Moonlighter (The Company, #1)(59)

“Seriously? Do you think he paid them off?”

Max shrugs. “Not necessarily. Women learn fast not to speak up against a rich guy with a mean streak. And then the cycle is self-perpetuating, because the asshole gets away with it again.”

Jesus Christ. “What happens if he can’t be pressured into signing?”

“Oh, he will be. The reason we waited so long is that he’s launching a road show for his next round of funding. He’s desperate for cash, and he’s lying to potential investors in his disclosure materials. Now we’ll get ‘im. Either he signs, or we embarrass the hell out of him.”

“But…” That doesn’t sound like enough leverage to me. “Isn’t every business presentation full of half-truths?”

Max gives me another of his maddening shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. He’s bet everything on this startup. He can’t afford to lose it.”

I shift in my chair, unsatisfied with this scenario. Although nobody asked me.

My brother smirks. “You still have a thing for Alex, don’t you?”

“No,” I grunt. Of course I do. But every guy knows better than to give his big brother more ammunition. “I just know how worried she must be.”

“You shouldn’t have gone there with her.”

“She’s a big girl,” I grumble. “Didn’t need your permission.”

“No kidding. But it’s just so messy. Her dad is one of our dad’s oldest friends. She’s my client. I’m legally prohibited from saying a word about her to anyone. And my mopey brother is sitting here pestering me for details.”

“I’m not mopey,” I mope.

He grins.

“I’m just having a shitty week.”

“I can tell. Why don’t you let me send one of my guys to pick you up at the hospital tomorrow?”

“Nah. I got it covered.” Sort of. My new plan is to ask the Bruisers intern to do it.

“Hang in there, Eric.”

“Thanks.” But I wish people would stop saying that to me. I get up slowly from the chair, while my knee screams.

“Want to have breakfast before I leave tomorrow?”

“Can’t eat before surgery, Max.”

“Ah.” He makes a face. “Sorry.”

“Yeah. Night.”

I go home alone.





21





Alex





“Wow, there’s a VIP elevator?” asks Duff, my newest driver and bodyguard.

“You bet.”

The doors swing open. “After you, Miss Alex.” He holds out a hand to allow me to step in first. Duff is twenty-two years old and cute in the same way that way that puppies are cute—with lots of tireless enthusiasm.

“Just wait until you see the owner’s suite. It will blow your doors right off.”

“Awesome!” His tongue is practically hanging out at the prospect of watching a Brooklyn game from a box hanging over center ice. Tonight, Brooklyn is hosting Pittsburgh. It should be a terrific game.

Duff is the only one who knows what a big hockey fan I’ve become this season. Usually I watch at home, camped out on the sofa in my den, shouting at the TV whenever Eric Bayer takes the ice.

Since I own a cable TV company, I have an eighty-five inch flat screen. It’s almost like being there. I can watch beads of sweat roll down Eric’s larger-than-life, lickable face in complete privacy.

Except once I screamed so loudly that Duff—who’s usually stationed outside my apartment in the hallway—came running in. “Miss Alex? Is everything okay?”

Everything was not okay. “That was a terrible call!” I’d shrieked. “Get that ref some glasses. I think he must be blind.”

“No way.” He’d watched the replay in horror. “So who’s on the first line tonight?”

That’s how we became hockey pals. And now—when he’s on duty and I’m not traveling—we watch the game together. It’s basically my whole social life. I work like a dog for ten or twelve hours a day, then I make popcorn to watch hockey with my man-child security guard. I’m too busy and too pregnant to make new friends. Also, I’ve been avoiding my old friends.

Until tonight.

We emerge from the elevator on the VIP level. I waddle down the hallway, belly first.

“You know which way to go?” he asks.

“Sure thing. Last season I came to a couple of games.” It was just a social event for me, though. I wasn’t invested in the game. I didn’t have a favorite player.

“Why’d you stop?” he asks.

“Just busy.” It’s only partly true. I’ve been avoiding my friends for too long now. But here I am, ready to show my face again.

And tonight is the night because I’m a nervous wreck. My legal team finally met with Jared Tatum today. Mere hours ago he was informed of my pregnancy and asked to relinquish custody.

So I spent the afternoon checking my phone for messages. And when my lawyers finally called, they told me that the meeting went as well as it could be expected. But that my stunned ex had asked for a few days to read the documents and to get back to them.

“He’ll sign, Alex,” my lawyer said. “Give him a little while to get his head around it.”