Until I'm Yours (7 page)

“You don’t believe that any more than I do.” I hesitate before giving a mental “screw it” and going all the way. “And Deutimus won’t be trapped in the crosshairs of that. It’s not just jobs at stake. Wrapped up in our company, there are lives, there are families. They’re people I made a commitment to, and I have no intention of letting them down.”

Sofie and I stare at each other in the dimming light of the rooftop lanterns, in the waning light of the moon.

“Bishop, you have the kind of mind, the kind of heart, that changes people’s lives when they meet you, and I’m just a model. I smile and look pretty.” Sofie’s gaze wanders over the partygoers around us before returning to me. “But can
I
give
you
a piece of advice?”

I nod, eyes fixed on the resigned expression she wears.

“If you care about those families, about those people who depend on you, whatever you do,” she says, eyes as sharp and bright as the rare diamonds in our African mines, “don’t trust my father.”

“What do you mean?” She has my full attention, because when it comes to the people who rely on me for their livelihoods, I can’t be too careful.

“He uses the things and people you care about against you to get what he wants.” Sofie’s mouth cracks into a hard smile. “Since he cares about no one but himself, not even his own daughter, he doesn’t have those pesky liabilities.”

“Did he hurt you?” The desire to squeeze the breath out of Ernest Baston’s body takes over for a few seconds, surprising me with its intensity.

She looks from my scowling face to the hand clenched around my glass.

“Not in any way you would imagine, no.”

“Why are you telling me this? Warning me about your father?” Even though I had ascertained this information for myself already, it means something to me that she’s sharing it.

“Because you’re a good man.” She crooks that wide, beautiful mouth a little. “And there aren’t enough of those out there. Mostly frogs, from my experience.”

“If I’m such a good man,” I say, going in for the kill, “once you’ve dumped the quarterback, and we both know you will, have dinner with me.”

Sofie’s laughter strikes a discordant note in the cooling night air.

“You just don’t give up, do you?” She lowers her lashes and shakes her head. “A good man should have a good girl. I’m not a good girl, Bishop. Take out someone like Marlee. You two can talk about the Peace Corps and the starving children in Africa.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what exactly?”

“Put up that guard and pretend to disparage something you want because you’re not sure how to get it.”

Her face tells me she’s shocked by how much I see. So much so that she has to pretend I’m wrong.

“You don’t know me and you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Sofie pushes away from the bar, sets her glass down, and turns to walk away. I grab her elbow, gently and firmly. She tilts her head back, connecting our eyes.

“I see you, Sofie.” I dip my head the few inches to bring our eyes level so she can read me as easily as I read her. “You’re not just a pretty face and a tastefully done
Playboy
spread. There’s a lot more to you than that.”

“Sofie!” a voice calls over a few heads.

We both follow the direction of that voice.

Aw, hell.

I grit my teeth when I see Rip heading our way. Sofie pulls away, but not before Rip’s eyes draw a line between me and his girlfriend, a frown settling on his commercial-ready face. This guy has no idea who Sofie is. I doubt he cares if she hungers for significance. That she wants to be more than just a walking, talking beauty brand. I can see how he and everyone else would assume that’s all there is to her because she hasn’t shown them anything else. I see her with unexpected clarity, though, like a gem under a loupe lens. Guys like Rip will never challenge her to be any more than the girl on his arm and in his bed. She’s more than that. She’s worth more than that, and I want her to know it.

Dumb move on my part, but I follow her, and when she’s only a few steps away from Rip, I grab her gently by both elbows, pulling her into me until her back is flush to my chest. I lean down so that my words will reach only her ears.

“Sof, I’m leaving for Cambodia tomorrow.”

Her long, slim body stiffens against me, but she doesn’t glance up or back to look me in my eyes.

“If you haven’t gotten rid of him by the time I get back, you know that rule I have about not going after other guys’ girls?”

She does look up at me then, eyes guarded and uncertain, yet somehow knowing.

“I’m breaking it.”

I
miss the ocean.

My arms feel like overboiled noodles barely dragging me through the electric blue, chlorinated water in the Brooklyn athletic club up the street from my sister’s house. I long for the tumult, the capriciousness, the wild beauty of water deeper and wider than this tame rectangle marked in feet and inches. I want fathoms so deep I’m not sure when I’ll reach the bottom, or if I ever can.

I’ve lost count of how many laps this makes. When I was a kid, I had so much pent-up energy, I couldn’t focus and ended up in fights. Just as doctors started recommending medication, my father got me into football. And basketball. And swimming. Physical activity has been my drug of choice ever since. It focuses me, centers me, in a way nothing else ever does.

I haul myself onto the edge of the pool, chest heaving and arms trembling. I can tell I haven’t been training. I stopped counting laps, but I know I can usually do more than I did this morning. Out of habit, I run my hands up my face to push back my hair, but there isn’t much hair to push away. I buzzed it down when we were in Cambodia. Harold and I just got back two days ago, but I’m already pining for the open waters of the Atlantic down at Tybee Island, where I have a beachside property I don’t get to use nearly enough.

The pool door opens, and Harold strides over to me, dressed in gym shorts and a T-shirt. He sits down beside me, taking off his running shoes and socks, dangling his legs in the pool.

“I figured I better come make sure you hadn’t drowned.” He hooks a towel around the back of his neck. “Man, you’ve been in there forever.”

“Have I?” I snatch a towel from a nearby stack, wiping water away from my eyes and face.

“I knew you’d need to burn off some steam after that meeting with Ernest Baston.” Hesitation settles on Harold’s face. “Are we pulling out of negotiations?”

I consider my partner and best friend, holding my words for a few more moments. This was never meant to be permanent. We were twenty-one years old when we started the Deutimus journey. We said we’d give it five years to see if it succeeded, and it’s surpassed all our expectations. Helped more people and made more money than either of us ever anticipated. But it was never supposed to be forever. We’re both eager to find a partnering business that shares our values and can take Deutimus to the next level, but we can’t compromise on commitments we made to the people all over the world who bought into this vision. Who have, in many ways, staked their futures on it.

“I’m kind of relieved Ernest showed his hand yesterday,” I say.

“Well, he didn’t as much show it as couldn’t hide it when you started probing.”

I pressed Ernest on keeping indigenous workers, on making sure that Bennett wouldn’t use employees from other countries to cut costs since restoring economic power to the people in developing nations was the whole point. Not just amassing more economic power for ourselves. Ernest’s polite mask fell away, and the ruthless businessman showed the ugly mercenary truth. I know it’s about the bottom line for them, but that just means they may not be the right company to partner with.

“So are we done with Bennett?” Harold tries to hide the disappointment in his voice, but I hear it.

“I’m done with Ernest Baston,” I correct. “I still think Bennett Enterprises
could
be the right partner.”

“But Ernest—”

“Ernest’s last name is Baston, not Bennett.” I stand and dry off. “Walsh is the future of Bennett Enterprises. Him, I’ll stay at the table with.”

“If he’d been there yesterday like originally planned,” Harold says, “things would have gone differently.”

“Yeah, I think Ernest thought so, too. That’s why he pushed to still meet even though Walsh got held up in Hong Kong.”

“So what do we do, Bishop? We have other offers.”

“I’m not ready to abandon Bennett yet. I think we wait. We made our position perfectly clear. Let’s see what their next move will be.”

“Sounds good.” Harold stands. “I’m gonna shower. You coming?”

“In a little bit. I want to get some steam first.”

Stripped down to just a towel, I lean back against the wall in the steam room. I draw a deep eucalyptus-infused breath, letting the steam soothe the muscles I stretched to the limit. The door opens, and I close my eyes. I’m not in the mood for some near-naked guy who enjoys a good, steamy chat. I hear him settle on the other end of the bench, but just slump my shoulders against the wall, hoping he takes the hint.

“Funny meeting you here.”

My eyes snap open when I recognize that voice. Not much surprises me anymore, so I’m not sure why Walsh Bennett in my steam room should.

“Bennett, you’re quite resourceful, aren’t you?” I lean my head back against the wall, but remain alert. “I know you aren’t a member here, so to what do I owe this dubious honor?”

He grins at me through the scented steam.

“I heard things didn’t go well yesterday with Ernest,” Walsh cuts right through the steam and the small talk.

“If you would say Hiroshima ‘didn’t go well’—I cross my arms over my chest—“then, yes, that’s how I would characterize yesterday’s meeting with Baston.”

“Look, I know he can be a bit of an asshole.”

I open one eye, cock one brow.

“Okay.” Walsh chuckles, settling back against the wall. “He’s a total dick, but what if I can guarantee you deal only with me?”

I lean forward, elbows to my knees, and give him my most candid look.

“Only you can’t make many guarantees right now, can you? Not with things about to become so unstable at Bennett.”

Speculation narrows Walsh’s eyes.

“What have you heard?”

“It’s not what I’ve heard. It’s what’s obvious to anyone paying attention.” I pour a portion of eucalyptus into a small pot against the wall, intensifying the scent. “Your father is at the end of the road, and when he retires, the transition of power won’t go as smoothly as he had hoped. Am I right?”

A muscle ticks in Walsh’s jaw, but his face gives me no other indication that I’m even close.

“I propose that we take a back channel approach,” Walsh finally says.

So he’s going to ignore what I said, only confirming that I’m right.

“Back channel?” I lean into the sweating wall. “What are you thinking?”

“I need it to look like you’re walking away from this deal.” Walsh lifts one brow and one corner of his mouth. “But don’t. Don’t talk to anyone else. Wait for me to get things settled at Bennett, and then once I’m in charge, we resume talks.”

“Where do you expect opposition to come from at Bennett?”

“Everywhere.” Walsh scoots forward, until he’s barely on the bench. “But don’t worry. I’m ready for whatever Ernest and anyone else throws at me.”

“You sure about that?”

“Always.” Walsh leans back, stretching his long legs out in front of him and linking his hands behind his head, his casual posture not fooling me. “So what’ll it take for you to agree to this? We can’t put any of this in writing. It has to stay off the books, but I trust you.”

“Why do you trust me?” He
can
trust me, but I’m interested to know how he figured that out so quickly.

“Let’s just say I never go into a deal without knowing who I’m dealing with.”

I’ve heard that anyone working with Walsh should expect to have their past and present excavated because he digs so deeply.

“So what’ll it take?”

I love it when opportunities fall into my lap like apples. Harold and I had already decided we would wait for their next move, that we’d stick with Bennett for now. I’m getting something I want in exchange for something I was already prepared to give Walsh. It’s great being me. I also love that as prepared as Walsh likes to think he is, and as much as he likes to think he has dug up on me, I’m about to take him completely by surprise.

“We’ll stay in play if you give me Sofie Baston’s number.”

Walsh just blinks at me for a few seconds, until the request registers. A frown settles between his eyebrows. His mouth tightens.

“I don’t think that—”

“That’s it. Not much to ask.”

“Sofie?” Walsh’s frown goes deeper if possible. “Sofie Baston?”

“About this tall.” I bring my hand up as high as my nose. “Legs that go on forever. I think you know her.”

“Look, Bishop, I get it.” Walsh grins at me. “Sofie’s beautiful, obviously. And lots of guys—”

“I don’t care about lots of guys.” My voice comes out harder than I expected. Obviously harder than Walsh did, too, judging by the sharp look he levels at me. “You give me that number, or today we start calling all the other companies prepared to meet our terms.”

“That doesn’t make any conventional business sense.”

“Says the man ambushing me in a steam room to do business wearing nothing but a towel. Neither of us got where we are being conventional. We both know what we want, and go after it.”

“And you want Sofie?”

“Obviously.” I don’t sprinkle sugar on it. I don’t explain it to him because it’s none of his damn business what I want with Sofie.

“I wouldn’t have pegged you—”

“Trying to peg me would be a mistake, Bennett. Waste of your time and insulting to me.”

Walsh stands up, gripping the ends of his towel together at one hip.

“I’ll get you the number, but let me warn you.” He turns at the door. “I know Sofie seems tough, but she’s been through a lot. Guys have hurt her in the past.”

“Like you did?” The question is a dart I aim through the scented air.

Walsh might punch me if he could. Only the business we still have pending, the twenty pounds and couple of inches I have on him, probably stop him.

“Yeah, like I did,” he finally responds. “Sofie and I grew up together, and dating her was a mistake, but we’re still friends. She’s not an easy woman to know.”

I hope the smile I give Walsh doesn’t come off as cocky, because right now I’m feeling pretty satisfied with myself.

“Which is why I need your help.”

“One more thing, Bishop.” Walsh angles his head down, looking at me from beneath a slash of dark brows. “Because of my, shall we say research, I think I know what you want to do next.”

“Next?” I focus on keeping the line of my shoulders even and relaxed. “Not sure what you mean.”

“One of the things I admire about you most is that you, like me, actually want to change the world, and are foolish enough to think you can do it. You understand that even as much good as Deutimus is doing, it’s sometimes like blowing on a wildfire.”

He presses his back to the door, pushing it ajar and releasing some of the steamy air trapped in the room.

“You need to work from inside, to be in a position to influence those corrupt bastards leading these countries and making it hard for their own people to thrive.”

“Let’s say your right,” I say. “What does any of that have to do with me and Sofie?”

“I know what you want next, and you can’t have scandal if you’re going to get it. Sofie draws scandal like bees to honey. I’m just saying you may not be able to have both.”

“Walsh, your father recently told me that I remind him of you,” I say. “I’d like to test that theory. How do you respond when someone says you can’t have something you want badly?”

A lopsided grin skews Walsh’s lips. He turns to leave, tossing his last words over his shoulder.

“I’ll get you that number.”