlanta, present day. . .

Bree Simpson kicked off her designer heels and shoved her feet into steel-toed boots. She placed the pink hard hat over her perfectly coiffed hair and picked up the hem of her long, gold gown. Not watching where she stepped, she marched over the mud and gravel to the trailer housing the offices for the corporate center build.

“Marcus, what’s going on?” Bree asked as she flung open the door.

Her senior site manager, Marcus Phillips, looked up from his desk with a slight grimace. The trailer was lit only by the low glow of a single lamp. Despite the darkness, Bree could still make out the green piece of paper.

“This was tacked to the door. The security guard found it. It has your name on it.”

“You called me down here for this? I’m in the middle of a black tie event.” Bree tried to control her hands as she snatched the envelope from his. “What are you doing here this late anyway?”

“Sorry to interrupt the event. I’ve seen you get these notes before and thought this might be important. Like maybe you forgot to pick it up. I didn’t mean for you to leave the banquet. I thought you could pick it up when you were on your way home.”

Bree let out a breath. She wasn’t mad. Well, not mad at Marcus anyway. “It’s okay. It was just a bunch of men toasting how great they are. They probably won’t even notice I’m gone. I can sneak back in and no one will be the wiser.”

“You were robbed. You should have been Builder of the Year,” Marcus protested for the hundredth time.

“You have to be nominated first, and they’ll never nominate me. Why don’t you grab a suit coat and join me. There’s a bunch of beautiful twenty-something daughters running around,” Bree coaxed. Marcus was only twenty-nine. He had advanced to a high-level position because he lived and breathed work. So, despite her total lack of love life, Bree was determined to help him find someone special.

“As if I’d date someone whose father wouldn’t recognize the good work you do simply because you’re a woman,” Marcus scoffed.

“Don’t hate the player; hate the game.” Bree teased. After all these years, she was still in shop class . . . just on a much larger scale. “Well, if you want to join me, you know where I’ll be.”

“Don’t hold your breath. I’m trying to anticipate the architect’s changes and get the materials ordered so we don’t fall further behind.” Marcus ran his hand over his buzzed blond hair. His blue eyes were tired and Bree felt the maternal need to take care of her young site manager despite being just a couple years older.

“You still haven’t received the changes?” Bree asked in astonishment. After the tongue-lashing she’d delivered to Mr. Ward’s secretary, she was sure he would get the final plans to Marcus quickly.

“Nope. I called and was told Mr. Ward was out of the office. After leaving four voicemails, sending eight emails, and trying to bribe his secretary, I finally gave up and decided to order what I think needs to be ordered.”

No wonder he looked tried and stressed. “Go home and relax. Or better, go on a date or two,” Bree called as she clutched the green envelope and headed for the door.

“What about Mr. Ward?”

“Oh, I’ll take care of Mr. Ward. Don’t you worry.”

Bree stomped her way to the car and pulled out her small clutch. She ripped it open, then pulled out her lipstick and her cell phone—the only two things that would fit in it. “Troy, I’m sorry to wake you, but I need to get to London.”

She heard Simpson Global’s pilot sit up in bed and run his hand over his face in an attempt to wake up. “Yes, ma’am.”

Bree winced. She hated being called ma’am. “How long?”

“Wheels up in an hour.”

“Aye, aye, captain!”

“Why do I work for you again?”

“You get to fly a really cool plane and secretly you love us,” Bree teased the retired Air Force pilot.

A grunt was all Bree heard before the line went dead. Gracefully sliding into her seat, she picked up the green envelope from where she had flung it. She hated the way her hands trembled as she tore it open. She’d been receiving these notes ever since she started the corporate center build. At first they’d been taunts. But then they had turned dark and ugly.

Bree took a breath and pulled out the folded paper. She slowly unfolded it and stared at the now familiar type.

You looked lovely tonight at the banquet. If you want to wear fancy dresses anytime again, you need to heed my warnings. Your time is running out. Step down from the corporate center project and go back to your manicures, teas, and fancy dresses.

Bree felt her mouth go dry. The notes had started as threats against the corporate center build. At first she thought they might be from eco-terrorists trying to stop the project. But then the notes had turned personal. They had commented on what she was wearing and how she shouldn’t be tempting the men she worked with. So she had begun to think they were just sexist. However, right after the foundation was laid, the threats had turned violent, telling her to step down and hire someone else to head the project or she’d be sorry.

Things had started happening at the work site. Tools had been stolen or destroyed. Cars had been keyed. Nasty things had been spray-painted on the perimeter walls about her. And then the notes had started threatening her life if she didn’t step down and clean house. It was clear someone was not happy that she had bought into this project. She had broken with local customs by hiring the workers she wanted, and not the “buddies” who thought they were owed every job. The trouble was, there were too many of them to count. It was why she went to the dinner tonight. She was hoping to get some clue as to who was sending her these notes. Unfortunately, all she got was par for the course and a rubber chicken dinner.

Some of the men approved of the changes she was bringing to the industry while others made her the butt of their jokes. It had only helped her cut her suspects from fifty to twenty-five. She had left frustrated at the fact she didn’t know how to trim the list of suspects down anymore.

Bree didn’t take these threats seriously, but she’d be stupid not to look into them. Of the twenty-five or so people who didn’t approve of her, ten were incredibly outspoken about it, and they’d all been at the party. However, four of them had left the party early enough to leave the note for her at the construction site. Finally, a clue!

Bree opened the list of names on her cell phone and began to cross them off until only the four remained. Carey Robins, Trevor Marion, Jeff Henderson, and Louis Garcia. She’d look into each of them when she got back. Eventually one of them would do something to give himself away.

In the meantime, she admitted that she couldn’t control what this bully did or tried to do, but she could control her project. If her time was coming to an end, the least she could do was get her architect’s
arse
on task.

* * *

Bree stomped one steel-toe-clad foot in front of Mr. Ward’s secretary. She hadn't bothered to go home and when she boarded the family jet to London, she discovered there was no change of clothes in the closet. She imagined she’d looked somewhat like a serial killer prom queen as she stood with big boots and a shiny gold evening gown with a tight bodice that hugged her curves and pooled around her feet. Her perfectly coiffed hair had started to slip, and she felt like breaking down the closed door to Mr. Ward’s office with an axe.

“What do you mean, Mr. Ward won’t see me?” Bree asked with all the restraint she had. “It’s easy. Pick up the phone and tell him I’m here from Atlanta and demand to see him.”

The snooty secretary, whom she and her assistant, Noah, had been calling Mrs. Snobgrass, looked down her pointy nose at her and in her perfect British accent said, “It’s rather impossible for you to see someone who is not here.”

Bree rolled her eyes. “You know, you could have just said that in the first place. Fine. I will sit and wait until he gets back.”

“That will be a rather long wait whilst Mr. Ward travels. He’s visiting his sites and could be gone this entire week. Tea?”

Fire raced up Bree’s face and she was pretty sure steam was coming from her ears. “I just flew halfway across the world to see him. The hundred times I, or my assistant, called this week, you could have told us that and saved me this trip! Where is he right now?”

If possible, Mr. Ward’s secretary looked farther down her nose as she reluctantly thumbed through her desk calendar. “Dubai. I’ll tell him you came to call. Where are you staying and I’ll notify you when he arrives.”

“I’m not staying. I run a major corporation, and I don’t have time to just sit here and wait for him to decide my hundred-million-dollar project is worth his time. What you need to do is pick up the phone, call his cell, and tell him he’d better
bloody
well get back here before I fire him.”

Bree struggled to restrain her temper but Mrs. Snobgrass didn’t seem to have any trouble controlling hers. “I will be sure to give him your message. Does he have your number?”

Bree slammed her card down on the table and stormed from the room with her gold train flowing behind her.

* * *

Logan Ward was exhausted. It was the middle of the night when his plane from Dubai landed at Heathrow International Airport in London. He’d been out of the office for over two weeks visiting the European and Middle East builds his architectural firm were designing. He’d finalized plans, he’d changed plans on-site, and he’d said, “Sure, we can do that,” to far too many crazy things to even remember.

Today he was going to work from home and sleep. He hailed a cab and headed to the office. He was sure Beatrice had a stack of work for him on his desk. She’d sent the emergencies to him, but the rest he’d have to try to get done tomorrow.

Logan took a deep breath and looked out the window for the long drive down the M4 into London. The cab turned toward the River Thames. Logan watched as they drove past Big Ben and neared his office. He’d been all over the world, and as he got out of the cab, he realized how much he missed home. It seemed the office had been his home for the past ten years. As he paid the cab driver, he looked up at the old stone building with large rectangular windows. He should be partner by now.

The old guard would never allow it, though. He was an outsider and they were too eager to collect their fat cuts of the profits that Logan brought to the firm. Not that he wasn’t paid well, he was. But he was almost thirty-five years old and a “good job, old chap” with a pat on the back wasn’t cutting it for him anymore.

Unlocking the door to his office, he almost groaned out loud when he saw the huge stack of messages waiting on his large desk. Logan dropped his bags and fell into his chair, admitting the likelihood of getting home was looking slimmer and slimmer. He picked up the messages and thumbed through them. B. Simpson, B. Simpson, B. Simpson, Noah from Simpson Steel and Construction, and then the doozy:
B. Simpson stopped by office. Threatened to fire you.

Logan laid the back of his head against his chair and stared up at the ceiling. He should have never taken this job . . . as if it were a choice. One of the owners of this corporate center in Atlanta, Georgia, was a friend of the founder of his architectural firm. It was probably this Mr. Simpson. Logan could see him wanting gold flying buttresses now. He had been going through Logan’s boss for all the changes to the design, but he guessed being friends only went so far in dealing with his crazy whims. Logan pulled out the file and shook his head. He’d changed the plans no fewer than ten times. Logan was sure the construction manager was losing his mind, because God knows
he
was.

But this was it. He didn’t want another damn message from Mr. Simpson and he sure as hell wasn’t making any more changes to the perfect design he’d turned in already. Well, he guessed it was a good thing he didn’t unpack. It looked like he was heading to Atlanta to give B. Simpson a piece of his mind.