Page 3 of Ruthless Wars

“It’s a maybe,” he says, taunting me with his hesitation.

“Oh, come on.”

“Fine.” He huffs, smiling through feigned irritation. “We’ll do your play. But without Steele Holdings.”

“If you say so,” I say slowly. “Though it’s not exactly the picture of profitability. Sentimental value?”

Dad dons a scowl normally reserved for several rounds of ball-busting negotiations, and I take the hint.

“Agreed. No Steele Holdings,” I say, rolling my eyes as if I’d given in reluctantly. With a wide grin, I square my shoulders decidedly. “I won’t need it. Oh, and if this works—and it will—I get five percent of your first-quarter profits.”

Dad frowns. “What are you, my manager?”

“Keep it up and it’ll be ten percent, mister. Besides, this is a fifty-million-dollar deal at the low end, and a hundred million at the high end. I think you can spare a measly five percent when your bottom line is about to go through the roof. And it’ll all settle right before the quarterly earnings report to shareholders.”

Without another word, he presses a button on his space-age desk phone.

In half a ring, the call is answered. “Hey, Dad.” Jaclyn says distractedly, obviously focusing on some mundane business task that’s taking up most of her brain cells.

With a small wink to Margot, Everett stays businesslike to Jaclyn. “Can you drop by?”

“Um ...” Jaclyn’s stall is undoubtedly to give her a moment to shuffle her calendar around on the spot.

“Only if it’s convenient,” Dad says, giving me a wink. “Your sister has an idea to make us tens of millions overnight, and—”

“I’ll be right there.”

Chapter Two

Margot

There’s nothing quite like it—flooring it on an open stretch of the Dallas North Tollway, blowing the speed limit to oblivion in a McLaren 720S Spider convertible. Late-night driving in Dallas usually means a few cop-free sections are wide open, giving me exactly the stretch of road I need to rev the shit out of this 710-horsepower engine.

“A beautiful end to a beautiful—”

Boom!

The loud bang startles me, and I tighten my grip on the wheel until my knuckles are white. Instantly, the dashboard lights up like the Fourth of July as I ease off the gas. I’ve got control of the vehicle, but it’s a fight.

The telltale thump-thump-thump is enough to tell me I need to keep the steering steady as I slowly veer to the far right of the nearly empty freeway.

Changing a tire isn’t exactly rocket science. I think. But in my Chanel suit and Louboutin’s, I’m a little overdressed for the occasion. My responses to Jaclyn’s concerns about my apparel before I left the office to head to the airport flit through my mind.

No, Jaclyn, I don’t need to change my clothes. I’ll do it on the jet.

Your comfy Missy Moscow silk-cashmere tracksuit? I wouldn’t think of borrowing your favorite loungewear.

Tennies? Oh, these stilettos are like a second skin.

The heels I’m wearing aren’t exactly great for hopping on a lug wrench to loosen tight lug nuts, but hey, what can I say?

Obviously, I’m a total idiot.

After shutting off the engine, I release my seat belt and pop the trunk, which I only just learned this afternoon is at the front of the sporty beast. I lean into the trunk, fishing through my duffel, cursing when my search rapidly ends in disappointment.

No sensible shoes. Just another pair of spiky five-inch heels. Note to self: when packing two pairs of shoes, diversify. Don’t think: Why would I need them? The jet always has the plushest slippers waiting for me.

Blowing out a long, determined breath, I strip to my black camisole, saving my couture blazer to live another day.

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