Page 3 of The Player

Wade needed to make amends, needed to ease the guilt that wouldn’t quit, and ensuring his dad’s business didn’t go bankrupt would be a step in the right direction.

Qu Publishing currently stood on the brink of disaster and it was up to him to save it. One book at a time.

If he could ever get a meeting with that WAG every publishing house in Melbourne was clamouring to sign up to a revealing biography, he might have a chance.

Her name escaped him and, being overseas for the best part of a decade, he had no idea what this woman even looked like. He needed to do some much needed research, pronto, on the home-grown darling Australia couldn’t get enough of. He’d been assured by his team that a book by this woman would be a guaranteed best-seller—just what the business needed.

But the woman wouldn’t return his assistant’s international calls and emails. Not that it mattered. He knew her type. Now he’d landed in Melbourne he’d take over the pursuit, demand a face-to-face meeting, up the ante financially, and she’d be begging to sign on the dotted line.

At times like this he wished his father had moved with the times and published genre fiction. It would’ve made Wade’s life a lot easier, signing the next debut author with a commercial hit.

But biographies were Qu Publishing’s signature, a powerhouse in the industry.

Until Babs entered the picture, resulting in Quentin’s business sense fleeing alongside his common sense, and his father had hidden the disastrous truth.

Wade hated that his dad hadn’t trusted him.

He hated the knowledge that he’d caused the rift more.

It was why he was here, doing anything and everything to save his father’s legacy.

He owed him.

Wade should’ve been there for his dad when he was alive. He hadn’t been and it was time to make amends.

The bronzed blonde laughed, a surprisingly soft, happy sound at odds with the tension emanating from her like a warning beacon. Even at this distance he could see her rigid back, and the defensive way she half turned away from the guys vying for her attention.

Interesting. Maybe she was nothing like Babs after all, who was currently engaged in conversation with a seventy-year-old mining magnate who had as many billions as chins.

Yeah, some people never changed.

Something he could do with, a change. He needed to escape the expectations of a hundred workers who couldn’t afford to lose their jobs. Needed to forget how his father had landed his business in this predicament and focus on the future. Needed to sign that WAG to solve his problems. And there were many; so many problems that the more he thought about it, the more his head pounded.

What he needed most right now? A bar, a bourbon, and a blonde.

Startled by his latter wish, he gazed at her again and his groin tightened in appreciation.

She might not be his type but for a wild, wistful second he wished she could be.

Ten years of setting up his own publishing business in London had sapped him, sucking every last ounce of energy as he worked his butt off. When he initially started he’d wanted a company to rival his father’s but had chosen to focus on the e-book and audio market rather than mass market paperbacks, trade, and hardbacks. Considering how dire things were with Qu Publishing, his company now surpassed the one-time powerhouse of the book industry.

He rarely dated, and socialised less. Building a booming digital publishing business had been his number one priority. Ironic, that he was now here to save the business he could’ve been in competition with if his dad had ever moved into the twenty-first century. And if Quentin had entrusted him with the truth.

Not that saving Qu mattered if Babs had her way.

The muscles in his neck spasmed with tension and he spun away, needing air before he did something he’d regret, like marching over to step-mommy dearest and strangling her.

He grabbed a whisky from a passing waiter and downed half of it, hoping to eradicate the bitterness clogging his throat, before making his way to the terrace that wrapped across the front of the function room in wrought-iron splendour.

Melbourne might not have the historical architecture of London but the city’s beautiful hotels like this one could hold their own around the world.

He paced the marble pavers in a vain attempt to quell the urge to march back into that packed function room and blast Babs in front of everyone, media be damned.

Wouldn’t that go down a treat in tomorrow’s papers?

PUBLISHING CEO BAILS UP SOCIALITE

STEPMOTHER, A REAL PAGE-TURNER.