Written on the Wind (The Blackstone Legacy #2)(104)
Liam followed. He didn’t trust Morse alone with this woman, and he monitored the interaction from the open doorway of an elaborate, book-lined study.
“Please address the check to Molinaro Ice Cream,” the woman said primly.
Morse affected an indulgent grin as he opened a desk drawer and removed a leather book of checks. The smile did not reach his eyes as he wrote out the check, the pen scratching in the silence of the heavily carpeted, silk-draped room.
Liam took the opportunity to study the young woman. She was slim but strong. They had the same coloring, with olive-toned complexions and glossy dark hair. Her pretty, gamine face was full of character, even with the faint white scar that bisected an eyebrow.
She must have felt his stare, because her gaze flicked to his face, and he flashed her a wink.
She flushed and looked back at the bank draft as Morse pulled it from the notebook, gently wafting the slip of paper to dry the ink. Several seconds passed in silence. If Liam wasn’t a witness, he suspected Morse would make her beg for the check.
“Give it to her,” Liam said.
Morse continued fanning a few more seconds before flicking the check toward the woman with a twist of his fingers. “Don’t spend it all in one place,” he said with a smirk.
The woman snatched it from his hand, then whirled to leave the room.
“Thank you, sir,” she whispered as she passed Liam, trailing the soft scent of vanilla as she hurried down the hall.
Morse resumed his seat and looked up at Liam. “This whole apology nonsense is not going as swimmingly as Fletcher hoped, is it? But what a good little soldier you are to come across town and offer it.”
Heat began gathering beneath his collar, but he wouldn’t let Morse goad him. At this very moment there were 160,000 men showing up to work in sweltering steel mills. They had a long, grueling week of dangerous labor ahead of them, and Liam was their only voice. He wouldn’t let Charles Morse run him off the board.
“Fletcher wants what’s best for the company, and that means you and I need to get along,” he said.
“Fletcher wants to make money,” Morse corrected him. “He needs me on the board because he knows I can make it happen. What I can’t understand is why he needs you.”
Liam raised his chin a notch. “He needs me because the unions trust me. I can keep peace in the mills.”
“You were appointed to the board because of family connections,” Morse said dismissively.
Liam tried not to wince, but the charge was true. If Liam weren’t a Blackstone, he wouldn’t have had the leverage to demand a position on the board. Everyone knew it, and Morse gloated.
“You have nothing but an eighth-grade education and a history of rabble-rousing from your days in the union,” Morse continued. “I could go into any steel mill in America and find men who are more intelligent, more articulate, and better educated than you. You’ve still got calluses on your hands and a chip on your shoulder.”
Liam skewered Morse with a look of contempt. “I don’t need your approval. Any man who would stiff a woman over $95 worth of ice cream isn’t someone whose good opinion I value.”
“You’d better start valuing it,” Morse said in a silky tone. “No one on the board likes you. Everyone wants you off, and I’ve decided to call for a vote of no confidence. I’ve wanted to call it since the day your family forced us to accept you onto the board, and after your stunt yesterday, I’ve got enough men on my side to vote you off. I’m going to introduce a resolution to oust you from the board. I expect it will pass with flying colors.”
An ache began in the pit of his belly. Liam had known since his first board meeting that he was in over his head. All those men had college educations and friendships that dated back to when they were in short pants. While his fellow board members grew up in New England boarding schools learning to play polo and speak foreign languages, Liam was shoveling coal into furnaces at a Pittsburgh steel mill.
“Hogwash,” Liam said. “The only reason the unions didn’t go on strike was because they know I’m on the board and looking out for them.”
Morse shrugged. “None of those men get to vote. This afternoon the board will discuss how to recapitalize the sinking funds for our subsidiaries and whether we should renegotiate the maturity dates. Each member will be expected to offer his opinion. And yours is?”
Silence stretched in the room. Liam rarely spoke at board meetings on anything besides worker compensation because he lacked the qualifications to have an informed opinion. Everyone knew it. He clenched his teeth, scrambling for a way to defend himself, when Morse offered a surprisingly kind concession.
“Come, Liam. You accomplished your mission in getting the steel workers a considerable pay raise last year, but now it’s time for you to go back home and enjoy the fruits of your accomplishments. Your father would be proud of you.”
Liam stiffened at the mention of his father.
“Did I ever tell you that I knew your father?” Morse asked. “What a rare combination of academic brilliance and compassion. He was always so even-tempered and gentle. He founded a college, correct?”
“He did.”
“It must be intimidating to walk in Theodore Blackstone’s footsteps.”
It was the first entirely true statement Liam had ever heard Morse say. Yes, it was intimidating to be such a great man’s son, and Liam desperately wanted to be worthy of his father’s legacy. The only way he could ensure his father’s humanitarian interests would triumph over men like Charles Morse was to keep his seat on the board.