Stanton nodded to the MBAs and Darryl followed them out.
Parker sat down across from Perry, leaning back in his chair. He didn’t see Stanton Perry. He only saw that all he ever wanted was to be Stanton Perry. And now he was bigger than Stanton Perry. Parker blew out a mouthful of air. “I just don’t know if I want to take on anyone else. Now, if you would consider moving your entire portfolio to me,” Parker smiled, “I’m sure Liz would understand.”
“I’m sure she wouldn’t. That’s not an option. She doesn’t handle all my interests, she never expected to. I believe in the diversified portfolio. Liz understands that. And you understand creating twenty-five percent returns.”
Parker leaned forward. “Well, it’s true. There’s nothing like eating what you kill. I don’t just go out and run your money to make you a twenty-five percent return. No one can touch me on currency bets. No one. I’m not chasing returns, I’m creating them. Momentum investing, value investing, quantitative methods, market neutral. Who gives a shit? Do it all and if a company looks good, fuck it, buy a controlling share and take over. I wouldn’t give you shit for most of the CEOs in this country. People want to call me a vulture? Fine. But if I own it, it’s making money. No one posts returns that can touch mine.”
Parker sat silent for a moment, staring into space. “Liz put in a good word for me?”
“This is my decision. Elizabeth didn’t venture an opinion.”
Bitch, Parker thought. After a moment, he shrugged. “One hundred fifty million?” He shook his head.
Stanton Perry lapsed into silence, eyes closed. Parker forced himself to remain quiet. He wanted Perry’s money, he could almost feel it itching between his fingers.
“Two hundred fifty million to start,” Stanton said, opening his eyes and giving Parker a cool, assessing look. “With another three hundred to follow if all goes well.”
Parker smiled.
Parker stood in the middle of the conference room like a god surveying his kingdom, a stream of profanity running through his head. Two hundred and fifty fucking million. He didn’t get out of bed for two hundred million. He shook his head. What the fuck. He was eating into Liz’s territory. Shit, for that I would’ve done it for nothing.
Stanton’s crack about Jersey griped his ass. Growing up in that shitty town, watching his old man slumped over in his chair at night, sucking down beer after beer, staring at the TV; his old man was a has-been before he ever got started. What a life, driving a desk for a shit salary and a crappy bonus and a fucking watch after twenty years. But I finally made it across the river. Now everywhere he hung his hat had to have a view of his new domain, Park Avenue, Central Park—Jersey forever behind him and New York in front of him. The only thing out of whack was that damn downtown townhouse, a concession to Emily; the rooftop terrace had a clear view across the Hudson.
Parker looked down. His tailor had sent a new seamstress. The attractive blonde stretched a measuring tape up his inseam. The top two buttons of her white blouse were open, her plaid skirt resting slightly above her mid-thigh. He gave her a sly, satisfied smile. She had her blond hair pinned up; he bet she had great hair. Emily had great hair, flowing over her shoulders, sparkling like spun gold in the sunlight. Walking her into an event, he enjoyed watching every man’s head turn. He knew they’d love to get her on her back. She was the perfect addition to his portfolio; five nine, blue eyes, a perfect ass, and a name that meant money. They weren’t on the map, they were the map.
He opened his cell phone again and hit the speed dial. His call went straight to voice mail. Fuck, he thought. Marianna wasn’t home. He didn’t pay for an Upper East Side apartment, new clothes, and a car and driver for her not to be home when he wanted her. He snapped the cell phone shut as the blonde stood up and slung the tape measure over her shoulder. Her strappy sandals made a soft, slapping sound against the bottoms of her feet as she moved around him, occasionally brushing against him.
“I’m finished,” she said. “Will there be anything else?”
“Just one thing,” he said with a smile.
An hour later he had the blonde naked on her back in the corporate suite at the Plaza Hotel. Afterward, she said maybe they could see each other again. He swatted her backside and said “sure.” Dressed, he stood by the window, staring down while redoing his tie; the blonde saw herself out. He checked his watch. He should stop by Liz’s office to say hello on his way back, he thought. Drop the news about Perry to see her reaction. Maybe he’d just let her read about it. She has it all, he thought, the brains to go with the beauty. He curled his lip at the thought of how he’d chased her two years ago, making her offers, not just to work for him, but the whole nine yards. He would’ve married her. He burned thinking how she never gave him an inch, turning him down every time, no hesitation. Ice queen bitch. He’d been waiting to find a way to say thank you. This could be the break he was waiting for. He’d like to see her on the downside; he’d like to see her begging.
He called Emily from the car on his way back to the office, half listening as she chattered on about the menu for the party.
He reminded her to make sure the mock-up of the Greenwich estate would be on display for the party, then whispered about what he had planned for her for the after party, lacing his descriptions with expletives. She giggled as he gave her details.
The limo pulled up to the building on Park Avenue and Parker got out, taking a moment to linger. This is my kingdom now; I belong here. I’ve finally arrived. And I’ll be damned if I’m ever going back across the Hudson River again.
Chapter 8
At the sound of Parker’s booming voice, Elizabeth and Nick moved with the guests en masse into the great room on the first floor. Parker and Emily’s downtown Art Deco townhouse had ceiling-to-floor windows and glass skylights, a feeling of openness, allowing the city to flow inside. Done in stark white, the only colors were oversized, red Chinese porcelain pots holding bamboo plants, and the occasional painting with explosions of splattered color. The upper floors were made of frosted glass, creating a moving mosaic of footprints over the heads of the guests. Servers moved between rooms and floors, disappearing back into the kitchen for refills.
A red silk cloth covered a large, bulky mass on a table in the center of the great room.
Karen leaned over to Elizabeth. “Is that the mock-up of the new kingdom?”
“Either that or a bloody horse’s head.”
Karen stifled a laugh.
Parker stood next to the table, the ringmaster of his circus. “Ladies and gentlemen, you’ve seen Mar-a-Lago. Now see the next evolution, Davis Manor.” With a flourish, he flipped off the cloth, revealing a scale model of the palace that was to be the Greenwich compound. “Thirty thousand square feet, my friends.”
A faint buzzing sound grew louder; all eyes followed a miniature helicopter flying above their heads, watching it settle down onto the tiny helipad.
Scanning the guests, Elizabeth spied Stanton Perry, his trophy wife Deirdre at his side. Deirdre had everything Stanton or any other man could want: long, luxurious, flowing platinum blond hair, skin glowing with youth and vitality, a Victoria’s Secret body, and legs that never quit. They approached Elizabeth, and Stanton offered his hand as he kissed her cheek.
“Hello, young lady,” he said. “What do you hear?”
Elizabeth smiled into his perfectly tanned angular face, silver strands gleaming in the slicked-back dark hair. He had a sly smile that made him look a little dangerous. Elizabeth knew he was more than a little dangerous.
“It’s all good, Mister Perry, all good,” she said smoothly. “And yourself?”
“Excellent, as you know. You’ve put me in good hands. Your young Adam is doing a fine job advising me. And even though you’re a big shot now, I