“No.” He didn’t believe that, either. He cocked his head to the side. “But I do believe you want the money. Why?”
She frowned again, and he sensed that she was trying to decide exactly what to tell him. Finally, she said, “Have you talked to Caro lately?”
“Caro?” he asked, surprised by the sudden change in topic. “No. Why?”
“Because things haven’t gone well for her since the divorce. Personally. Socially. Financially. And I just thought...if you really don’t want the money, then we could give some of it to her.”
“She needs money?” But then he waved aside his own question. “Of course she needs money. Hollister’s such a bastard, he probably butchered her in the divorce. Jesus. Do Dalton and Griffin know?”
“I don’t think anyone knows. She and I haven’t always been close, but we are now. I see it, but she doesn’t even admit it to me. Besides, she’s not exactly their favorite person right now.”
“Yeah. I guess not,” he agreed. The mysterious letter about Hollister’s missing daughter had turned their lives upside down. Neither Dalton nor Griffin had been particularly thrilled to find out that the letter hadn’t been penned by some anonymous former lover of Hollister’s, but by his angry and bitter wife. “So Hollister eviscerated her in court and she’s too proud to tell her sons that she needs financial help. But you think she’ll take money from me?”
“I know she’s probably not your favorite person, either—”
“I have no problem with Caro,” he said quickly. “I never have.”
“Oh,” Portia said softly. “I just assumed.”
It was a fair assumption. Caro was easy to characterize as his wicked stepmother. But that didn’t mean they were enemies or that he wanted her out on the street.
“Caro and I get along fine,” he said. “But I don’t think she’d take money from me.”
“She might if it was Hollister’s money. He screwed her over. I think she’d enjoy screwing him back.” Portia’s face settled into resolve. “I could convince her.”
Which brought him back to square one: he didn’t have time for this.
“Look, it’s not about whether or not I want to help her. I don’t have the time. It’s not my problem.”
“But Caro—”
“Look, I can find a way to help Caro without finding this missing heiress.” And he would find a way to help her. Just not now. He glanced down at his watch. “And I’ve got a meeting I’m going to be late for. I’m sorry, Portia.”
He took one last look at Portia. She was perfect and pristine and untouchable. God, sometimes she was so pretty, it almost hurt to look at her. And other times, her beauty seemed almost too fragile. Like she might shatter. He was never sure if the part that would shatter was the real woman or only the outer shell that she showed the world.
In the decade she’d been married to his brother, he’d stayed far away from her because it had been the right thing to do. Now that she was single, he had other reasons for staying away. They weren’t from the same world. He’d learned as a kid what it meant to be an outsider in that world. What it meant to be Hollister Cain’s bastard son. Seeing the things other people had. Reaching for them. Having your hand slapped away.
Yeah. He knew what it meant to want things you couldn’t have.
And yeah, he knew that this mystery sister—whoever she ended up being—was going to have a hell of a time adjusting. But he also knew that nothing he did was going to make it any easier on her. She’d either be strong enough or she wouldn’t. She’d have to find her own way. Just like he had.
“She has your smile,” Portia said. “If that matters at all.”
His step faltered only a little. “If she has you on her side, she’ll be just fine.”
With that, he left the office, putting the conversation and everything it had stirred up behind him. His future rested on the outcome of the board meeting he was going to. He didn’t need this Cain family drama. He didn’t need a sister. And he sure as hell didn’t need Portia here tempting him.
Three
Three hours later, Cooper sat at the head of the conference table and watched his dreams spiral down the drain.
The board voted no.
By a wide margin. It wasn’t even close.
Nine of the twelve board members had voted against his plan to get Flight+Risk into the hotel business. Millions could be made in an upscale resort catering specifically to snowboarders. His gut had told him this was a solid venture. But apparently the board thought his gut was “fiscally irresponsible at this juncture.”
Now, as the board members started to filter out of the hotel conference room—the votes cast, the meeting officially adjourned—they could hardly meet his gaze. Which was fine, since he feared he might lunge across the table and slam his fist into Robertson’s face. The bastard had been on the board since the company’s inception. The man—a staid, lifelong businessman in his sixties—had a background in the retail industry that had proved invaluable, but he had little to no imagination. If you couldn’t sell it at Macy’s, he wasn’t interested. He’d been an opponent of Cooper’s resort plan from the beginning, but Cooper had really thought he’d won over enough of the other board members. Clearly, he’d been wrong.
With the exception of a couple stragglers, the room cleared within two minutes. An obvious sign that the board wasn’t any more comfortable with the outcome than he was. They may have voted against him, but no one wanted to face him down. As for the part of him that wanted to beat the crap out of someone as a result? Well, that was a part that he’d worked hard to bury beneath the facade of a successful businessman.
So he’d waited quietly for the board to leave. He just sat there at the head of the table, staring blankly at the stack of pages in front of him while the rats fled the sinking ship. When he looked up, only two other people remained—Drew Davis, the only fellow snowboarder on the board, and Matt Ballard, the Chief Technology Officer of FJM, a green energy company out of the Bay Area, and a good friend of Cooper’s.
After a moment of silence, Drew said, “Man, you’re so screwed.”
“I’m not screwed.” But Cooper said it grimly and with no real conviction.
“No, you’re totally f—”
“No. I’ll convince them.”
There was too much at stake in this fight. This was his company. Flight+Risk made the best, toughest gear for winter sports. The best snowboards, the best jackets, the best thermals. All of it. He knew it was the best for two reasons: first off, because he’d designed most of it himself and demanded absolute perfection. Second, because every top snowboarder in the world wanted to use his gear. Yes, it was that good. He made sure of it himself, because inferior gear put people’s lives at risk. And profits as well, though that had always been a secondary consideration for him. Still, his perfectionism, ambition and determination had made him a legend on the half-pipe and in the business world.
So why the hell didn’t his board trust that he was right about this?
“How exactly are you going to convince them?” Matt asked, rocking back in his chair. Matt had pulled his laptop out the second the meeting was over and was typing now. He was one of those unique guys who could manage to do multiple things at once. Probably because he was freakin’ brilliant. He’d been Flight+Risk’s first private investor. In fact, he’d approached Cooper as a fan and offered him start-up money before the company had been more than a business plan and prototype board. They’d become good friends over the years.
Somehow