Page 26 of When You Are Mine

“Um, she’s fine.” Walsh mentally scrambled to orient himself to this new tactic. One of the unspoken terms of his parents’ armed truce was that they never asked him about each other. “Yeah, her birthday’s tomorrow. I’m flying back today for the party.”

“Hmmm. Still seeing that old man?” Martin picked up a heavy hourglass on the edge of his desk and flipped it over, setting it down with a thud before the sands could settle.

“Sam Whitby?” Walsh frowned, taking his eyes from his father’s face only long enough to watch the sands’ rapid fall in the new direction. “He’s only five years older than you, Dad.”

“He looks fifteen years older.” Martin riffled through his catalog of disdainful expressions before settling on a sneer for Kristeene’s suitor. “Don’t know what she sees—never mind. None of my business. So you’re back from another one of your little mission trips, huh?”

“It’s not a…never mind.”

Walsh couldn’t be bothered to explain again why the orphanages were so important to him. Philanthropy was another planet to his father, a strange land where people actually cared about the well-being of others.

“There was a little girl from the orphanage who had a brain tumor. I took her to Rivermont for surgery. She didn’t make it and I flew her back to Kenya to be buried there.”

“Sorry about that.” It sounded like Iyani could have been a goldfish Walsh had flushed down the toilet as far as his father was concerned. “I have my eye on a new company.”

“Oh?”

Walsh kept his tone neutral. He approached each of these paternal conversations with tactical precision, careful not to volunteer too much information, but to wait for his opponent to make the first move, revealing how to best defend.

“Merrist Holdings.” Walsh recognized the predatory gleam in his father’s eyes, savoring the taste of coming conquest. “You familiar?”

Walsh kept his posture deliberately languid, but his mind executed a rapid-fire retrieval of any information he could recall about Merrist Holdings. It never paid to reveal excitement about any venture. He had learned early that his father invariably viewed emotions as leverage. For him to know you wanted something was to give him a weapon to use against you.

“I know very little about Merrist, Dad. Enlighten me?”

“You must know something.” His father fired him a knowing look.

He always made it his business to know his father’s next move. Part of the stratagem he employed to negotiate their relational minefield.

“I think Merrist was a family-owned operation. Medium-size logistics firm based in Burlington, New Jersey.” Walsh lifted his Charvet tie to study the medallion pattern. “Recently went public. Established a Chicago branch about a year ago, which hemorrhaged profit. Now they find themselves with little cash flow. In addition to carrying some hefty debts they took on to open the new plant. Am I close?”

“So you are familiar.” His father smiled, the closest thing to pride Walsh ever got to see in his eyes. “I want that company.”

“And you want me on the team?”

“Youarethe team.” Martin held his son’s eyes captive for an extra moment before turning to survey the city skyline. “Can you handle it?”

“Of course I can handle it.” Walsh made sure he didn’t sound defensive or, worse, eager. “I’ve just never taken the lead on an acquisition before.”

“Neither had I until I did it the first time.” Martin challenged Walsh with his best alpha male look over his shoulder. “It’s like sex. Grab your dick and figure it out.”

“I’ll be fine.” Walsh stood, not giving his father the chance to dismiss him. “I’ll have Claire send me any pertinent information we already have.”

“Of course, you’ll need to spend more time here, and less time in North Carolina.” His father picked up that damn hourglass again, his face in its usual hard lines, but his eyes alert and careful on Walsh.

“Of course.” Ah, the end game. Always control and manipulation. “The summer will be over soon anyway.”

“You can’t wait until the summer’s over to pursue this.” Out of his father’s face, Walsh’s own eyes stared back at him with iron in the irises. “I need you on this now.”

“I said I’ve got it.” Walsh stiffened his back and calcified his tone. Martin Bennett only understood aggression; he only respected the kind of mental brawn he employed himself.

“You’ll need an assistant.”

“I’ll ask Claire for recommendations.”

“I’ve already selected someone.” Martin turned to face Walsh wearing a younger man’s wolfish grin. “Trisha McAvery.”

“Hmmpph.” Walsh grunted, refusing to blink, trying to decipher what his father was up to. “Okay, Trisha should be fine.”

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