For All the Wrong Reasons (44 page)

But Diana's body still echoed with the aftershocks of Michael's lovemaking last night. His tongue, merciless and insistent, dragging over the rich, musky center of her, had had her thrashing about in his sheets like a landed fish. He had put her on her hands and knees, her belly, her side, he had bent her over and forced her to the ground, his fist in her hair, just to watch her pleasure him. They had spent hours making love with an almost savage thirst, and then, finally, they had fallen asleep in each other's arms.

And she knew when she woke she would risk everything to stay with him.

*   *   *

Diana and Michael now dated openly, even in the office.

“Look, James Carville and Mary Matalin got married,” Claire told them. “He was a spin doctor for the Democrats, she for the Republicans. And if they can marry I don't see why you guys can't date.”

Diana smiled over at Michael. Dating. Is that what they were doing? Up at six, working like dogs until seven, coming home, barely through the door before there was a tangle of limbs and skin and hair and mouths? It was amazing to her that they managed to fit in time for eating.

There were problems. Tina Armis had quit, but not quietly. She walked out screaming at Michael, then marched across the hall to Diana's office. Diana could have had her thrown out, but she dismissed Ellen and let Tina rave. No point in adding insult to injury.

The younger woman slammed Diana's door shut and yelled at her. She looked comical, standing there in her string of demure pearls and her long yellow dress, with her blond hair neatly washed and brushed, and her face as red as a drunkard's, her mouth open, bawling at Diana.

“You goddamn lying English witch! Fucking limey gold-digger,” Tina said, with supreme ignorance of the irony. “You always had your eye on my man. Home-wrecker! No wonder your first husband fired you. When Michael finds out you're just after his money he'll lose you like a bad habit.”

“Look, Tina, I'm sorry you've been hurt,” Diana said calmly. “I love Michael—”

“Love his money,” Tina sneered.

“My ex-boyfriend had a lot more money than Michael does.”

“Right, and now you go around town pretending that you broke up with Brad Bailey when everybody knows he dumped you. Michael deserves better than to be your second choice. And when he realizes that, he'll be right back with me. Where he belongs.”

“I'll have to take that chance,” Diana said softly.

“That's right.” Tina was practically spitting at her. “You will. You're older than me and you could stand to lose a few pounds, lady. And you're a goddamn limey who couldn't possibly understand him. Michael and me are two of a kind. We're both from the Bronx.” She snapped her fingers aggressively.

“Except that Michael is intelligent and motivated, and you're a gum-chewing, skinny little bimbo, who got passed over for a smart girl with tits and ass. If I were you, I'd eat some food,” Diana said easily.

Tina's mouth dropped wide open. She stared at Diana as though rooted to the spot. She couldn't believe the fucking ice-queen could come out with language like that.

“See you around,” Diana added, opening her door and beckoning to Ellen to show Tina out.

When Tina had gone she grinned to herself. That hadn't exactly been ladylike, but it had certainly been fun.

Maybe she was turning into a New Yorker.

*   *   *

Building up Imperial was one of the hardest, most exhausting, stressful, exhilarating, and energizing times of Diana's life. All day, every day, she met with package designers, ad specialists, code writers, and web experts. She was in and out of planes, limos and cabs, and she took her work with her wherever she went. Diana revamped the Gecko series with her new cash. It was the commercial and critical success that announced to the whole world that Imperial meant business.

But the travel guides, Michael's project, were their greatest hit. Suddenly, student tourists could see and hear the cities they were visiting, in living color. The guides sold out before the first run even hit the stores. Amazon could not keep enough stock. The only problem they had was rushing out more titles to meet demand.

Art Jankel came to see Diana. He shook her hand and offered her a slim cheroot. He told her he was very pleased, then he left.

The next morning a messenger arrived from Jankel's office on the forty-eighth floor with a slim envelope for Diana.

Inside was a printed card announcing “an enclosed bonus.” There was also a check. Diana opened it carefully.

It was made out to her for a quarter of a million dollars.

*   *   *

“No, I'm not taking any of that money.” Michael shook his head as Diana glanced out at the midtown traffic. New Yorkers were cursing and hooting at one another as usual. “You earned it. It's about a quarter of what old man Jankel has made on the rise of his stock so far. We're beating the Blakely's games out of sight.”

“Especially now.”

Michael's big paw squeezed her soft hands.

“Right, especially now.”

She fell silent. This was a big day for Michael, and for her. Ernie was about to learn that payback was a bitch.

There was a mass of limos double-parked and honking at one another right down Seventh Avenue, forced to line up outside the peep shows and Disney musicals that jostled for space a couple of blocks away from the Blakely's building. Michael was glad he'd brought a cab. Jostling for position was aggravating, and worse, it took time.

Ernie and the Blakely's board were nowhere to be seen in the packed conference room, which was as he'd expected. Michael signed up to speak, twelfth on a long list. He did not expect Foxton to realize he was there. The buying had been done quietly and the consolidating even more quietly. He did not have to disclose his stake yet; he'd hovered just below the Securities and Exchange Commission watershed for announcement, set so that targeted companies had some warning of when they were about to be taken over.

He wasn't planning on taking over Blakely's. It was better to have your own business, to build it from the ground up. Michael waited until Diana was seated, then took his place beside her. Around the room were giant blow-up posters of Blakely's latest and greatest bestsellers. Michael recognized them all. Popular novelists, for sure; marquee names. They also had marquee prices. He wondered how Ernie's henchmen were going to spin this. The balance sheet looked good, unless you really knew the book business. If this company was going to survive, the board would need to recognize their mistake.

You didn't throw tradition away to grab at the quick fix, the easy buck. For a quarter or two you were a star. And then the cracks started to show.

Well, Michael thought, settling back in his seat. I'm here now. And I'm their wake-up call.

FORTY-ONE

“And so, we feel that the improved balance sheet, the cost savings and our gain in market share, are positioning Blakely's uniquely well to move forward in this new millennium as the publishing house of the future,” Ernie said, leaning a little into his microphone.

Diana admired his skill. You couldn't help but notice how slickly he dodged the bullets. The overpayment of authors was “an investment.” The firing of all their best people “an assault on overhead.” The old-money types who had stock in Blakely's were clearly not too well versed in the nuts and bolts of the book industry. Peter Davits, the tall, Slavonic-looking man, had done a nice little song and dance that made it sound like the Blakely's balance sheet was the leanest in the business.

“Any more questions?”

She settled back into her seat as Michael rose to his feet. A flunky passed him the microphone.

“Mr. Chairman, I have a couple of questions, if I may.”

Foxton peered out across the rows of dark-suited men and women in navy and cream. He blinked.

“Mr. Chairman,” Ernie said hastily, “Mr. Cicero runs a rival company to ours. I don't think questions from him are appropriate.”

“Actually, you have no choice but to allow me to speak. I am a stockholder of four point five percent of Blakely's. You will see my name as the twelfth mandated speaker on your list, Mr. Foxton.” Michael grinned. “The Chairman of Romulus Holdings, Inc. That's me.”

“This is obviously an ambush,” Ernie spat.

“As a matter of fact, I tabled my questions two months ago. Besides, as I'm sure you stand behind your running of the company, you won't worry about answering them. Will you?”

Diana watched as half the room turned around to watch Michael, conservatively dressed in one of his black English suits, with dark shoes and a paisley tie. He was polite, but incredibly menacing. The strong body looked like a cobra ready to spring.

Michael's steady gaze and level voice were dominating the room. She could feel the current of electricity, the muted buzz of whispers, that rippled through the investors and Wall Street analysts gathered there.

“Mr. Cicero is correct, Ernest.” Flustered, old man Gammon, the Chairman of the Board, was consulting a lawyer. “He has the right to speak.”

“I don't mind answering any questions,” Ernie said quickly, “but I think it's unorthodox procedure.” The set of his mouth was sulky. “Please say what you have to say. We want to finish up this meeting.”

“Oh, I'll be finished just as soon as I have my answers,” Michael said. “First, I'd like to ask you about the cost savings. Isn't it true that included in that figure are voided contracts with seventy authors who have gone on to have bestsellers at other publishing houses?”

“It's not as simple as that,” Ernie snapped.

“Perhaps it's as simple as this: Isn't it also true that your bestsellers have all cost approximately three times to market and promote as they have made in returns, and that once the spending stopped, they disappeared? And isn't it also true that for every bestseller you have produced in the last six months the company has made a loss?”

“Market share is a worthwhile goal,” Ernie replied, a little less confidently.

“Then let's discuss Education Station. Of the moneys invested in new offices, salaries and other overheads, how much have you recouped?”

“Nothing. It's a start-up. They are never profitable.”

“Oh, Imperial Games is profitable. But then we haven't had to recall over eighty percent of our lines because of bugs. I would like an explanation of the fact that money was spent heavily to promote a line of games that was not yet ready, so that the name of the company is now mud among suppliers.”

Ernie sputtered, “I don't think you are seriously interested in the answer to that question.”

“I am,” said a loud voice behind Michael.

Diana turned her head to see a tall older man with white hair glaring at the dais. She recognized Joshua Oberman, the formidable chairman of Musica Records. “I have some of my retirement money in this company. I want to know the answers to these questions. Perhaps Mr. Foxton will oblige me.”

“And me,” called out a squat woman with thick glasses. She was Katia Hendorf, one of the Street's most respected analysts.

There was uproar. Gammon banged his gavel for quiet. But Michael still had the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am extremely concerned about the way this company is being run. Key staffers are fired while an ineffective management retains a private jet for top executives. Market share is being propped up by empty spending. If any investors are as concerned about this as I am, please feel free to stop Ms. Diana Verity outside the hall. We have printed our own report on Blakely's.”

Diana stood and gave a little nod to the spellbound room. She lifted up her Gucci briefcase, with its distinctive burgundy leather, so that they could all see it. Inside were the one-page summaries of the disastrous way Blakely's had been handled. They were easy to read, easy to understand.

They were devastating.

Diana looked across at her ex-husband and winked.

Michael silently handed the microphone back to the conference-hall flunky.

On the dais, Ernie's face was half white, half purple. He shouted over the hubbub. “This is a disgrace! That cow is my ex-wife, all right? And she's no better than a—”

There was a loud screech of feedback as Paul Gammon reached over and switched off Ernie's mike. For a few seconds, the hall watched in amazement as Gammon and Foxton shouted at each other. Then Ernie Foxton jumped to his feet, knocking his chair backward and, shoving board members out of the way, stormed out of the hall.

Michael squeezed her hand.

“I think we should be leaving now,” he said.

*   *   *

Ernie Foxton was a survivor. He walked out of the conference room, straight into the lobby, and stepped into the executive elevator that shuttled him from the sixteenth floor to the underground garage where his limo was always waiting.

“Wake up,” he shouted at Richard, his driver. “Get your fucking lazy little arse up and get me home, all right? Is the fax working?”

The chauffeur jumped out of his skin. He'd been trying to snatch a little rest in between airport shuttling these rich assholes. But Ernie Foxton was the worst of them all.

“Yes, sir, it's all there,” he mumbled. He straightened his cap and hurried to open the door for his boss. Foxton looked like someone had put a rocket up his ass. How great it would be if that were actually true.

“And fucking hurry up about it,” Foxton screeched. He had calls to make. His lawyers in London would be able to get him another job over there. The key thing was that he should lock in the cash before this news broke. His incompetent bloody lieutenants were responsible for all of this crap.

Ernie wasn't deceiving himself. That ball-busting bitch he'd married and that little wop fucker had shafted him. He'd get fired. And run out of New York.