She could see the little “no” sign in his right eye and “sale” in his left, like an old cartoon.
“It's in great shape for a vintage car.” He ran a beefy hand through his hair. “Wish I could take it off your hands, but who knows how long it would sit on the lot before someone showed up who could afford to buy it. I can’t tie up that kind of money in slow-moving inventory.”
“What if I offered five percent above the usual commission?”
The man leaned back against the fender of the dark-blue Bentley parked next to her car and stared at his shoes, obviously doing a few quick calculations in his head.
“Nope. I could take it on consignment for you.”
“I'm afraid that won’t work.”
Madison needed the money now. Her trust fund was running low. An infusion of cash from selling the Ferrari, as much as it would break her heart, would stretch her inheritance out a few months longer. Maybe long enough for her to find new financing for Dartmoor.
“Can you refer me to other imported car dealers in the area who might be interested in buying it?”
The man shook his head. “Don’t think there’s anyone who can do more than I can, but I’ll email you a list.” He took her business card. “I'm sorry. It’s a great little vehicle.”
She nodded, climbed into the car, and backed carefully out of the lot while her mind sorted through what few options she had left. She quickly discarded the idea of putting the car up for sale on the internet. She’d never get the kind of money it was really worth.
She refused to admit to a flicker of relief that she could keep the car she loved after all.
Jake stretched, then linked his fingers behind his head. Across the conference table his personal assistant typed data into a spreadsheet, her shiny black hair bouncing slightly as she nodded over the numbers.
For maybe the hundredth time in the two years she’d worked for him, he wondered why he liked Astrid so much, enjoyed her company so much, found her attractive and yet felt zero, less than zero, sexual attraction for her.
And she’d made it clear she had the same reaction to him.
The exact opposite of Madison. Even after all that had happened, he could barely think of her without wanting her. A reaction that had only gotten worse in the two days since their dinner at the Yacht Club. She was like a drug – one he needed to resist or risk ending up like his father.
His cell buzzed. “Number unknown.” He had nothing to do while Astrid ran the data, so he took the call.
Five minutes later he clicked the phone off and stared out window, absently drumming his fingers on the table.
“What?” Astrid looked up with a frown of annoyance.
“Nothing.”
“If it was nothing, you wouldn’t make that irritating noise so I’d need to ask about it."
He quieted his fingers. This wasn't something he could discuss with Astrid, but she was right. He needed to talk about it with someone. If only his father…
But relationships hadn’t been his father’s strong point, either.
He stood to pace across the room and stare at the portraits of his father and grandfather that hung on the wall by the door. But he wasn't seeing them. He was seeing Madison’s face the day he handed her the keys to the Ferrari. The tears in her eyes hadn’t been because of the car itself – it wasn’t until later that she’d come to love it so much – but because he’d known her well enough to buy her exactly what she’d wanted most. Because he’d loved her that much.
Now she was trying to sell the car. The salesman who called hadn’t realized it was the same car Jake had bought from his company four years ago, but had thought Jake might be interested in a matched set of the rare vintage cars for himself and his “wife.” A distress sale, the man said, so Jake would get a good deal on it.
Which didn’t resolve the question of whether Madison was selling the Ferrari to break the last tie between them, or was in more dire financial straits than he’d imagined.
He waited until he and Astrid had the numbers crunched, then picked up his phone, fingers shaking like an addict as he punched in Madison’s cell number.
She hadn’t changed it. The sound of her voice, the stress he heard in her “Hello,” left him momentarily speechless.
He swallowed. “Hey.”
“Who is this?”
“Me. Jake.”
She drew in a sharp breath. “What do you want?”
He almost said, “A second chance.” At what he wasn't sure.
“I was a jerk,” was safer.
“There’s a news bulletin.”
He ignored the prick of irritation. “I shouldn’t have said I’d look at your plan and then brush you off. I’d like to make it up to you.”
He wasn’t sure what response he’d expected, but not the hollow sound in her voice.
“What do you have in mind?”
Nothing, right at the moment.
“Can you come by the office this afternoon? I'll go over your plan and see if there’s some way I can arrange a small bridge loan for you.”
“Really?"
“I owe you.’
“All on the up and up?”
He probably deserved that, but it still rankled.
“I said I owe you.”
“Would three o’clock work?”
Once they’d set a time he cleared his calendar and did two or three hours of work in a little over an hour.
Which left him no time to wonder why he would even consider lending money to a failing business in an industry he knew nothing about.
Madison had dreaded a repeat of the walk down the corridor to Jake’s office, but when she found him waiting for her by the elevators it only fed her suspicions about what new game he might be playing.
He made pleasant small-talk as they went through to his office, where he sat her at the large conference table and waited with a politely expectant smile, as if she were a total stranger.
He didn't seem to notice the way her hands shook as she opened the leather briefcase and took out her tablet computer. He listened to the presentation she’d so carefully prepared, then he shuffled through the printouts she’d brought to back up her cost estimates and income projections. She fought the urge to squirm while Jake read Dartmoor’s latest audit.
That was the most recent financial data she’d been able to get without telling anyone at Dartmoor about her appointment with Jake. She still didn’t want to build anyone's hopes up. Of course, things would be much worse now the ex-CFO had cashed in her golden parachute, but the auditor’s report was bad enough.
After what felt like a very long time, Jake lifted his head and gave her a look she couldn’t quite decipher.
“Your father really messed up, didn’t he?”
She bridled, surprised at the impulse to defend the man who was responsible for this whole nasty situation.
“He didn’t exercise proper oversight, no.”
“Why’d he hire such an incompetent CFO in the first place?”
“She was supposedly brilliant