Prologue
Dillon Walsh sat back, watching the other men around the table, listening to the proceedings with half an ear.
Three brokers, two company presidents, a handful of vice-presidents, and an assorted variety of lawyers, all haggling about who was going to get what as Watson Towers and Bellamy Inc. were merged into one of the umbrella corporations that Dillon's company oversaw.
He was richer than God, and probably just as bored.
And there wasn't a man here worth his attention.
Biting back his sigh, Dillon poured himself a glass of water.
He imagined old Sam Williamson in a leather-daddy outfit and actually had to bite the side of his mouth to keep from laughing out loud. The old man would probably be happier all trussed up licking someone else's boots.
Taking a sip of his water, he turned his attention to the young broker next to the old geezer.
Dark hair, dark eyes, thin lips held tight together--the lean little shit looked like he'd never laughed or fucked or anything but made money and gone to church.
Dillon put him in the leather-daddy outfit and snorted, lips twitching as eight sets of eyes turned on him, the broker--another fucking "s" name: not Sam, but Steve? Simon? Scotty?--looking like he'd be the first to call the men in white coats.
"I don't think you need me at this point, do you? I have other business to attend to." He fixed each one of them with a hard look, saving Prim-and-Proper-Boy for last.
"I'm sure we can have the proper paperwork faxed to you." Proper Boy had a hint of southern accent, the barest hint of impatience there.
"At least one of you will." He closed his laptop, put it into his briefcase, and then snapped the case closed.
He looked them all over again, gaze lingering on Proper Boy. He wondered briefly what it would be like to get that stiff back to unbend, what it would take to ruffle those uptight feathers.
"Well then, if there's nothing else..."
"Have a good afternoon, Walsh. I'm sure we'll manage." Katherine Fents dismissed him with a wave, the men all turning back to the table.
He was sure they would.
He had one last glance as he left, eight backs as stiff as each other.
He rolled his eyes as the doors closed behind him.
He needed a hobby.
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