Without knocking he threw open the double doors to the executive suite that matched his in size and comfort. The startled secretary inside bounded to her feet.
“Good morning, Mr. Fulton.” She forced a smile, but he could see the fear in her eyes.
“Is he in there?” he practically growled, nodding toward the closed oak-paneled door behind her desk.
“Um, yes, sir. Should I let him know—”
Before she could finish, Carl stormed by her desk and slammed open the door. He walked to the edge of the desk, behind which a young man sat, distracted by a phone call.
The young man on the phone was his nephew, Eliot Wright. Eliot bore such a striking resemblance to a younger version of Carl that many people assumed he was Carl’s son and not that of his only sister.
The younger man glanced up with a puzzled expression. In answer to his unspoken question Carl held up the crumpled papers in his hand. Eliot slightly lifted an arched black eyebrow, his expressive brown eyes showing nothing more than mild curiosity.
Even in his fury, Carl found he was impressed by his nephew’s unflappability. Eliot had changed a great deal over the years, Carl thought with pride. He was a strong, forceful man who got the job done no matter what it took, no longer the timid little boy who almost wet himself when asked his name. Carl took full credit for the transformation.
“Look, Steve,” Eliot said into the receiver. “Something has come up. Just let me know when you get the meeting set up.”
Carl tapped his foot rapidly, depleting what little patience he had as he waited for the call to end.
“All right, try to make it sometime this week. Talk to you later.” Eliot returned the phone to the cradle and sat back in his high-back leather chair. “Morning, Uncle Carl. I would say good morning, but it’s obviously not.”
“It certainly is not!” Carl tossed the balled-up papers on the desk. “This is the third major account we’ve lost to that little hole in the wall. The third, Eliot! What are you doing about this?!”
Eliot picked up the papers and attempted to unmangle them as much as possible.
His eyes glanced over the pages and a low “Hmm” was his only answer as he read through the discharge letter from one of their major accounts. “When did you receive this?”
“This morning—by e-mail, no less! They didn’t even have the decency to call and tell us they were canceling the contract.” He leaned across the desk to point out something in the e-mail. “See that?”
Eliot’s brows crinkled in confusion. “That can’t be right.”
“You better believe it is! Morningside, those smug bastards, wanted us to know just how much they were sticking it to us.”
“No wonder Mayfield Bakery got the contract. That’s an excellent bid.” Eliot muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
Carl only glared at him in response.
Realizing his mistake, Eliot flipped through the few pages. “I mean, Morningside is a four-hundred-bed nursing home.”
“I think you’re missing the point,” Carl hissed through his teeth, trying not to reach across the desk and strangle his nephew.
Eliot continued to read, seeming to have forgotten Carl’s presence, but Carl knew despite his nonchalance his nephew didn’t miss anything. And he had the uncanny ability to comprehend a complicated situation in a matter of minutes.
“This is the third large contract we’ve lost to this bakery. What are you doing about them?”
“I’ve got Steve looking into our options.” He shook his head in confusion. “I just don’t understand how they can afford to run their operation when they’re offering up bids like this.”
Carl’s eyes narrowed on his nephew. “Hell if I know. That’s what I pay you for.”
He turned and headed back out of the office but paused at the door and looked back. “Eliot, I do not want to get another e-mail like that one.”
Eliot tossed the papers down on the desk and sat back in his chair. “Don’t worry, Uncle Carl, everything’s under control.”
“It better be. Do whatever you have to do, but I will not be undercut by some rinky-dink operation. Do we understand each other?”
Eliot nodded slowly, and Carl knew they were in complete agreement. For all his surface calm, Carl knew that his nephew was a win-at-all-costs individual. Eliot would be as ruthless as necessary to achieve his goals. He knew this, because that was how he’d raised him.
Eliot waited until his uncle left the office before picking up the crumpled letter and rereading the rejection of their bid and contract cancellation by one of their oldest and most reliable clients.
Although he’d hid it well, Eliot shared his uncle’s concern. The amount of the bid they’d submitted to Morningside Nursing Home to service their kitchen and vending machines had been extremely low. They’d wanted to be sure to secure the contract, and yet once again they’d been underbid by the smaller bakery. It was the third time in three months they’d been outplayed by this particular bakery.
The first loss he’d chalked up as a fluke that could not be repeated. But after losing the contract for a private school, it had become clear they had a growing competitor they needed to take seriously. After learning everything he could, Eliot had put together a buyout offer for the competitor—a ploy that had been successful in dealing with previous upstarts.
That was almost two weeks ago. This morning when his uncle had barged into his office, Eliot had been on the phone with their attorney, Steve Ingerman. According to Steve, Mayfield Bakery had rejected the offer.
Eliot toyed with the crumpled papers, frowning thoughtfully. He’d hoped they would accept the offer, but of course he had a contingency plan.
Mayfield Bakery was a small proprietorship. Thanks to some recent upgrades in their equipment and the streamlining of their operation, they were now producing and packaging a unique line of cupcakes, cookies and assorted pastries on a much larger scale than previously possible.
The company was owned by a woman named Mae Anne Mayfield. She also ran the day-to-day operations of the bakery with the help of a small staff. And apparently the little bakery was doing so well they were now negotiating with one of the leading bakers in the industry—Alberto Montagna.
Mayfield Bakery was renowned for an exceptional line of pastries that both looked and tasted like they came out of some loving grandmother’s kitchen and were made with the finest ingredients. But the operation had one major weakness—the small upgraded bakery could never produce the massive quantity of goods that Fulton Foods’s industrial-sized bakery and packaging plant produced on a daily basis. The small staff Mayfield employed could never compete for the larger contracts, the hospitals, corporate businesses and larger school districts that Fulton Foods, which averaged a payroll of two hundred employees, serviced regularly. Not to mention the obvious drawback of such a “boutique” operation. The expensive ingredients, the manpower to process the homemade-like pastries had to cost a fortune, Eliot surmised.
Despite Mae Anne Mayfield’s shrewd business sense and cunning, Eliot understood that no business had unlimited resources, and eventually the laws of economic nature would take their course.
But instead of simply waiting for them to go under, Eliot had asked Steve to set up a meeting with Mae Anne Mayfield. He planned to make an even more generous offer to buy the small operation and absorb their unique line of products and services into Fulton Foods. He would even offer positions within Fulton’s corporate hierarchy to Mayfield and her staff for three distinct reasons.
The first and most obvious was that he could not afford to wait. The second reason was that what he’d seen of the Mayfield product was exceptional. If he could get the recipes