The Lawyer by Charlotte E Hart
Chapter Five
LANDON
“Here’s the return schedule from finance, Mr Broderick,” Nina says, as she walks into my office. “The author will be here for your meeting in ten minutes. She’s already waiting downstairs.” My brow twitches. I’d forgotten about that. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to arrange the boardroom for that rather than in here?”
I sign off the last of the final documents relating to a deal coming through with a French fashion channel and stretch my neck, pushing the folder towards her. “Here is fine, Nina. I can carry on working while she’s asking whatever questions she has to ask. Take these and send them down to legal. Tell them Pierre Heroux's lawyers will need them returned by next Thursday.” I hand another two over. “And these are relating to The Foxton Herald. They need to be with David to send through.”
She nods and starts walking from the room, papers clutched under her arm. “I’ll go and organise the ball staff rota a little more then, if you don’t mind? I can send Miss Etherington in for the minutes on the meeting. I’ll probably be gone by the time you finish with that.”
My hand waves her off, and I get back to the next stack of requirements that I have to deal with. Having something attractive to look at while I’m pretending to be interested in a family matter could make the whole fucking ordeal more interesting, I suppose. I doubt it, but even I have to acknowledge that this pick of Nina’s is worthy of glancing at. In fact, she’s been quite the distraction.
I chuckle lowly at the thought and circle some clauses that are of no fucking use to us as a business. Those shoes of hers should go. I've almost pulled her up on them twice, but that would spoil my view of the heels and legs somewhat. And then there's that mouth of hers. It seems she’s not overly happy with my preferred style of working, which is minimal conversation with anyone unless absolutely necessary.
And calling me by my name?
Another half chuckle comes out of me as I scrawl another line through the entire paragraph I’m reading. I can’t remember the last time anyone in this building called me by my name apart from my father. It’s rather absorbing that I actually agreed to it. Still, she does seem to have organised my house move well enough, if the emails are to be believed. Efficient, effective. It’s enough to have piqued my interest past simply observing her. I won’t do a thing with that interest, obviously. The professional services of a PA should not extend to me fucking them over my desk.
The door barges open as I’m moving on to the next file, enough power in the move that I part consider fucking her up against that too.
“Landon? Are you ready for Ms Watkinson now?”
I don’t look up, rather sigh, and pull a corresponding contract closer. “Yes, bring her in if you must."
A woman in herfifties, perhaps,eventually storms in, all flair and bright colours. She sits without asking and dumps her bag on the floor.
“Would you like a coffee or tea, Ms Watkinson?” Willow asks.
“No, dear. We’re not here to socialise.”
My lips quirk at the attitude as I sign off another document, at least acknowledging the forthright tone. If there’s one thing I do like in this world, it’s a testy woman to play with.
And now I appear to have two in my office.
My most charming smile performs to its usual effect as I eventually raise my head and look up at the woman. She gawps for a few seconds before looking away and digging into her bag. “There’s no point in that, Sonny Jim. I’m here for facts, not flirtation.”
“You don’t enjoy flirtation, Ms Watkinson? I was looking forward to playing with an older woman.” She shushes me and waves her hand around, finally finding whatever pad and pen she was looking for. “Are you quite ready? I'm happy to stare a while longer."
“Stop it, young man.”
“We haven’t started yet, have we?”
“Mr Broderick—”
“Landon, please.”
Her eyes flutter, shoulders straightening regardless. “Right then, Landon, I’d like some information regarding your thoughts on your sister first. Persephone.”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, this ongoing feud with the Foxton’s must be trifling with your sister now living with Scott Foxton in Paris. How does that affect the current family dynamic?”
If there was a question to piss me off, that’s it.
“I don’t believe that’s pertinent to The Broderick legacy, or what’s been built over the generations. Which is what you’re here to discuss, if memory serves me correctly.”
“I’m bloody sure it would affect me if the situation were reversed. Surely your sister’s love for a man whose family has been tantamount to a mortal enemy for years must make you feel consideration towards some sense of harmony?”
“I’m not in the business of harmony, Ms Watkinson. What Persephone does with her time is at her own discretion. And your point, if there is one, is rather moot considering the fact that I am the controlling shareowner of The Herald.”
“You or your father?”
My elbows prop on the arms of my chair, fingers clutched under my chin. “Legally? Me.”
“And how does he feel about that? Giving away his legacy must be tough on him.”
“It wasn’t his legacy to give. It was my great grandfather's. It will be my son or daughter's after me. That’s what inheritance is.”
“Well, yes, quite, I suppose." She pulls her glasses down her nose and looks at me over them. “On that note, do we have any plans for marriage in the near future at all?”
“Really, Ms Watkinson, Geraldine, if you’re interested in a date you should just ask. I'm not sure we're ready for marriage at all before dates.” I glance over at Willow, watching as she smiles privately to herself. “However, if you'd like to discuss my sex life, I'm quite accomplished at it and relatively romantic on occasion. Sadly, what I don't do is perform in the office. Not even for a book.” A crimson blush attacks her cheeks, which only serves to increase my smile. “Miss Etherington?” Willow's head shoots up from the corner, an equally telling blush on her face. “I believe it’s time for coffee.”
She checks her watch. “In the middle of a meeting?” I keep staring until she puts her tablet down and stands. “Yes, of course.”
“And what do you think about the paintings? Quite provocative. I would assume a big brother might be a little disturbed by that.” My face slowly turns back to the interviewer rather than looking at the arse of my PA as she leaves, and I sigh.
“Persephone is an adult, Ms Watkinson. What she chooses to do with her body isn’t my concern. Do you have anything of interest to ask at all? I really am quite busy. Perhaps Ivy might be more entertaining to discuss. She’s closer to the industry we’re in.”
She frowns and looks at her notes, flustered because I won’t give her some sordid response she’s after. Whether I’m rattled about the Foxton situation or not, she should have known that coming into a barrister’s—now CEO’s office—and attempting to play chess with him wasn’t going to work. I’ve lived in a courtroom most of my adult life. An author on a mission to discredit my family somehow is not a concern in the slightest.
“Your mother is—”
“Here you go,” Willow says, skirting around the woman to put the coffee on my desk. She looks at her watch and then at the woman. “We only have about five more minutes before your next meeting, Mr Broderick.” I don’t have any meetings booked after this, as she well knows. Which means she’s just worked out that I am running out of patience with this conversation.
Clever girl.
I nod and take the coffee, eyes focusing back on this fucking woman that’s beginning to piss me off past pleasantries.
“Are you going to ask me if I have Mummy issues next? I can assure you, I don’t. But don’t be too disappointed, Geraldine. I’m just not that emotionally available for anything remotely close to attachment yet. You’re still a very attractive woman, though.” Willow snorts at something, then coughs to cover the noise.
“Actually, I was going to ask about your mother’s charity work and how that sits alongside a large corporation that seemingly eats anything it wants. If you could attempt to take this seriously, I'd very much appreciate it.”
My back stretches, neck rolling. “I would suggest you ask her about that. Mother takes the best of us and distributes the wealth where it can be most beneficial to the deserving. Again, it isn’t something I invest my time or thoughts in. But, for the record, we don’t eat our competitors, we simply nibble until there isn't much left and they submit. Power usually comes best in the form of tactical strategy, not grunt. You can use that if you like. I'm quite serious about it.”
Her eyes narrow, probably ready to go in for the kill. “Alright, Landon, how about you then? How do you feel about this take over as CEO? Presumably taking over The Foxton Herald was your first move?” I'm not answering another question about Foxton anything.
“Feel?”
“Yes.”
She crosses her legs and leans back, head tilted as if this is the question that’s going to make the headlines in her pathetic little book. I could strangle my father for ever allowing this in the first place. Who wants someone delving around in their company, for fuck’s sake? A narcissistic cunt is all I can think of. “How has coming back to the UK, and then having to alter your way of working, changed the way you think?”
“The way I think? Nothing changes the way I think. First and foremost, I’m a Broderick. The natural progression to lead this company was always with me, whether that involves The Herald or not.”
“Yes, but how do you feel about it?”
My lips quirk, a smile broadening. “That’s the wonderful thing about CEO’s, Geraldine, we’re not paid to feel a thing. We are here to be as cutthroat as necessary and as merciless as the job dictates. Asking me how I feel is like asking a shark whether it cares more for the chase or the eventual kill. Both things are completed without any feeling involved. They’re simply instinctual.”
I stand and walk over to the window to look out at the view, damn sure it’s time for this meeting to be over. I bought a penthouse over the weekend, and I’d very much like to get into it rather than deal with any more diatribe this woman has to offer. “But I suppose if you’re asking whether or not I’m happy to be leading this company into a new generation of governance, then the answer would be yes. I have a good team around me and my father’s knowledge, should that be needed.”
“Right, and would—”
“I’m afraid that will have to be all, Ms Watkinson,” Willow says, standing behind me. My brow arches. “Mr Broderick has another meeting now and as you can appreciate, he is on quite a tight schedule.”
My hands find my pockets, a slight smirk covering my face at her authority. Seems my little PA is taking over. “We could always set up another meeting if that would be convenient?” she says, ushering the woman up. No, we could not. There is nothing convenient about this woman in my face. “I’ll schedule you in as soon as I’m able.” Which will be never.
I turn to find the woman flustering and opening her mouth as if about to protest, but Willow has got her bags and is marching her out the door before she manages to get a word out at all. It isn’t until a minute or so later that I realise I’m still standing in the same spot and seemingly waiting for my own next instruction.
Willow's head pops around the door before I've worked out what that might be. “I’m assuming that’s a no on another meeting?” she asks.
“It’s a definite no.”
“Right. Do you mind if I leave now then? Nina’s already left to talk through some of the ball details with the venue, and it’s gone—”
“I’m aware what time it is. You can go.”
She smiles and half spins around to wave. “Okay. Enjoy your new place. I’ll see you in the morning. I'm really very jealous of it, by the way.” What did that mean?
Her shapely arse, in its conservative suit, is leaving before I manage to ask, and I keep looking at her as she sashays down the corridor. Enough so that I note the three guys in marketing craning their heads to watch her, too. It makes me grumble to myself at the stupidity of my wayward imagination, and I get back to working to drive my mind from the gutter. It eventually works, and after another hour passes, I actually do decide to get to my new home.
By the time I leave and head out through the building, it’s gone seven and the place is near deserted. A quick twenty-minute drive gets me straight to the private, underground parking, and I slip my card through the reader to gain entrance to the building. It seems that not even my cash purchase could ensure all the paperwork for the sale was complete over the weekend, but the hefty deposit ensured the move could happen. Thank Christ the official exchange and completion will happen in the coming weeks.
For all my irritation with her about the choices she picked out, and my lacking pleasantries about this last one, I do quite like it. The view mostly, but it also has a relaxed flow about it. Open plan everything, short of the bedrooms and bathrooms. Quiet—away from all the noise this high up. I think the balcony arrangement was what secured it in the end. Large, yet private. Spacious, yet cocooning. It reminds me of some of the bar terraces in Chicago. Perhaps that's what actually did it—a feeling of being somewhere more commensurate with what I’ve been before this.
The card eventually slips through the only door on this floor, and I sigh, hand running through my hair. It’s been a long day and an even longer few months since I’ve been back. At least now I’ll have some time for me—some space to think, or not think, if I choose that option.
Unfortunately, what I find behind the door is not fucking expected in the least.
Staring around, I look at all the boxes cluttering up the hallway and dirty handprints on the wall. “Jesus Christ.” She had one job to do over the weekend, and this is her accomplishment? Unpacked belongings and what appears to be filthy fucking delivery men?
My hand slides into my pocket, fingers grabbing at my phone. I don’t care that she’s probably home by now. She told me this morning, quite distinctly in that imperious tone of hers, that my apartment was ready and that everything was in place. It isn’t.
I should blame Nina for this. She is, after all, the one who suggested this woman to cover her maternity, but I don’t. I’ll blame the one person whose responsibility this has been, regardless of her detailed analysis of my mood today.
“Hello?” she says, after the fifth ring. “Landon?” The line crackles, cuts in and out a few times as I walk to the fridge. It doesn’t stop me hearing a fair number of fucks and shits before she finally manages acceptable language again. “Hello? Sorry. Are you there?”
I grab a bottle of white wine out of the fridge, checking the label. It’s decent enough that I grab a glass and start pouring. “You said this penthouse was ready for me. It isn’t.”
“What? But everything’s there, and all the paperwork is in place. I made sure several times. Willington’s delivered all your things yesterday morning. I went there myself and made sure. There’s food in the—”
“What they didn’t do was unpack any of it.”
“Unpack it?”
“I can’t live in boxes, Miss Etherington. This is far from the ‘ready for me’ you told me it was.” Another crackle to the line. “Deal with it by tomorrow.”
And then it cuts out completely.
I can’t even be bothered to call her back, and instead, I switch the phone off and head out onto my balcony to drink. Having proved her worth today, and surprising me with her abilities, she’s just let herself down again. Annoying. But what would I expect other than that? No one ever lives up to my image of perfection. There’s only one, and she’s too much of a whore to ever spend a life with or consider suitable. Still, at least I’ll get the chance to watch her in the privacy of my own home after my conversations with Jackson.
It’s that, or she gets sacked.