to comprehend. ‘How?’
He was ready to crumple, and it wasn’t a good look.
‘Bad management, bad deals, unfulfilled contracts. Staff problems. You name it, it happened.’
She adored her brother, but he wasn’t the son her father wanted. Cameron didn’t possess the steel backbone, the unflagging determination to take over directorship of Preston-Villers. Their father had thought it would be the making of his son. Now it appeared certain to be his ruination.
‘Just how bad is it?’
Cameron grimaced, and shot her a desperate look. ‘The worst.’ He held up a hand. ‘Yes, I’ve done the round of banks, financiers, sought independent advice.’ He drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. ‘It narrows down to two choices. Liquidate, or take a conditional offer.’
Hope was uppermost, and she ran with it. ‘The offer is legitimate?’
‘Yes.’ He rubbed a weary hand along his jaw. ‘An investor is prepared to inject the necessary funds, I get to retain an advisory position, he brings in his professional team, shares joint directorship, and takes a half-share of all profits.’
It sounded like salvation, but there was need for caution. ‘Presumably you’ve taken legal advice on all this?’
‘It’s the only deal in town,’ he assured soberly. ‘There’s just a matter of the remaining condition.’
‘Which is?’
He hesitated, then took a deep breath and expelled it. ‘You.’
Genuine puzzlement brought forth a frown. ‘The deal has nothing to do with me.’
‘Yes, it does.’
Like pieces of a puzzle, they began clicking into place, forming a picture she didn’t want to see. ‘Who made the offer?’ Dear God, no. It couldn’t be…
‘Diego del Santo.’
Cassandra felt the blood drain from her face. Shock, disbelief, anger followed in quick succession. ‘You can’t be serious?’ The words held a hushed quality, and for a few seconds she wondered if she’d actually uttered them.
Cameron drew in a deep breath, then released it slowly. ‘Deadly.’ To his credit, Cameron looked wretched.
‘Let me get this straight.’ Her eyes assumed an icy gleam. ‘Diego del Santo intends making this personal?’ His image conjured itself in front of her, filling her vision, blinding her with it.
‘Without your involvement, the deal won’t go ahead.’
She tried for calm, when inside she was a seething mass of anger. ‘My involvement being?’
‘He’ll discuss it with you over dinner tomorrow evening.’
‘The hell he will!’
‘Cassandra—’ Cameron’s features assumed a grey tinge. ‘You want Alexander to have another heart attack?’
The words stopped her cold. The medics had warned a further attack could be his last. ‘How can you even say that?’
She wanted to rail against him, demand why he’d let things progress beyond the point of no return. Yet recrimination wouldn’t solve a thing, except provide a vehicle to vent her feelings.
‘I want proof.’ The words were cool, controlled. ‘Facts,’ she elaborated, and glimpsed Cameron’s obvious discomfiture. ‘The how and why of it, and just how bad it is.’
‘You don’t believe me?’
‘I need to be aware of all the angles,’ she elaborated. ‘Before I confront Diego del Santo.’
Cameron went a paler shade of pale. ‘Confront?’
She fired him a look that quelled him into silence. ‘If he thinks I’ll meekly comply with whatever he has in mind, then he can think again!’
His mouth worked as he searched for the appropriate words. ‘Cass—’
‘Don’t Cass me.’ It was an endearing nickname that belonged to their childhood.
‘Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with?’
She drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. ‘I think it’s about time Diego del Santo discovered who he is dealing with!’ She pressed fingers to her throbbing temples in order to ease the ache there.
‘Cassandra—’
‘Can we leave this until tomorrow?’ She needed to think. Most of all, she wanted to be alone. ‘I’ll organise lunch, and we’ll go through the paperwork together.’
‘It’s Sunday.’
‘What does that have to do with it?’
Cameron lifted both hands in a gesture of conciliation. ‘Midday?’
‘Fine.’
She saw him out the door, locked up, then she removed her make-up, undressed, then slid into bed to stare at the darkened ceiling for what seemed an age, sure hours later when she woke that she hadn’t slept at all.
A session in the gym, followed by several laps of the pool eased some of her tension, and she re-entered her apartment, showered and dressed in jeans and a loose top, then crossed into the kitchen to prepare lunch.
Cameron arrived at twelve, and presented her with a chilled bottle of champagne.
‘A little premature, don’t you think?’ she offered wryly as she prepared garlic bread and popped it into the oven to heat.
‘Something smells good,’ he complimented, and she wrinkled her nose at him.
‘Flattery won’t get you anywhere.’ Lunch was a seafood pasta dish she whipped up without any fuss, and accompanied by a fresh garden salad it was an adequate meal.
‘Let’s eat first, then we’ll deal with business. OK?’
He didn’t look much better than she felt, and she wondered if he’d slept any more than she had.
‘Dad is expecting us for dinner.’
It was a weekly family tradition, and one they observed almost without fail. Although the thought of presenting a false façade didn’t sit well. Her father might suffer ill-health, but he wasn’t an easy man to fool.
‘This pasta is superb,’ Cameron declared minutes later, and she inclined her head in silent acknowledgement.
By tacit agreement they discussed everything except Preston-Villers, and it was only when the dishes were dealt with that Cassandra indicated Cameron’s briefcase.
‘Let’s begin, shall we?’
It was worse, much worse than
