The Billionaire Bargain #3(14)

I tossed back the rest of my cappuccino in one gulp and blinked away the tears in my eyes.

There was still good in the world. And the bad that was in the world with it—that could be fought. A good company could fight it, by creating jobs, by fostering a supportive atmosphere, by using its profits to create or support political and social initiatives.

And as I thought about those teenagers and that homeless man, I knew what I had to do.

I hadn’t put in all this time and effort to watch Devlin Media Corp go down. A takeover meant jobs shipped overseas, mass unemployment. The company would be broken into parts and sucked dry for the enrichment of the people at the top, like a carcass ripped into pieces and feasted on by vultures. I couldn’t let that happen to all our employees, to all those people who were still counting on me.

I stood to pay, and was momentarily distracted by the couple at the opposite end of the restaurant. Not that they were doing anything flashy—just the opposite. She was leaning back against his shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and his arm curved around her without a second thought. I felt a pang of loss in my heart, though it was a loss of something I’d never had. Not really.

Okay, I admit it. It wasn’t just the employees I was worried about. I couldn’t let this disaster of a takeover happen to Grant either. However much he had tried to hide it, I knew how much Devlin Media Corp meant to him. He had honored me by telling me so when we were together, and it was time to repay that trust.

I shoved a handful of bills into the grip of the surprised waitress—I was over-paying her by about 100%, but I didn’t have time to calculate exact tips—and filled with resolve, grabbed my keys and marched to the spot I had parked my car this morning. I had things to do, places to be.

Before I knew it, I was hammering my fist on Grant Devlin’s door.





SEVEN


And before I knew it, the door was swinging open—revealing Grant Devlin in nothing but a pair of black boxers.

Damn. My eyes involuntarily traveled the length of his body, ripped and tanned and glistening with sweat as if he had just been working out, or maybe tossing and turning in bed, alone or with company. Those boxers clung to his hips with just a tantalizing bit of give, the light dusting of hair thinning to just a shadow above the elastic band. He was close enough that I could have just reached out and—

His eyes narrowed as if he could read my thoughts, and he ran a hand through his ruffled brown hair as if to draw my attention to its tousled state, and further fire my jealousy.

I felt myself go weak at the knees just looking at him. Oh, that bastard. How could he still be so sexy to me after everything he had put me through?

“Couldn’t get enough after all?” Grant drawled lazily, propping himself in the doorway at an angle that both effectively barred my entry and showed off his biceps and pecs to drool-inducing advantage.

Focus, Lacey!

I squared my shoulders and barreled forward, the shock of my advance knocking him out of the way despite his strength advantage. I walked rapidly down the hall; it was a lot easier to keep my resolve when I didn’t have to look him in the face. “We need to talk.”

“My, my, you are eager,” Grant snapped from behind me, abandoning all pretense of languor. I heard the door slam shut in anger. “Has it been a whole hour for you?”

I whirled on him, anger flaring. “Will you cut the bullshit for once? We’re in real trouble!”

Something about my tone, or maybe my eyes, must have alerted him that I really meant what I was saying, because he took a step back and raised his hands defensively before lowering them and asking, slowly, “What kind of trouble?”

I was so surprised by his capitulation that it took me a few seconds to find the words. Only when his eyebrow began to rise did I blurt out: “Portia is engineering a hostile takeover!”

I led us into the living room and told him everything I had observed at Rama, pulling up the information on James C. Brandt on Kate’s phone—sending out a quick mental thank-you to her for letting me borrow it—to show him the long and storied history his hedge fund had of partnering with an ally within the company, and using that person to divide loyalties and smooth the way for his takeover. As I talked, Grant’s face grew more and more worried, but the skepticism failed to fade entirely from his eyes.

“Why on Earth would Portia do such a thing?” he said when I finally ran out of breath. He ran a hand through his hair, looking baffled, uncertain, and concerned at the same time. And perhaps a little hurt? “She has everything she needs in her current position, and I’ve responded to all her concerns as best I can. What could she stand to gain?”

“I can’t say, Grant, I’m not in her head,” I said wearily, sinking down onto the couch. I looked up at him earnestly. “But you saw how she was acting in the meeting. All that sudden concern over costs? Making allies beforehand to try to ambush and pressure you? Playing nicey-nice to keep the conversation rolling after you said things that would have gotten your head bitten off any other time? Tell me you’re not a little bit weirded out about all that.”

Grant chewed his lip, looking off into the distance. “It was strange, I admit. I didn’t pay the attention to it at the time that I could have, because…”

I waited for him to finish the sentence, but he let it trail off and began to pace around instead.