Page 36 of Vivacity
In fact, he’s clinging to the numbers, the dreaded cost efficiencies, like they’re a lifeline. He’s deep in the reeds of this, mired in the process. I have no idea if he actually wants this.
On the ride back to Kingsley HQ, he gets hold of Vanguard, Credit Suisse, and Invesco, too. Once the top five shareholders have been secured, he collapses back against his seat and blows out a huge breath. He may be exhausted, but he’s positively vibrating with nervous energy. I’d bet the cortisol is pumping around his body right now.
What is it about this man that I find so intoxicating? I may flatter myself that I can see beneath the veil where he’s concerned, but I’m as much of a sucker as the next girl for Ethan Kingsley’s particular type of armour. Maybe it’s precisely because I can see the chinks that he’s so attractive. I can appreciate every moment of his cold swagger and ruthless power plays while also being drawn to his vulnerability.
Vulnerability that’s clear as day from where I’m sitting.
Vulnerability that it would kill him to reveal, even inadvertently. Especially inadvertently. And I don’t use the wordkilllightly. Eight here doesn’t choose to command people or situations for kicks. He does it to survive. His fear of losing control is existential to him. And right now the only narrative he wants to hear is that he’s got this entire shit show under control, when in truth, it’s a fucking tinderbox.
I’ve only seen an acquisition get this nasty once, back when I was at Morgan Stanley. One Italian regional bank launched a hostile takeover of another, and holy fuck. It was like bloody Romeo and Juliet meets the Italian Wars of Religion. I thought blood would be shed, I honestly did.
But this one has the potential to get even nastier, even more personal and vicious and polarising, and we’re only a few days in.
The beautiful, complex man beside me is breathing raggedly and scrolling through his phone so quickly, so aggressively, that the little metal box is in danger of bursting into flames.
I make a decision and lay a hand on his thigh. God, his quad is like steel.
‘Hey. Ethan. Take an hour for yourself, why don’t you? Whatever you’re feeling right now, take it out on me. That’s what I’m here for.’
ETHAN
This deal is toxic.
My father is toxic.
Even the blood coursing hotly through my veins is toxic.
At least, that’s how it feels in my body. My brain, however, is in another place.
You have full control of this situation.
That sentimental outburst from Miles’ old man was frankly embarrassing. If only his shareholders could hear him speak like that about cost synergies that are any Finance Director’s wet dream.
Emotion is the enemy of execution.
And the Montagues are about to find that out the hard way.
Still, I’m not stupid. There are so many moving parts to this transaction that any one of them could derail this deal. I talked a good game in there, but the palpable tension in every muscle in my body tells a different story.
And now the beautiful woman sitting next to me is emitting her siren’s call, and her hand is warm and soft and suggestive onmy thigh, and it’s not helpful, it’s really not, because this is the last fucking thing I have time for.
‘I need to get to the rest of the shareholders before they do,’ I grit out, my quad tensing up even further under her touch.
‘You’ve already got the top five. Those guys control twelve, thirteen percent of the free float between them. Add in your stake and you’ve already got high teens wrapped up.’
She’s right, of course. Our newly acquired stake, and the calls I’ve made just now, have put us in a strong position. Still, I need to keep acting, need to keep pushing forward, if I’m to stave off this creeping, chilling feeling of helplessness.
‘It’s not enough. I need more votes.’
‘And you’ll get them. But think of it from an efficiency standpoint. You’re wired and drained. That meeting would have exhausted anyone. Take an hour to work it all out on me, and I promise you, you’ll be operating at your absolute peak afterwards. Even better, get the bankers to put the calls in while you’re “recharging your batteries”. Let them set up the meetings. It’s part of their bloody job, after all.’
I twist my body around so I can drink her in. It feels as though there’s a vice around my poor, exhausted brain. I didn’t sleep well at all last night. But she’s a fucking mirage, a fertile oasis in a desert of vertiginous stakes and power games and dick-swinging. Her face is so close, her lips so full, dark eyes grazing over my face like she’s waiting for me to admit that she can fulfil every single need I have in this moment. Her heady floral scent pervades my senses and fucks with my head, and somewhere, deep down, I know she’s right. I know I’m good for nothing like this, running on empty.
This Seraph gig was supposed to be carefully managed, strictly prescribed titration: a drip-feed of timely releases, if you like. After all, my needs should be managed, not indulged.
And that’s precisely what Sophia’s three predecessors provided. The sexual side of my previous Seraph contracts ran perfectly, in fact, because those women met my needs without overly fuelling my appetites.
This woman is another story. Another story indeed. And that’s why I have to be the one to apply the brakes when it comes to availing myself of her sinful body and wanton ways. The problem is that being the one to keep your foot on the brake the entire fucking time gets tiring pretty quickly.
