The Billionaire Bargain #3(13)
Kate was holding her stomach trying to keep in the laughter. I shot her a warning look; background giggles would definitely give us away.
“I see,” the receptionist said slowly. “Well, we can certainly accommodate a delivery, if you would care to stop by—”
“Well, gosh, sure, thanks!” I bubbled like an out-of-control water cooler. “But it’s like, for her eyes only? And, like, the delivery boy has to know the name the reservation is under? And I can’t remember if it’s Smith or one of her business partners and OMG this is so embarrassing but I totally forgot their names? Like, one of them—” I cast my memory back to the sight of Portia entering Rama—“he’s like, older, bald, blue suit, kind of a hatchet chin? And another one, he’s younger, slicked back blonde hair, black suit, sort of, like, a button nose? And there’s about three other guys with them, basically dressed the same, like totally a clone army, you know?”
“Er…” I could hear the uncertainty in the receptionist’s voice. “We’re really not supposed to give out that kind of information, I’m sure you understand—”
“Oh my gosh, please, I’ll be like, totally indebted to you!” I pleaded, trying not to look at Kate, who was steadily losing it, hand clapped over her mouth as she writhed in laughter. “She’ll totally murder me with a slide rule or something if I don’t get this to her, and I really need this job!”
“I’m sorry, and I’d really love to help, but—” the receptionist began.
I had one card left, and no more options. “Please! It’s minimum wage, and my rent’s already late this month, and if I get fired I’ll have to bring my cat back to the animal shelter and move back in with my parents!”
I waited, mentally willing the receptionist to soften, while Kate shook with thankfully silent giggles.
“Oh, very well, as long as you check in with the maitre d’,” the receptionist caved. I heard the sound of flipping pages as she searched through the reservation book. “Ah, here it is. Party of five, under the name…James C. Brandt.”
“Oh, like, thanks so much! You’re a literal lifesaver.” I hung up and turned to Kate. “I need to borrow your phone.” I reached into her purse and took it.
Kate managed to stop laughing long enough to look confused. “What? Why? There’s a phone in your other hand, Lacey, you just used it!”
“I need to borrow your phone because you have a smart phone, and my phone still remembers the good old days where this entire valley was mastodon as far as the eye could see.” I typed ‘James C. Brandt’ into Google, and then swore at the bad news.
“That quick?” Kate asked. “Damn, your Google-fu is strong. So what now? Are these guys her coven or something? Do they drink the blood of the innocent? Are they planning to sacrifice babies at the full moon?”
“Worse,” I said grimly, and turned the phone around so that Kate could see. “These guys run a hedge fund, and they’ve tried to buy out the company before.” I swallowed, hard. “Portia is plotting a hostile takeover.”
? ? ?
I sat at the Codex Café across from Rama; Codex was the kind of place that had once been miles beyond my budget, but still seemed like a fast-food joint next to Rama. Kate and I had long since seen Portia and her cronies leave through the view from Codex’s front window, and half an hour ago Kate had left too, with her apologies.
But still I stayed, sipping another twenty dollar cappuccino served in a cup so tiny that it looked like it had been made for an American Girl doll. I had a lot to think over.
I stirred my cappuccino with a minuscule spoon, too twisted up inside to really taste and enjoy it. What should I do?
Hell, what could I do?
Grant clearly wanted me gone. He’d made that obvious. I’d tried to air my concerns about Portia with him, but he hadn’t been interested in my opinion. Were he and the company really worth the time, effort, and heartbreak it would take to communicate to him that there was real danger? Would I even be able to communicate that to him at all? Or at the end of all my attempts, would he still sneer and coolly dismiss me?
Maybe I should just seek out another job and get myself out of his sight. If Portia was attempting a hostile takeover, was it really my concern? After all, at the end of the day, what did I really owe Grant Devlin?
My eyes were drawn to a moment in the street—the jerky motion of a homeless man as he made his way down the road carrying a cardboard sign that said in black marker: WAR VET—OUT OF WORK—PLEASE HELP.
Living in the warm, temperate climate of the West Coast, you see a lot of homeless people, to the point where after awhile, you start to harden your heart just to keep from getting it broken every day. But something about the opulence of our surroundings made his dirty, ragged clothes and sad shuffle seem even more poignant than usual.
Then I saw the group of teenagers headed straight towards him, and my heart seized up. Were they going to beat him up? Call the cops on him? Should I call the cops on them—
I was frozen in indecision, my hand halfway to my cell phone in my purse, and then I saw something amazing.
Two of the teenagers reached into their pockets and pulled out money.
Over the man’s evident protests that they not give him so much, they stuffed it into his pockets. Another reached out to shake his hand, and the fourth offered him a military salute.