Page 38 of Miles & Mistletoe

“A reporter from the Financial Times called Andre Collins’ office requesting information on the deal. It was the same with Acosta. Said they received a call from a reporter that Zerlinger was playing hardball with the product and making them look weak.”

I shook my head, confused. “A reporter? How the hell does that type of inside information come from a reporter?”

“They had to be informed by someone.”

“Obviously,” I retorted rather sarcastically, however I didn’t care in that moment. It was starting to sound like someone was setting out to deliberately destroy my company. Or at the very least, cast Zerlinger in a negative light. “How long have you known about this?”

“A few days. It’s what I was calling you about.”

“You never said—”

“Did you listen to my last voicemail?”

“No,” I admitted.

Jamie looked at me as if to say see?

Sighing, I ran a hand through the short hairs of my trimmed beard. This wasn’t making any sense. “What does the reporter know?”

“Enough. He knew that you met with Nikola Collins a few weeks back in New York at a holiday party not long after Thanksgiving. He knows you had dinner with Zerlinger’s bottle maker just a few days after that. He knew enough of the conversations you held with Nikola regarding the buyout of his subsidiary company in Canada …” Jamie trailed off.

My jaw clenched. To be provided with that type of information, whoever had called the reporters in the first place had to be someone with intimate details of Zerlinger Beer.

“That’s not all.”

I turned back to Jamie, not wanting to hear what else she had to say, but obviously needing to.

“The reporter from FT said that the person who called them demanded to be paid, as if they were some type of tabloid. When he told her he couldn’t pay her, she said fine as long as the story made it to the public so people know who the real Ian Zerlinger was.”

“Her?” I questioned.

Jamie swallowed and nodded slowly. Apparently it was a woman who called with the anonymous tips.

My mind raced, thinking of any disgruntled female employees who could be behind this. None were coming to mind.

“Ian,” Jamie called.

I thought about the administrative assistant I had fired about six months ago for incompetence. She had been caught spending too much time on social media while she was supposed to be working. But that didn’t make sense. She wasn’t high up enough within the company to know about the deals Jamie was referring to. Plus, she had been dismissed before these deals had even taken place.

“Ian,” Jamie called again.

No, it wasn’t Shelly or Suzanne, or Sharon, I couldn’t recall her name.

“Ian!”

“What?” I responded louder than intended.

“Wh-what about …” She trailed off.

“Spit it out, we don’t have all damn night,” I pressed, feeling impatient and pissed off to even have to think about this bullshit the night before Christmas.

“Stacia,” she suddenly said.

My head lunged backwards and I grew angry at the mere accusation. “Have you lost your—”

“She was there,” Jamie blurted out. “Think about it. The gala in New York, she was your date when you met up with Nikola Collins. The next night you went to dinner with the owner of the bottling company and his wife. Again, Stacia was your date. And who else with that type of access to your company’s dealings would have a personal vendetta against you?”

I scoffed. “Stacia doesn’t have a personal vendetta.”

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