Page 1 of Secret Offer
PROLOGUE
SEBASTIAN
I spend halfmy time in a tropical paradise and the other half in NYC, but if you ask me which island I prefer? I’d go with Manhattan. Hands down. It isn’t even close.
Here, everything is real. Grounded, gritty, and concrete—literally concrete. Sure, the city is a little short on palm trees and the standard dress code requires a few more layers than a bathing suit and flip-flops. But what New York lacks in laid back vibes, it more than makes up for in pure hustle, in sophisticated art and architecture, in culture, in world-class food and entertainment…need I go on? And most importantly, people here understand the intrinsic value oftime. Monetary and otherwise.
Which is why I’m so on edge at the moment. I’m nursing a scotch at my usual table at Indigo, the members-only social club on the penthouse floor of The Regent Hotel where I was scheduled to meet with my three closest friends and business associates, oh, a good ten minutes ago. We hold our meetings here almost exclusively each month; same time, same table. But those assholes are nowhere to be seen.
To be fair, Becker did manage to be his usual punctual self—as the brains of our business, he’s always on top of every lastdetail, so naturally he was already here—but Nate and Theo are running late and neither had the decency to send so much as a text to give Becker or me a heads-up as to their ETA. Not that Beck wins all the brownie points; he’s been on his phone ever since I arrived.
As we speak, he’s pacing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, a frustrated hand working through his blond hair, so caught up in whatever’s got him stressed that he isn’t even appreciating the unparalleled view of the sunset over the Hudson River.
“Beck,” I call out to him, tapping the face of my Girard-Perregaux watch with irritation.
Glancing over, he holds up his pointer finger and mouthsone minute.
In response, I hold up my own finger. Not the pointer, either. Becker shakes his head, but I see him stifle a smirk as he turns his back to me again and paces farther away. Prick.
Don’t get me wrong, I love the guy. Prick is a term of endearment in this case. And I’m sure that whatever he’s got going on, whoever is on the other end of that phone call, it’s related to something urgent. Not that I expect him to tell me anything about it once he hangs up.
I’ve known the guy for years, yet the man remains an enigma. He’s the perfect business partner and an exceptional wingman, true, but the details of his past and anything too personal about him are virtually off limits. MBA from Yale, top of his class, fellow co-owner of The Quattuor Group—the same Quattuor Group that owns this hotel, as it were—the man is literally a genius, and a visionary.
But has he ever bragged about anyone he’s been to bed with? Do I know the first thing about his family? Or even what the guy does for fun? Not a clue. He’s a closed book. Not that I haveroom to judge, but I wasn’t always this reticent. Beck’s been a mystery since day one.
The phone call that he’s on is irritating me less and less by the second, though. Not because I no longer care that he’s blowing off our meeting, but because I can see that something’s seriously getting under his skin, and my interest is piqued. Becker is doing little to hide the emotions playing across his face—displeasure, annoyance, reluctant agreement—probably because he doesn’t expect anyone to be watching him this intently.
Truthfully, I’m not sure why I’m observing him, except that his behavior is so out of character. Beck is usually the kind of guy who gives you his undivided attention when he’s with you. The fact that he’s so distracted by the call is telling.
Is he talking to a new contact? Is it agency business? Did a deal go south? Is it a woman?
My intuition has the hair on the back of my neck rising. Something is definitely up.
“Who’s Beck on the phone with?”
Nate, our Chief Financial Officer and unofficial Deal Maker Extraordinaire, slides into the leather chair across from me, his dark hair slicked back and his suit impeccable. He waves at the cocktail waitress, signaling for what the entire staff already knows is his signature drink—a Negroni.
“How should I know?” I say. “You’re late, by the way.”
He checks his watch. “It’s barely eight minutes after. Relax.”
“This is a business meeting and you’re tardy. It’s a sign of disrespect,” I point out.
“Disrespect? What are you, the mob, Sebastian?” He laughs. “Cut me some slack. I had to work late securing a new client?—”
“By which you mean, you just finished a round of drinks with another investment banker.”
“Not even gonna deny it, and you’ll get on your knees and thank me when the ink on the contract is dry and I send her over to you. She’s got twins, man. That’s double the fee.”
Before I can toss back a retort, the waitress materializes at his elbow with the Negroni. “Your drink, Mr. Windemere.”
“Perfect timing,” Nate says, flashing a winning smile at her.
“Like you know anything about that,” I snark.
She returns his smile, leaning over just enough to put her perfume-scented cleavage on display as she places the drink in front of him. “Can I get either of you anything else?”
“Why don’t you circle back in five,” Nate says. “Appreciate you, Naomi. Don’t work too hard.”
