Saving the CEO (49th Floor #1)(56)

“I’m coming with you.”

“No! He likes me. It’s better for me to go alone.”

“I thought we agreed that he whatevers you,” Jack snarled.

Cassie just rolled her eyes and started getting dressed.

Fifteen minutes later she and Brian were hiking away from the house, down the main road, the only one that was plowed this time of year. Uncharacteristically silent, he trudged ahead of her, the crunch of the icy snow beneath their boots the only sound. After they’d gone maybe half a mile, he stopped abruptly and turned toward the woods that abutted the road. “We turn here.”

Cassie shivered, and it wasn’t from the cold. Maybe Jack had been right. “Where are we going?” she asked, though she knew that if he was planning something sinister, he probably wasn’t going to furnish her with the details ahead of time.

“I want to show you my tree house.”

Huh? Was that a euphemism for something?

“My father had it built in a giant tree just a little way in. When I was seven.”

Curiosity got the better of her. “Okay, lead the way.”

Five minutes later she stood at the base of a huge oak tree, looking up at an amazingly elaborate two-story structure perched fifteen feet up in its branches.

“It’s easier to climb if you take your gloves off,” Brian called down. When she hesitated, he said, “Don’t worry, this thing is rock solid. My father hired an architect and an engineering firm.”

She almost laughed at that. Okay, well, what the heck?

Gingerly, she made her way up, grabbing one wooden crossbar after another as she scaled the trunk.

“Wow,” she exclaimed once inside. She’d emerged into a room that was bigger than it seemed from the outside. The floor was covered with snow, but the wooden walls were smooth and polished. There were some old folding chairs, a small table, and some empty beer cans in one corner. And, startlingly, some remnants of the boy Brian had been endured. A half-finished model airplane that had seen better days lay in a corner and a fishing rod rested against the wall.

Well, if she thought finding herself in Muskoka this week was unexpected, obviously she’d never given any consideration to the idea of finding herself in a tree house in Muskoka.

“There’s a sleeping platform up there.” Brian pointed over his shoulder, wagging his eyebrows only slightly—almost self-mockingly.

“This place is amazing,” she said. “You must have loved it here as a kid.”

“It was all right.” He shrugged. “I’m really more of a city person.” He looked like he wanted to say more, so she practiced her bartender silent treatment. “Actually, I pretty much hated this island,” he added.

Hope sparked in her chest. Hated it enough to let his father sell it?

“I was an only child. At least in the city I had friends. Stuff to do. Here I had this.”

She wanted to snort her disbelief, her outrage at what he had taken for granted. What wouldn’t she have given to have had access to this place? To beaches and trails and snowmobiles and forests? And stars.

“I want you to tell me how much money Jack Winter will give us for the company.”

She blinked rapidly, her initial surprise followed by annoyance that he’d used the word “us,” when Wexler Construction was clearly the product of hard work by Wexler Senior alone.

“No one seems to want to name a figure, and I’d like to know how much.”

There was a figure being bandied about, a ballpark. But if neither Wexler nor Jack had told Junior, maybe they didn’t want him to know.

“I’m not an idiot, you know,” he said. “I know my father wants me to take over the company. And I know that I’d be a disaster at it.”

“You’d have a lot to learn, but you could do it.” Yeah, nice—try to talk the guy into blocking the sale. Still, a sliver of sympathy for him worked itself under her skin. Looking at Brian Wexler and his life crystallized the adage that money can’t buy happiness.

“Nah. Old dog, new tricks.” He picked up a stick and started drawing a swirl pattern in the snow on the floor. They were silent a moment, and then he looked up at her. “How much?”

She hesitated only a moment. “Seventy-eight million.”

He nodded.

“I’m being honest when I say I think it’s a fair price,” said Cassie.

“It’s a lot of money.”

Cassie was a little surprised to hear that coming from him. What was a lot of money to these people? What was pocket change? It was hard to tell. “You could do a lot of things with that much money,” she said lamely. She meant that he could found a company he was interested in, could help people. But he was probably thinking more about trips and cars and other luxuries.

“I want you to ask me nicely. That’s all I want. Someone to ask me nicely.”

“Excuse me?”

He looked up at her, and if she’d seen any vulnerability in his eyes before, it was gone. “I want you to ask me nicely not to block the sale.”

Cassie wasn’t sure if she should follow her natural instinct, which was to throw up on his shoes, or do what he asked. Being bossed around by such an immature creep made her stomach churn. But if “asking nicely” was all it took to facilitate the deal, what did it really matter?