Hard Rules (Dirty Money #1)(7)

I don’t turn, pausing only long enough to hear Derek’s low curse, nor do I stay for the argument certain to follow. I exit to the exterior office, shutting the door behind me and traveling the secretarial enclave with long, purposeful strides meant to lead me to a stiff drink I normally don’t entertain at this time of the day. An agenda that is derailed as I reach the hallway and my mother steps into my path.

“Shane, sweetie,” she greets me, looking forty when she’s actually fifty-something and sporting a sleek black dress that hugs her curves in a way no son would approve. “Is your father in?” Her brows dip, her hand closing on my arm. “You’re upset. What happened?”

It never ceases to amaze me how quickly she reads what I know is not on my face. “Nothing I can’t handle.” And knowing this isn’t the time or place to talk to her about Mike Rogers, I say, “I have work I need to attend to.”

“You mean you don’t want to talk about it.” Narrowing her pale blue eyes on me, she delicately swipes a lock of her long, dark hair behind one ear. “I don’t even need to know details because we both know you still aren’t listening to me. Take control and then make changes. That’s the only way this works.” She releases me. “I’ll talk to him. Call me later.” She moves around me and I step forward, only to have her stop me. “Oh and honey. If you plan to do more than f*ck the woman who put that lipstick on your collar, I expect to meet her.”

I have no idea how lipstick traveled to my collar, and really don’t care, but damn if a taste of the woman who put it there, doesn’t sounds really damn good right about now. And if I had her, my mother, and my entire damn family for that matter, wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near her.





Behind every great fortune, there’s a crime.



—Lucky Luciano





CHAPTER TWO


SHANE


Within fifteen minutes of my mother’s “lipstick” announcement, I’m already behind my cherrywood desk in the corner office opposite my brother’s, trying to focus on work, when Jessica, a tall blonde with spiky hair and an attitude, steps into the office.

“Your fresh shirt has arrived,” she says, indicating the garment in her hand. “And let me just say, if the woman responsible for your change of clothes put that scowl on your face, I’m personally requesting there’s no do-over.”

“The lipstick on my collar isn’t what it looks like,” I say, dropping my Montblanc pen on the desk. “If it was, I’d definitely be in a better mood.”

She hangs the shirt on the back of the door. “Sounds like an interesting story we both know you won’t tell me, so I won’t ask.” She crosses to stand in front of my desk and sets two folders in front of me. “The top one contains the top ten most profitable drugs in the world, along with risk assessments, lawsuits, and drug studies. The bottom contains the profiles of the key players who brought them to market.”

“Ever efficient,” I say. “Good work. Is—”

“Yes. Derek returned to his office just after you did.”

In other words, my father shut him down, which is, at least, a small piece of good news.

“Anna, his new secretary, followed him into his office and shut the door, a recent habit they’ve developed. I’m really quite thankful the walls in this place are thick because, I assume, he too will be in need of a fresh shirt. I guess it’s good to have a full-service assistant. She can do it all. I don’t. I won’t. But I promise you, I’m better than her.”

“Ah, Jessica. Leave it to you to keep things in perspective. I keep waiting for the day my brother tries to hit on you to get to my secrets. I want popcorn and front-row seats.”

“Please give me a reason to go Rocky on that man. I’ll leave you to your work.” She crosses the room, disappearing into the hallway and pulling my door shut without me asking. The woman is a jewel in a sea of stones.

I grab the folders and go to work, looking for our next play in the market, the one where the rest of Brandon Enterprises no longer exists. I start reading and I don’t stop, analyzing alliances I might form, products we might produce. My interests lead me to Internet research and an e-mailed list of prospective hires that I shoot to Seth. I’m deep into the second half of folder number one when I blink and look up to find Jessica setting a coffee on my desk, along with a bag I know has the croissants I favor inside. “It’s seven o’clock.”

I blink and look up at her. “How long have I been sitting here?”

“I believe you stretched your legs and walked to what I assume was the bathroom—I certainly hope so—at about four o’clock. So, three hours, not including the three before that break. What can I do to help?”

“Go home.”

“You’ve been here late every night for a month, Shane. You haven’t even changed your shirt. You need rest.”

“Thank you, Mother. I’m fine. Go home.”

“I’m twenty-nine years old, about to be thirty. For your safety, do not call me ‘mother.’”

“Go home,” I repeat.

“Fine,” she says, turning on her heel and marching toward the exit, disappearing into the hallway and shutting the door behind her. I rotate my chair to face the floor-to-ceiling windows wrapping the room. The city is soon to be aglow in light, but it will never compare to the view from my Manhattan office. Frustrated at myself for going there, I face forward again