The phone buzzes on my desk. “Hello,” I answer.
“Hi, Tristan Miles is on line two for you,” Marley replies.
“Tell him I’m busy.”
“Claire.” She pauses. “This is the third time he’s called this week.”
“So?”
“Pretty soon, he’s going to stop calling.”
“And your point is?” I ask.
“My point is we paid the staff out of the overdraft this week. And I know you don’t want to admit this, but we are in trouble, Claire. You need to hear him out.”
I exhale heavily and drag my hand down my face. I know she’s right; our company, Anderson Media, is struggling. We’re down to our last three hundred staff, having downscaled from the original six hundred. Miles Media and all of our competitors have been circling like wolves for months, watching and waiting for the perfect time to move in for the kill. Tristan Miles: the head of acquisitions and the archenemy of every struggling company in the world. Like a leech, he takes over companies when they’re at their lowest, tears them apart, and then, with his never-ending funds, turns them into huge successes. He’s the biggest snake in the snake pit. Preying on weaknesses and getting paid millions of dollars a year for the privilege. He’s a rich, spoiled bastard with a reputation for being acutely intelligent, hard as nails, and conscience-free.
He’s everything I hate about business.
“Just listen to what he has to say—that’s all. You never know what he might offer,” Marley pleads.
“Oh, come on,” I scoff. “We both know what he wants.”
“Claire, please. You can’t lose your family home. I won’t let that happen.”
Sadness rolls over me; I hate that I’ve found myself in this position. “Fine, I’ll hear him out. But that’s it,” I concede. “Schedule a meeting.”
“Okay, great.”
“Don’t get excited.” I smirk. “I’m just doing this to shut you up, you know?”
“Good, mouth officially shut from here on out. Cross my heart.”
“If only.” I smile. “Will you come with me?”
“Yes, for sure. We’ll stick Mr. Fancy Pants’s checkbook where the sun doesn’t shine.”
I giggle at the idea. “Okay, deal.”
I hang up and go back to my report, wishing it were Friday and I didn’t have to worry about Anderson Media and the bills for a few days.
Only four days to go.
Thursday morning, Marley and I power down the street on the way to our meeting. “Why are we meeting here, again?” I ask.
“He wanted to meet somewhere neutral. He has a table booked at Bryant Park Grill.”
“That’s odd—it’s not a date,” I huff.
“It’s probably all part of his grand plan.” She holds her hands up and does an air rainbow. “Neutral ground.” She widens her eyes in jest. “While he tries to fuck us up the ass.”
“With a smile on his face.” I smirk. “I hope it at least feels good.”
Marley giggles and then falls straight back into her coaching. “So remember the strategy,” she instructs me as we walk.
“Yes.”
“Tell me it again . . . so that I remember it,” she replies.
I smile. Marley is an idiot. A funny idiot nonetheless. “Stay calm; don’t let him ruffle my feathers,” I reply. “Don’t say an outright no—just keep him on ice in the background as an insurance policy.”
“Yes, that’s a great plan.”
“It should be—you thought of it.” We arrive at the restaurant and stop around the corner. I take out my compact and reapply my lipstick. My dark hair is twisted up into a loose knot. I’m wearing a navy pantsuit with a cream silk blouse, closed-toe high-heeled patent pumps, and my pearl earrings. Sensible clothes—I want him to take me seriously. “Do I look okay?” I ask.
“You look hot.”
My face falls. “I don’t want to look hot, Marley. I want to look hard.”
She scowls as she falls into character. “Totally hard.” She punches her hand with her fist. “Iron maiden snatch style.”
I grin at my gorgeous friend; her bright-red zany hair is short and punky, and her pink cat-eye glasses are in full splendor. She’s wearing a red dress with a bright-yellow shirt underneath with red stockings and shoes. She’s so trendy that she’s actually edgy. Marley is my best friend, my confidante, and the hardest worker in our company. She hasn’t left my side for the last five years; her friendship is a gift, and I have no idea where I would be without her.
“Yes. We’re twenty minutes early—I wanted to get here first. Get the upper hand.”
Her shoulders slump. “When I ask you if you’re ready, you’re supposed to answer with, ‘I was born ready.’”
I push past her. “Let’s get this over with.”
We drop our shoulders, steel ourselves, and walk into the foyer. The waiter smiles. “Hello, ladies. How can I help you?”
“Ah.” I glance at Marley. “We are meeting someone here.”
“Tristan Miles?” he asks.
I frown. How did he know that? “Yes . . . actually.”
“He has the private dining room booked upstairs.” He gestures to the stairs.
“Of course he does,” I mutter under my breath.
Marley curls her lip in disgust, and we make our way up. The top floor is empty. We look around, and I see a man out on the balcony on his phone. Perfectly fitted navy suit, crisp white shirt, tall and muscular. His hair is longer on top, dark brown with a curl. He looks like he belongs in a modeling shoot, not the snake pit at all.
“Holy fuck . . . he’s hot,” Marley whispers.
“Shut up,” I stammer, in a panic that he will hear her. “Act fucking cool, will you?”
“I know.” She hits me in the thigh, and I hit her back.
He turns toward us and flashes a broad smile and holds up a finger, gesturing he will be just a moment. I fake a smile; he turns his back to us to wrap up his call, and I glare at his back as my anger rises. How dare he make us wait. “Don’t speak,” I whisper.
“Can I whistle?” Marley whispers as she looks him up and down. “I totally want to wolf whistle the fuck out of this guy. Asshole or not.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose—this is a disaster already. “Please, just don’t speak,” I remind her again.
“Okay, okay.” She does a zip-her-lips-closed gesture.
He hangs up his call and walks toward us, confidence personified. Smiling broadly, he holds out his hand. “Hello, I’m Tristan Miles.” He’s all dimples and square jaw and white teeth and . . .
I shake his hand. It’s strong and large, and I’m immediately made aware of his blazing sexuality. The buzz he gives me makes me take an involuntary step back. I don’t want him to know that I find him attractive. “Hello, I’m Claire Anderson. Nice to meet you.” I gesture to Marley. “This is Marley Smithson, my assistant.”
“Hello, Marley.” He smiles. “Nice to meet you.” He gestures to the table. “Please take a seat.”
I sit down with my heart in my throat—great. As if I wasn’t ruffled already; he didn’t have to be good looking as well.
“Coffee? Tea?” He gestures to the tray. “I took the liberty of ordering us morning tea.”
“Coffee, please,” I reply. “Just cream.”
“Me too,” Marley adds.
He carefully pours us our coffees and passes them over with a plate of cakes.
I clench my jaw to stop myself from saying something snarky, and finally, he takes a seat opposite us. He undoes his suit jacket with one hand and sits back in his chair. His eyes come to me. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Claire. I’ve heard so much about you.”
I raise my eyebrow in annoyance; I hate that his voice is husky and sexual. “Likewise,” I reply.
I glance down and notice the black-onyx-and-gold cuff links and the fancy Rolex watch; everything about this guy screams money. His aftershave wafts between us. I try my hardest not to inhale—it’s otherworldly. I glance over at Marley, who is smiling goofily as she stares at him . . . totally besotted.
Great.
He sits back, relaxed and confident, cool and calculating. “How has your week been?”
“Fine, thanks,” I reply, my patience being tested. “Let’s just cut to the chase, Mr. Miles, shall we?”
“Tristan,” he corrects me.
“Tristan,” I reply. “Why do you want to meet with me so badly? What could possibly warrant you calling me five times a week for the last month?”
He brushes his pointer finger over his big lips, as if amused, and his eyes hold mine. “I’ve been watching Anderson Media for some time now.”
I raise my eyebrow again. “And do tell—what have you learned?”
“You are letting staff go every month.”
“I’m downsizing.”
“Not by choice.”
Something about this man rubs me the wrong way.
“I’m not interested in what you’re offering, Mr. Miles,” I snap. I feel a sharp kick under the table to my ankle, and I wince in pain. Ow . . . that hurt. I glance at Marley. She widens her eyes in a shut-up-now signal.
“How do you know I want to make you an offer?” he replies calmly.
How many times has he had this conversation? “Don’t you?”
“No.” He sips his coffee. “I would like to buy your company, but I’m not offering a free pass.”
“Free pass,” I scoff.
Marley kicks me again . . . oh shit, that hurt. I throw her a dirty look, and she fakes a broad smile. “Happy, happy,” she mouths.
“And what do you mean by a free pass, Mr. Miles?”
“Tristan,” he corrects me.
“I’ll call you whatever I want.”
He gives me a slow, sexy smile, as if loving every minute of this. “I can see you’re a passionate woman, Claire, and that’s admirable . . . but come on. Let’s be serious here.”
I roll my lips, willing myself to stay silent.
“The last three years your company has run at a massive loss. You’re losing advertising accounts left, right, and center.” He steeples his hand on his temple as he stares at me. “I’m guessing the financials are a nightmare.”
I swallow the lump in my throat as we stare at each other.
“I can take everything off your hands, and you can take a hard-earned break.”
Anger begins to pump through my blood. “You would love that, wouldn’t you? Play Mr. Nice Guy and take everything off my hands . . . come in on your horse and save the day like a white knight.”
His eyes hold mine, and a trace of a smile crosses his face.
“I will hold on to my company if it’s the last thing I do.” I again feel a swift kick, and I jump, losing the last of my patience. “Stop kicking me, Marley,” I splutter.
Tristan breaks into a broad smile as he looks between us. “Keep kicking her, Marley,” he says. “Kick some sense into her.”
I roll my eyes, embarrassed that my assistant is kicking the shit out of my ankles.
He sits forward, his purpose renewed. “Claire, let’s get one thing straight. I always get what I want. And what I want is Anderson Media. I can take it now from you for a good price that will protect you. Or”—he shrugs casually—“I can wait for six months until the liquidators move in and get it for next to nothing, and you can face bankruptcy.” He steeples his hands on the table in front of him. “We both know the end is near.”
“You self-conceited prick,” I whisper.
He tilts his chin to the sky and smiles proudly. “Nice guys come last, Claire.”
My heart begins to beat faster as my anger builds.
“Think about it.” He takes out his business card and slides it across the table.
TRISTAN MILES
212-555-4946
“I know this is not how you want to sell your company. But you need to be a realist,” he continues.
I stare at him, sitting there all cold and heartless, and I feel my emotions bubbling dangerously close to the surface.
Our eyes are locked. “Take the offer, Claire. I’ll email you a figure this afternoon. You will be taken care of.”
My sanity rubber band snaps, and I sit forward. “And who will take care of my late husband’s memory, Mr. Miles?” I sneer. “Miles Media sure as hell won’t.”
He twists his lips, uncomfortable for the first time.
“Do you know anything about me and my company?”
“I do.”
“Then you’ll know that this company was my husband’s labor of love. He worked for ten years to build it up from the ground. His dream was to hand it down to his three sons.”
His eyes hold mine.
“So . . . don’t you fucking dare”—I slam my hand on the table as my eyes fill with tears—“sit there with that smug look on your face and threaten me. Because believe me . . . Mr. Miles, whatever you’re dishing out isn’t half as bad as losing him.” I stand. “I’ve already been to hell and back, and I will not have some rich, spoiled bastard make me feel like shit.”
He rolls his lips, unimpressed.
“Don’t call me again,” I snap as I push back my chair.
“Think about it, Claire.”
“Go to hell.” I begin to storm to the door.
“She’s just having a bad day. We’ll definitely think about it,” Marley splutters in embarrassment. “Thanks for the cake—it was yummy.”
I angrily wipe the tears from my face as I run down the stairs and out the front doors. I can’t believe I was so unprofessional. Tears fill my eyes again. Oh well, at least I stood up to him, I guess.
Marley runs to keep up with me. She wisely stays silent and then looks up and down the street. “Oh, screw this, Claire—let’s not go back to work. Let’s go get drunk instead.”
Tristan
I stand at the window and stare over New York. My hands are in my suit pockets, and a strange feeling is burning a hole in my stomach.
Claire Anderson.
Beautiful, smart, and proud.
No matter how many times I’ve tried to wipe her out of my mind over the last three days since our meeting, I can’t.
The way she looked, the way she smelled, the curve of her breasts through her silk shirt.
The fire in her eyes.
She is the most beautiful woman I’ve seen in a long time, and her heartfelt words are playing on repeat.
“So . . . don’t you fucking dare sit there with that smug look on your face and threaten me. Because believe me . . . Mr. Miles, whatever you’re dishing out isn’t half as bad as losing him. I’ve already been to hell and back, and I will not have some rich, spoiled bastard make me feel like shit.”
I take a seat at my desk and roll a pen beneath my fingers as I mentally go over what I need to say. I have to call her and follow up on our meeting, and I’m dreading it. I exhale heavily and dial her number. “Claire Anderson’s office.”
“Hello, Marley. It’s Tristan Miles.”
“Oh, hello, Tristan,” she replies happily. “Are you after Claire?”
“Yes, I am. Is she available?”
“I’ll put you straight through.”
“Thank you.”
I wait, and then she answers. “Hello, Claire speaking.”
I close my eyes at the sound of her voice . . . sexy, husky . . . enticing.
“Hello, Claire. It’s Tristan.”
“Oh.” She falls silent.
Fuck . . . Marley didn’t tell her it was me.
An unfamiliar feeling begins to seep into my bones. “I just wanted to see if you were okay after our meeting. I’m sorry if I upset you.” I screw up my face . . . what are you doing? This is not in the plan.
“My feelings are no concern of yours, Mr. Miles.”
“Tristan,” I correct her.
“How can I help you?” she snaps impatiently.
My mind goes blank . . .
“Tristan?” she prompts me.
“I wanted to see if you would like to have dinner with me on Saturday night.” My eyes close in horror . . . what the fuck am I doing right now?
She stays silent for a moment and then replies in surprise, “You’re asking me out on a date?”
I screw up my face. “I don’t like the way we met. I would like to start again.”
She chuckles in a condescending tone. “You have got to be kidding. I wouldn’t go out with you if you were the last man on earth.” Then she whispers, “Money and looks don’t impress me, Mr. Miles.”
I bite my bottom lip . . . ouch. “Our meeting was nothing personal, Claire.”
“It was very personal to me. Go and find a bimbo to wine and dine, Tristan. I have no interest in dating a cold, soul-sucking bastard like you.” The phone clicks as she hangs up.
I stare at the phone in my hand. Adrenaline is pumping through my system at her fighting words.
I don’t know whether I’m shocked or impressed.
I’ve never been rejected before and definitely never been spoken to like that.
I turn to my computer and type into Google: Who is Claire Anderson?
