The Billionaire's Heart (The Silver Cross Club Book 4) (3 page)

“Clean water, huh?” I asked. “I’m intrigued. Tell me more.”

“His name’s Elliott,” Carter said. “He’s terrific. We grew up together. He’s one of my closest friends. I think you’ll like him. He’s a little… what’s the term? Crunchy.”

“Crunchy,” I repeated. “Like—wait a minute, are you telling me this guy’s a
hippie
?”

Carter laughed. “That’s what I’m telling you.”

A rich hippie. Oh God, what if he had white boy dreads? I wouldn’t be able to take him seriously at all. “What kind of work would he need me to do?”

“General branding, I imagine. Web design, that sort of thing,” Carter said. “I’m not entirely sure. We haven’t discussed it in depth. He’s only been back in New York for a few months. He was in Uganda for almost a year, and he came back in October to launch his company.”

Well, working for a clean water hippie would be immeasurably better than working for some amoral corporate behemoth. “Sure,” I said. “I’m game. Give me his number and I’ll call him tomorrow.”

“Great,” Carter said. “I’ll text you his number as soon as we’re done. He’ll be thrilled. The company’s very new, so he’s looking for good people to help him grow it. I’m not sure he’ll have a full-time position to offer you, but it will be steady contract work, at the very least.”

“That’s fine with me,” I said. “I’m sure I can rustle up some more freelance work.”

“I’ll be sure to let you know if I hear about anything else,” Carter said. “And don’t make that face. This is how the world operates, Sadie. It’s not a meritocracy. It’s about who you know. I know you hate it. I hate it, too, but there it is.”

“If you can’t beat them, join them, I guess,” I said.

“You and Elliott are going to get along great,” he said. “I should probably be worried. Put the two of you in a room together, and you’ll be overthrowing the capitalist bourgeois within six months.”

“That means you’ll be out of work and probably laboring away in a gulag somewhere,” I told him.

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” he said. “And now I have a meeting to attend, and you have a couple of phone calls to make.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll call Regan right away,” I said. “This afternoon. Definitely.”

“I know where you live, Bayliss,” he said, and hung up.

I rolled my eyes.

Shit. He hadn’t told me Elliott’s last name.

THREE

Elliott

I looked up from my laptop, eyes dry and aching, and glanced at my phone. No wonder my head was pounding: it was almost 9:00 in the morning, and I’d been at the office since the previous afternoon.

And had accomplished essentially nothing. Nice going, Sloane. What a productive all-nighter this had been.

I had what was colloquially referred to as “a problem.”

Or, as my father would call it, “an opportunity.”

Well. My father and I had somewhat different ideas about certain fundamental aspects of life.

Part of the reason he wasn’t currently speaking to me.

On cue, our last conversation re-played itself in full Technicolor glory, complete with visuals of the disappointment writ large on my father’s face.
You’re a dilettante, Elliott. A dabbler. I funded all of those trips abroad because I hoped they would help you realize how important it is to make something of yourself.

The implication, of course, being that I had not and never would serve as a useful cog in the industrial machine. That was what mattered to my father: money, and then more money, and pay no mind to anyone you stepped on during your climb to the top.

Anyone who couldn’t rise to the top of the heap didn’t belong there. Social Darwinism at its finest.

His words stung so much because they were, in part, true. I
had
dropped out of Harvard and spent most of my twenties backpacking around the world. I
had
abdicated from my expected position as heir to my father’s empire. And I
had
failed, at the advanced age of thirty-four, to settle down with an acceptable woman and start producing the next generation of Sloanes. My father had even picked out the perfect woman for me—well-mannered, biddable—and still I insisted on, as he put it, maintaining my foolish charade of independence.

But I hadn’t just been backpacking. I spent those years working with NGOs, first as a volunteer and then in various official capacities. I had been in Uganda for most of the last year, working on sanitation outreach with Médecins Sans Frontières. I hadn’t simply been gazing at my own navel.

Annoyed with myself, I shoved my laptop away and stood up, moving to stare out the window onto the street below. Even my silent excuses sounded weak to me. Whiny.
You’re trying to expunge your white guilt
, my father had said, sneering, and he was right. All of my motives were, at heart, selfish.

My father knew me too well. He knew precisely what to say, what barb to launch that would strike home and fill me with doubt.

I realized that I had clenched both hands into fists, and forced them to relax. I was a man, now, not a cowering boy, afraid of my own shadow. My father had no power over me.

Other than monetarily.

And there was the rub: he had cut me off. My personal accounts held enough money for a year of expenses, but after that—well. I would
make something
of myself, grow a profitable business, and finally be truly independent; or I would go crawling back to the paternal fold, dutifully accept my corporate role, and abandon every dream of creating a meaningful change in the world.

Either way, my father would win.

No son of his would be allowed to languish in obscurity.

Hence, my problem: I had an idea, but no product, and no capital with which to hire the people I needed to turn said idea into a reality. I knew venture capitalists aplenty, but they all wanted something more concrete than what I had. They wanted diagrams, research, bar charts.

I needed money to get the things that I needed to have in order to get money.

The universe had a sick sense of humor.

To get funding without a solid product spec, I would have to sell myself. I needed to convince potential investors that both I and my business were worth the risk. I would have to be charming and persuasive without coming off as too slick: a charismatic, upstanding guy with a worthwhile product.

And that was my problem: I was neither charming nor persuasive, and any attempt to sell myself would be roughly as successful as an eight-year-old trying to pick up a supermodel.

He’s reserved
, my mother always said.
The strong and silent type. Still waters run deep, you know.

The boy’s shy
, my father declared, and packed me off for elocution lessons.

Shyness was an unacceptable trait in a Sloane. I was no longer the awkward, tongue-tied adolescent I had once been, and practice and maturity had eased the worst of my social anxiety, but I would never have the easy manner that came so naturally to some people. Like Carter.

I sighed, and leaned my head against the window. My father had spent my entire life wishing that I were more like Carter Sutton. And, to be honest, I often wished for the same thing. Carter was everything I could never be: charismatic, successful, content with his lot in life. He had a lovely wife, an adorable child, a beautiful home, and a seemingly charmed existence.

I had—what? An empty office, a dwindling bank account, a hollow shell of a life.

All because I was determined to prove my father wrong.

I had a job waiting for me with MSF. I could already be back in East Africa, doing the work I loved. But some part of me—some weak, terrified part of me—was still the young boy desperate for his father’s approval.

I would never get it, of course. That ship had long since sailed.

And yet. Here I was.

My office phone rang, interrupting my reverie. I turned around and stared at it. As far as I knew, there were only three people who had that number, and they would have called my cell instead.

I took the few steps to the desk and snatched up the receiver. “Hello?”

“I’m calling for Elliott Sloane,” a voice said.

I raised my eyebrows. “This is he.”

“Mr. Sloane, great,” the man said. “Do you have a few minutes? Let me ask you a question: have you thought about life insurance recently?”

“Life insurance,” I repeated, incredulous.

“That’s right,” the man said. “Estate planning is a vital part of your full financial package. It’s important to provide for your heirs if, God forbid, something were to happen for you. You wouldn’t want to leave your loved ones alone and afraid, would you?”

“Don’t call this number again,” I said, and slammed the received back into its cradle.

Telemarketers. Unbelievable. You could move to the Empty Quarter, cancel your phone service, and reject every aspect of modern life, and they would still find you.

The phone rang again, and I cursed a blue streak before I realized that it was my cell phone and not the office line. Someone who actually knew me, then.

I picked up. “This is Elliott.”

“Answering your own phone? Surely a businessman of your caliber can afford to hire a secretary.”

I sighed. “Hello, Carter.”

“Long night? I thought we talked about the all-nighters.” He sounded amused, and well-rested. I despised him. “I have good news for you.”

I sat down in my chair and slouched down, head tipped back against the seat, staring up at the ceiling. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

“I found a graphic designer for you,” he said. “Assuming you’re still looking for one.”

“I’m still looking,” I said. “Tell me more.” I had grappled for some time with the necessity of hiring a graphic designer. Part of me thought it was an unnecessary expense, but I knew that I needed to present the company well in order to attract investors. At this point, I didn’t even have a website.

“She’s Regan’s friend,” he said. “And I know what you’re about to say, but you’re wrong. I’ve seen her work. She’s good.”

“Then I can’t afford her,” I said.

Carter sighed. “She just lost her job, so I’m sure you can. I wish you would let me give you some seed money. I believe in what you’re doing, and you know the money is nothing to me. A drop in the bucket.”

“Exactly,” I said. “That’s why I won’t accept.” I had no desire to be Carter’s charity project. If I started accepting handouts, my father would never believe that I had been successful on my own merits.

“You’re incredibly pig-headed,” Carter said. “That’s not a compliment.”

“Glad to know you care,” I said. My office line started ringing again, and I said, “I have to swear at another telemarketer. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Come over for dinner this weekend,” he said. “Regan wants to fuss at you a little.”

“Roger that,” I said, and hung up.

I picked up the land-line receiver with my other hand and said, “Sloane.”

“Mr. Sloane, I’d like to talk to you about life insurance!” a voice said.

“You must be fucking kidding me,” I said, and hung up.

It was shaping up to be a truly
excellent
day.

FOUR

Sadie

I called Elliott the morning after my conversation with Carter, who—thank God—had included Elliott’s last name in his text message, so maybe I wouldn’t sound like a complete idiot.

The phone rang and rang until I was about to hang up and try again later, when someone finally picked up.

“If you’re trying to sell me something, I’m not interested,” a deep voice said.

I raised my eyebrows. Elliott needed a better receptionist. “I’m not selling anything,” I said. “My name is Sadie Bayliss. I’m calling to speak with Elliott Sloane about—”

“He isn’t in,” the man said, and then he
hung up on me
.

I listened to the dial tone for about fifteen seconds before I realized what had happened. I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it in shock. What kind of company was this guy running?

I called back. Nobody answered, and the call went over to voice mail. Well, fine: at least that way I could finish my sentence. “This is Sadie Bayliss,” I said. “I’m friends with Carter Sutton. He told me that you’re looking for a graphic designer. You really need to hire a receptionist who doesn’t hang up on people.” I gave my phone number, and then said, with a touch of sarcasm, “I’m looking forward to hearing from you soon.” Hopefully Elliott would be a little more polite than his receptionist was.

I shook off my annoyance and headed to the hair salon. I had an appointment to get my hair braided. I’d been twisting it myself for the last few months, but I figured a freshly braided head of hair would make me feel awesome, and it probably wouldn’t hurt my job search.