Page 4 of Just Like in the Movies

‘It’s going very well, thank you,’ she said.

Yeah, right. He wasn’t buying it.

‘So you’re in profit? You’re not running at a loss?’

She nodded, but that luminous-green gaze slipped away from his as she did so.

‘What was your turnover last year?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know the figures.’ She propped her chin up and glared at him, but the bright flush highlighting the sprinkle of freckles over her nose didn’t make her look any more convincing. ‘Matty handled the books. But I’m sure Mr Ryker will let you know all the details of The Royale’s finances once the will has been finalised.’

He heard it then, the snap of resentment he’d been expecting earlier. She was pissed now. He ignored the pang of somethin

g resembling admiration at the show of indignation. It certainly was not his business she seemed to have a bigger attachment to a failing movie theatre than she did to the chance to cash in on what sounded like a lucrative property portfolio.

‘I guess so.’ He shrugged and switched his attention to the lawyer. ‘When do you think that will be?’ He was heading to Europe tomorrow for a series of meetings but he could swing back through London on his way home a week from Friday. He had no pressing business in Manhattan that couldn’t be postponed. And he had to admit he was intrigued now. Despite what the girl seemed to think, he wasn’t here to cash in on a legacy he hadn’t earned. If the business was making a profit and keeping her and her friends employed, he was more than happy to be a silent partner.

If, on the other hand, it was a failing business, which had debts he would have to finance as a part-owner, then he was not prepared to inherit fifty percent of that liability. The last remnants of being broad-sided by a two-by-four finally faded as the reason for Matthew Devlin’s batshit bequest became blindingly obvious, once again confirming Luke’s lack of faith in human nature – and surprise bequests from relatives you’d never met. That had to be why the old guy had left him a half-share of his estate – because he knew Luke was a successful businessman with a large pool of investment capital at his fingertips. Matthew Devlin was obviously as much of a mercenary romantic as his sister. The cunning bastard had probably figured if he named Luke in his will, he would be able to coerce him into stepping in and helping finance his vanity project and keeping his girlfriend solvent, based on some erroneous concept of kinship. That wasn’t gonna happen, because Matthew Devlin’s cunning will strategy had miscalculated by one important degree.

Luke did not do sentiment, in business or in his private life. And he had more than enough liabilities already when it came to family. Keeping tabs on his kid sister, bailing his reckless younger brother out of scraps and handling the fallout whenever their mother went rogue was all the bullshit responsibilities he needed in his life. He was not about to acquire any more – especially from people he didn’t even know, and wasn’t closely related to, no matter how luminous their eyes, or how genuine their tears.

‘I can email you all the financial projections for The Royale’s business later today,’ the lawyer said. ‘The accountancy firm are working on them now. Obviously, finalising the estate will take a little longer, as Matty’s was an unexpected death. As the executor, I can …’

‘Not a problem,’ Luke cut in, before the guy could launch into another long list of details. He now had less than an hour to get to Canary Wharf for the meeting he’d set up with some venture capitalists from Delhi to make this detour to London at his mother’s insistence worthwhile. ‘You can reach me at The Grant on Park Lane until tomorrow if you need to speak to me in person.’ Standing, he fished his wallet out of his jacket pocket and slapped his business card on the lawyer’s desk. ‘Otherwise, email over the financials when you have them. Are we done here?’

‘Well, yes, I suppose so,’ the lawyer said, looking flustered for the first time since Luke had walked into the room.

Leaning across the desk, Luke shook his hand. Then, as he turned to offer Ruby Graham his hand, she shot out of her seat, her freckles beaming out of her flush-like spotlights.

‘Wait a minute. That’s it? Where are you going?’ she demanded.

He shoved his now redundant proffered hand into his pocket. ‘I have a meeting in Canary Wharf in …’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Fifty-eight minutes.’

‘Can’t you cancel your meeting? Surely sorting out Matty’s final wishes is more important than any meeting?’

Not to me, he thought, but didn’t say. Her lip was trembling, and while he was totally, one hundred percent immune to women’s tears, he did not want her to start bawling or he’d miss his meeting.

‘We won’t be able to figure anything out today,’ he said, keeping his voice firm and impersonal, so as not to set her off. Luckily, he was an expert at dealing with women on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Thanks, Mom. ‘Once I’ve gone over the financials, we can talk about what we’re going to do next.’

‘What do you mean, what we’re going to do next? We’re going to run The Royale …’ Her throat constricted as she swallowed. ‘Together,’ she added, the word propelled on a torturous puff of breath. ‘It’s what Matty would have wanted.’

Yeah, but Matty’s dead.

It’s what he wanted to say. What he would have said if he wasn’t trying to diffuse the situation instead of have it blow up in his face. And if he hadn’t watched that damn tear track down her cheek and disappear into a wad of damp tissue.

‘I’ll be back in town Friday next.’ At which point he could only hope she would have gotten herself under control. ‘We can talk then.’

‘Um, yes, okay.’ He was surprised to see her brighten. But also grateful. At least she wasn’t going to have her nervous breakdown today. ‘That could work.’ Her mouth tipped up in a smile, which looked remarkably guileless for a woman who had shacked up with a guy twice her age just to get her hands on a half-share in a movie theatre. ‘If you come to the cinema, we could introduce you to the true wonder of The Royale and everything you’ve inherited,’ she finished with a flourish.

He didn’t give a damn about The Royale, or the wonders of what he had inherited. But her enthusiasm for the place was obvious, and a lot easier to handle than her grief, or her enmity, or her detachment from reality, so he gave her a curt nod.

‘My assistant will be in touch,’ he said.

He didn’t want to go to the theatre. Why would he? The movie industry had caused him nothing but trouble his whole life. And he knew exactly how fake the wonders of everything associated with the movies were. Plus, he should know by next week what the bottom line was with the place, so he could communicate his plans over the phone or, better yet, via email through his administrative assistant. Right now, he had somewhere else he needed to be, so he headed for the door.

By Friday next, he should have all the facts at his fingertips – so he could explain to Ruby Graham in words of one syllable what was and was not going to work for him, crummy business ventures-wise.

***

---