Page 53 of The Next Mrs. Parrish

She was pleased when he got back into the driver’s seat and sat mute, waiting for direction from her. No inane chatter this time. “We have several stops this morning. Here they are.” Amber handed him a piece of paper with four addresses.

“Yes, ma’am.” He pulled onto Turtle Creek Boulevard and drove.

He was young, probably in his late twenties, Amber figured, as she studied his profile, and for a moment felt something close to empathy. The people he drove around were most likely well-heeled, maybe some even famous, and she wondered if that got to him, seeing the way the 1 percent lived.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

It took him a moment and then he looked in the rearview mirror. “Bobby.”

“Okay, Bobby, when we get to the school, I don’t want you to park. Just drive around it very slowly so that I can take it all in.”

“Right.”

They drove another fifteen minutes and as they approached the property, Bobby slowed down to a crawl. Amber put down her window and observed. The Hockaday School campus was huge, more like the size of a small community college, with manicured lawns, tennis courts, and gleaming buildings. So this is where the rich bitch had gone to school. Exclusive and privileged. Amber imagined what it must be like inside. She’d seen pictures online of the buildings, the grounds, and students in uniform playing lacrosse. In photographs, they all looked happy and carefree, confident and sure of themselves, like a rare and protected species, a world apart from other mere mortals. They had parents who gave them every advantage, took them to visit colleges, and advised them on all the career opportunities before them. Amber would bet their summer vacations and school-year breaks were spent traveling to wonderful places, being exposed to other countries and cultures.

So different from Amber’s blue-collar parents and public-school experience—one brick building on four acres at most. She balled her hands into fists, her resentment mounting. It was so unfair that an accident of birth could either make or break your life. Throughout high school, all Amber ever thought about was the day she would finally graduate and be able to leave that second-rate school and town and family. She’d always known she didn’t belong there, that she should have been born to rich parents like Daisy Ann had.

Daisy Ann’s husband had gone to St. Mark’s, a private boys’ school nearby. How practical of the landed families to ensure that their sons and daughters would mix near each other. Like breeding fine Angus cattle.

“I’m finished here.” She put her window up and looked away. “Let’s go on to Highland Park.”

She bit the inside of her mouth and drummed her fingers on the leather seat when the car turned onto Daisy Ann’s street. She’dlooked up the house online, of course, but nothing beat an in-person look.

“Don’t stop, just slow down a little as we pass,” she said as they approached the stone gates leading to the house. A picture may be worth a thousand words, but it didn’t hold a candle to seeing something with your own eyes. Amber had stayed in the Crawford mansion when they’d buried Jake, the mansion Daisy Ann had been born in and lived in until she went off to college. Now, not only did Daisy Ann live inthisgorgeous stone manor with her husband and sons, but she also still owned her father’s home and the ranch in Colorado. Daisy Ann’s life was perfect and always had been, yet she couldn’t spare one ounce of kindness for Amber—kicking her out after Jake’s death and then publicly humiliating her in New York. How exquisitely divine it was going to be to take this woman down.

“Okay. I’ve seen enough. I have a one o’clock appointment downtown. That should give us plenty of time,” she said to Bobby.

During the drive, Amber went over in her mind what she wanted to say. Valene Mart had made an offer to buy out White Orchid once, and when she’d spoken briefly on the phone to their senior vice president of acquisitions, it sounded as if they were still more than eager to talk. She’d given her name as Beatrice Bennett again, acquisitions VP of Delancey-Flynn, the bogus private equity firm Jackson had setup.

They pulled up to the sleek contemporary building, and Amber felt that tingle of excitement she always got when she was about to go into acting mode. “Not sure how long I’ll be,” she said, opening the car door.

“I’ll be here, ma’am,” Bobby replied.

The offices were expansive, taking up the entire fifth floor of the large building, and she was escorted to a small conference room where a woman and two men rose as she entered.

The tall redheaded woman extended her hand. “Ms. Bennett, I’m Vivienne Wallace. We spoke on the phone. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“And you,” Amber said, taking in the creamy complexion and beautifully well-cut dress she wore.

She swept an arm toward the men. “This is Todd Hill and Roderick Lincoln. The third,” she added, “but he goes by Roddy. They’re part of our acquisitions team.”

Amber gave a nod and smiled at the men, both youngish and one of them drop-dead gorgeous. Roderick the third was obviously the son of Valene Mart CEO Roderick Lincoln, Jr. Todd was the hunk. Her eyes lingered a little longer on him and something passed between them.

“Please have a seat. May I get you something to drink?” Vivienne asked.

Amber sat, seeing that a bottled water had been placed at each seat. “I’m fine with water, thank you.”

“Fine. Shall we get down to business then? You said on the phone that you are in talks with Daisy Ann Briscoe to acquire her stock in White Orchid Designs, is that correct?”

“Yes. As I told you, this is preliminary and it’s also top secret. If she found out that we intend to sell to you, she’d never agree to the deal.” Amber paused, looking at each of them in turn. “Mrs. Briscoe is seriously considering our offer to purchase twenty-five shares from her. We have another shareholder willing to sell us his thirty. What my company proposes is that we purchase the stock for resale to you. With fifty-five shares and a controlling position, you can take the company wherever you wish. What we need from you is the price per share you are prepared to pay.”

“I can tell you what we offered before. It was an outright buyout and the price we offered is pretty much general knowledge,” Vivienne said.

“What we’d pay per share of stock would depend on more current projections of profit and loss,” Roddy chimed in officiously.

Amber looked over at “the third,” who looked to her like the family genes had been diluted by the time they got to him. “That hardly seems relevant, given you’re going to gobble the companyup and mass-produce the designs. It’s not as though you’re going to continue running it as is.”

“That’s true but—”

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