appearance. “Do you think we could talk?”
“Not here to socialize?” he asked, one black eyebrow quirked.
“I’m here to talk to you, and it’s not a social call.”
A small smile tipped up the corners of his mouth. “I’m certain you donated to the charity on your way in. Or was that not on your list of priorities tonight?”
Vanessa bit the inside of her cheek, fighting to maintain composure. Taking the glass of champagne out of Lazaro’s human cup-holder’s hand and throwing the contents of it onto his very expensive suit might be satisfying, but it wasn’t what she was here for.
Still, there was no way she was going to allow him to pretend that he was somehow a philanthropic marvel and she was a snobby rich bimbo who walked into a charity event for the company and the liquor and didn’t bother to leave a dime.
“I wrote a check as I walked in. You can ask up front if you like.”
“Generous of you.”
“We need to talk. Without an audience.” She flicked a glance at the group he was with. A lot of beautiful socialites, some of whom she recognized, not the sort of women she’d ever been permitted to associate with. Money did not mean class, as her father had always said, and that meant certain people had always been patently off limits to her.
Lazaro among them. Although, for one, heady week, she had defied that command.
“This way, querida.” He put his hand on her lower back and she cursed the low cut of the gown she was wearing as his palm made contact with her skin. His fingers were calloused, rough from labor still, even after years of white-collar work.
She remembered how those hands had caressed her face, her body. They had been rough then, strong and hot. So very hot. She shivered slightly, thankful that her body chose the moment they stepped out into the chill, Boston air before the reaction hit. At least this way she could blame it on the weather.
The art museum’s grand terrace was lit up by paper lanterns strung overhead. A few couples were secluded in dark corners, talking with their heads pressed together, or not talking, enjoying the feeling of seclusion.
Of course, there was no seclusion. There were reporters, there were other people. This was the sort of event her father wouldn’t want her to come within a mile of. Discretion was the cornerstone of her father’s value system. And of hers.
But she was here. She had to be. She had to talk to Lazaro. As far as Pickett Industries was concerned it was possibly a matter of life and death. She couldn’t imagine he had any kind of altruistic motive for purchasing Pickett’s shares. In fact, she was certain he didn’t.
“You had a question for me?” he asked, leaning against the stone railing.
She turned to him, her face schooled into a neutral expression. “Why are you buying up all of my stocks?”
The corner of his mouth curved upward. “I’m surprised that you realized it so soon.”
“Suddenly all of my shareholders are selling to three different corporations, all of whom have one name in common—Marino. I’m not stupid, Lazaro.”
“Perhaps I underestimated you.” He looked at her, as if waiting for her to be angry or indignant or something. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
She pushed down a surge of anger. “I don’t care whether you underestimated me. I don’t care what you think about me. I care about Pickett and it is in my best interest to try and understand why someone is trying to get to a point where they own equal shares with me and my family.”
He paused for a moment, his smile widening, a cruel smile, void of humor, but just as devastating as it had always been. “Do you not appreciate the irony?”
“What irony is that?”
“That I can own my share of Pickett Industries. That a storied icon of a company can be passed into the hands of new money with such ease. The American dream, isn’t it?”
She looked at his eyes, the glitter in them filled with emotion so dark and deep that she felt it reach into her and pull the air from her lungs. And that was when she realized that it was very likely she’d wandered into a trap. In that moment she wanted, more than anything, to turn and walk away. To leave Lazaro as nothing more than a vivid, unsatisfied memory.
But she couldn’t. This was her responsibility. Her mess to clean up. There was no one else.
It’s up to you now, Vanessa. Without you, everything crumbles.
Her father’s words echoed in her head, filled her, pushed her forward.
“So … this is for your own amusement, then? Something to satisfy your twisted sense of irony?” she asked.
He chuckled, a dark sound laced with bitter undertones. “I don’t have time to do things simply to amuse myself, Vanessa. I didn’t get where I am by operating that way. My business was not handed to me on a silver platter.”
And there was no doubt he found himself superior to her because of that. Fine, he could disdain her for having it easy if he wanted. Pickett wasn’t really a silver platter to her. More like silver handcuffs with keys she couldn’t access. But she’d willingly accepted the burden. Had done it for her family. For her father, and most of all for Thomas. Because her brother would have carried on Pickett’s legacy gladly. He would have made it a success. He would have done it with dignity and kindness, as he had done everything else.
“Then why?” she asked.
“Pickett is dying, Vanessa, I know you know that. Your profits have dropped off in the past three years, so much so that you’re now firmly in the red.”
Her standard response, the one she’d been placating the shareholders with, rolled off her tongue with ease. “These things happen. It goes in cycles. Production has slowed with the economy as it is, and a lot of our clients are now getting their auto parts manufactured out of the country.”
“The problem isn’t simply the economy. You are stuck in the past. Times have changed and Pickett Industries has not.”
“If Pickett really is dying some kind of slow, painful corporate death, why are you interested in investing your money in it?”
“The opportunity presented itself. I am a man who makes the most of all available opportunities.”
Vanessa’s stomach tightened as his eyes locked on hers, the meaning of his words seeming layered in the dim light, almost erotic.
She needed to get out more. She really did. As it was, the four walls of her office were so familiar, her situation was beginning to seem desperate. But that was how it was when one was at the helm of a dying corporation. Lucky, lucky her.
And Lazaro Marino saw it as an opportunity. Heaven help her.
“And what do you intend to do with this opportunity?”
“I could put pressure on the board to vote you out of your position.”
Vanessa felt
