Two days later, he was on a plane, summoned back to his father’s office where a lawyer’s letter threatening a sexual harassment lawsuit was waved in his face.
Ronan had been incensed. His father had been so livid Ronan had actually feared for his health, watching him go puce with rage.
The words of their fight still echoed in his mind. His father had accused him of coasting, of not taking things seriously, of having a sense of entitlement over his career at Conroy Corporation, of being immature and shortsighted. Ronan had argued the exact opposite: he’d never been granted the slightest advantage, always had to work twice as hard as everyone else, never taken a shortcut, never once ridden on his father’s coattails.
Patrick Conroy had made Ronan work his way up the ranks just like any other employee.
No, not like any other employee.
Ronan had had to work harder, longer and more diligently than anyone to get even half the recognition.
And it stung. Not that Ronan wanted to be given a free ride, but once, just once, it would have been nice to know that his father considered him a worthy successor. He wasn’t looking for special treatment—just acknowledgment that his hard work had been worth it, that his natural talent for the business made him stand out.
But no.
Always conscious of the optics, Patrick Conroy had practiced reverse discrimination, putting more complex and difficult hurdles in front of his son than anyone else.
The partnership should have been his as soon as he’d got back from New York.
Unlike his father, Ronan knew that it didn’t matter what the reality was; there’d be plenty of people at Conroy Corporation who would greet the news of his partnership with a sneer and a joke about nepotism. But anyone who’d ever worked with him knew that Ronan not only deserved that partnership, he’d worked harder than anyone else in order to win it.
And then one stupid move, one wrong decision…
He was angry—with his father, with Sarah, with the world.
Also, even if he wasn’t quite ready to admit it aloud, with himself.
Ronan made his living from analyzing situations and predicting outcomes—and he was damn good at it. But he’d screwed this one up, big-time. How had he not seen that Sarah wasn’t just looking for one night of mutual fun? He’d been high on success, full of himself and his New York triumph, the partnership he’d had to bust his ass to achieve finally within his grasp.
Only to have it jerked away after one little mistake.
He blew out a breath and shook his head, trying to focus. All he had to do was make a decent job of this Country Style project and he’d be back on track. Simple.
Ronan scanned the subject lines of all his other emails and decided there was nothing desperately urgent. He could deal with the rest of them on the plane tomorrow.
He closed the laptop, drained the Scotch, switched off the light and lay back and stared up at the ceiling. Alert and awake, despite his physical and mental exhaustion.
“Damn.” He swore again, more savagely, punched the pillow and rolled on his side. His mind was racing and wouldn’t shut down. His thoughts still tumbled over each other, churning over his current predicament.
His entire future was riding on this Taylor job. He’d been sent to Australia as a punishment, just like the British convicts that had settled the country. But it was also his last chance of redemption. His chance to prove to his father—and to himself—that he really did care about some things. Like his future.
Like not becoming a laughingstock.
Did you hear the one about the CEO’s son who got demoted?
Oh, yeah, that was a good one.
Unless you were the CEO’s son.
The payout Patrick Conroy had had to make to Sarah to ensure her silence was now held as ransom over Ronan’s head.
You’ve lost sight of what this business is all about. His father’s words rang in his ears. How can I put you in front of the board as the future leader of this organization when you still behave like you’re twenty-five and sowing your wild oats? Go to Australia and get this right. Do you good to get back to basics and remember why you’re in this business in the first place.
Patrick Conroy had offered an opportunity for redemption—in reality, a demeaning punishment. His old friend, Graham Taylor, needed a favor. One of his businesses in Australia was at a turning point; Graham had courted a multinational conglomerate interested in expanding in Australia—starting with purchasing his top-performing chain of fifty-seven retail furniture stores. All the stores would be rebranded, global purchasing power would provide a more competitive edge and the local management would no longer be required. They were prepared to pay Taylor a bucket load of money, so as far as Ronan could see, it was a no-brainer. But for some reason, he wanted a Conroy Corporation report on the state of the business before he signed on the dotted line.
Ronan had been given a careful brief by his father. He was to do a thorough investigation, without revealing his true purpose to any of the local management. Along with confirming Taylor’s decision to sell as the correct one, Ronan had to prove that he didn’t need an army of business analysts and auditors to do a proper scoping exercise. Prove that he was worthy of Conroy Corporation. Prove that his error of judgment in New York was just a blip, not a symptom of a more serious problem.
Ronan twisted in bed and punched the pillow again.
The whisky burned in his gut.
Of course, the staff of Country Style had no idea why Ronan was really there, no suspicion of the possible merger. It wasn’t the first time Ronan knew more about people’s future than they did and it wouldn’t be the last. It was part of the job—part of the challenge of being a management consultant. Sometimes the recommendations he had to make affected people’s jobs. Sometimes he had to conceal that from them until the time was right.
Cassie Hartman, for example, thought he was there to review a document she’d created proposing a restructure of the business. Putting herself in charge, as CEO. The irony was, her report was probably what had prompted Taylor to think about selling in the first place. Her document was competent, and she clearly had a thorough understanding of the business she ran, but if things went as Taylor hoped, she’d not only not be CEO, she’d be out of a job.
Ronan checked the clock, the red numbers burning brightly in the darkness of the room. Only ten minutes had passed since he’d switched off the light. This was going to be a slow and torturous night if he couldn’t somehow make himself sleep.
There was one thing he hadn’t tried yet.
Grasping himself, Ronan cast around in his mind for images to accompany this last shot at overcoming his sleeplessness. He wasn’t proud, but it would only be a few hours before his alarm clock would go off and he’d be heading for the airport to catch a plane with Cassie Hartman.
Cassie Hartman.
He wasn’t surprised when his body responded to the thought. She possessed an intriguing combination of control and vulnerability, one moment smoothly professional, the next delightfully awkward. But it was the brunette curls she tried hard to restrain that spurred his physical response. Even the boring tortoiseshell clip that held the mane at the back of her neck wasn’t enough to fully hide the thick, shiny strands. He remembered his first thought when he’d seen her—what would her hair look like loose, swinging over her shoulders? He wondered how long it was—would it cover her breasts when she was naked? Maybe it would just reach the tips, letting her nipples peak out from between the curled ends.
He groaned.
That uniform she wore was utilitarian, another of her intriguing contrasts.