“We’re having him arrested and charged,” Zach finished, lifting the receiver and raising it to his ear.
“That might not be your best option.”
Zach paused, hand over the telephone buttons. He lifted his brows in a silent question.
“It would generate a lot of publicity,” said Esmond.
“And?” Who cared? It wasn’t as if they had any obligation to protect the reputation of a criminal.
“It’ll be a media circus. The charity, your grandmother’s name, all potentially dragged through the mud. Donors will get nervous, revenue could drop, projects might be canceled. No one and no company wants their name linked with criminal behavior, no matter how noble the charity.”
“You think it would go that way?” asked Zach, weighing the possibilities in his mind, realizing Esmond had a valid point.
“I know a good private investigative firm,” said Esmond. “We’ll look for the guy, of course. And if there’s any benefit in pressing charges, we’ll press them. But my guess is we won’t find him. From the records I’ve reviewed, Lawrence Wellington was a very shrewd operator. He’ll be long gone. Sadie’s money’s long gone.”
Zach hissed out a swearword, dropping the receiver and sliding back in his tall chair.
The two men sat in silence, midmorning sunshine streaming in the big windows, muted office sounds coming through the door, the familiar hum of traffic on Liberty Street below.
“What would Sadie want?” Esmond mused quietly.
That one was easy. “Sadie would want us to help the kids.” Zach’s grandmother would want them to swiftly and quietly help the kids.
Esmond agreed. “Are you in a position to write a check? I can pull this out of the fire if you can cover the losses.”
What a question.
Like every other transportation company in the world, Harper’s cash flow had been brutalized these past few years. He had ships sitting idle in port, others in dry dock racking up huge repair bills, customers delaying payment because of their own downturns, creditors tightening terms, and Kaitlin out there designing the Taj Mahal instead of a functional office building.
“Sure,” he told Esmond. “I’ll write you a check.”
He put Esmond in touch with his finance director, asked Amy to have Kaitlin come to his office, then swiveled his chair to stare out at the cityscape, hoping against hope his grandmother wasn’t watching over him at this particular moment. In the three short months since her death, it felt as if the entire company was coming off the rails.
Not entirely his fault, of course. But the measure of a business manager wasn’t how he performed when things were going well, it was how he performed under stress. And the biggest stress of his present world was on her way up to see him right now.
A few minutes later, he heard the door open and knew it had to be Kaitlin. Amy would have announced anyone else.
“You can close it behind you,” he told her without turning.
“That’s okay,” she said, her footsteps crossing the carpet toward his desk.
He turned his chair, coming to his feet, in no mood to be ignored. He strode around the end of the big desk. “You can close the door behind you,” he repeated with emphasis.
“Zach, we—”
He breezed past her and firmly closed it himself.
“I’d prefer you didn’t do that.” Her voice faded off as he turned and met her head-on.
She wore a slim, charcoal-gray skirt, topped with a white-and-gold silk blouse. The skirt accented her slender waist, and was short enough to show off her shapely legs, while the blouse clung softly to her firm breasts. The top buttons were undone, showing a hint of cleavage and framing her slender neck. A twisted gold necklace dangled between her breasts, while matching earrings swung from her small ears beneath a casual updo.
His gut tightened predictably at the sight of her, and he took the few steps back to the middle of the room.
Did she have to look like a goddess every day in the office? Had the woman never heard of business suits or, better yet, sweatpants? Could she not show up in loafers instead of three-inch, strappy heels that would haunt his dreams?
“I would prefer…” She started for the door.
He snagged her arm.
She glanced pointedly down to his grip. “Are you going to manhandle me again?”
Manhandling her did begin to describe what he wanted to do. He’d gone home Friday night with his muscles stretched taut as steel. He’d tossed and turned, prayed for anger, got arousal, and when he finally slept, there she was, sexy, beckoning, but always out of reach.
He searched her expression. “Am I frightening you?”