“That’s such a shame.” I paused a second, considering my options. Was it worth trying to press a little more or did I risk backlash?
Maybe I should mention Harper’s name. I still wasn’t clear what the bad blood was between Harper and her father. It couldn’t just be about the fact she didn’t get offered a job when she graduated. She’d indicated things went bad between them before that.
Harper knew the reason we were going to give her a slot on the presenting team was because she was Charles Jayne’s daughter, right? So she understood to a certain extent she was being used. There’s no way I’d ordinarily have a junior researcher second chair a meeting like that. But at the same time, I’d discussed that with her, sought her approval before making any decisions.
I had to decide my next move quickly or Margaret would hang up. Fuck it, this was war. “I’d hoped he’d enjoy seeing his daughter in a professional environment,” I said. Silence at the other end of the line nudged me to continue. “I was assuming Harper Jayne would join us for lunch. But I understand that Mr. Jayne is very busy.”
“Please hold the line, Mr. King,” she replied and her voice was quickly replaced with Vivaldi.
Had I just been the asshole Harper accused me of being? Was using her to get a lunch with Charles Jayne any worse than taking advantage of the fact Charles Jayne’s offer of a meeting was probably linked to her working here? The problem was none of us were sure whether or not I got the phone call from Charles Jayne because of Harper. Regardless, I hadn’t been the one to play that card—I hadn’t even known they were related. All I’d done was take advantage of a business opportunity. Fuck.
Lunch required interaction that went beyond the professional. I had no idea whether or not Harper would think lunch was no big deal, after all she’d agreed to pitch, or if she’d knee me in the balls and hand her notice in if I even suggested it.
I should have thought this whole call through more carefully in advance, maybe had Harper in the room when I spoke to Margaret. It wasn’t like me. I couldn’t tell if Harper had thrown me off my game or if it was the thought of landing JD Stanley as a client.
Maybe Margaret would come back and still say that Charles Jayne’s schedule was full. I reached inside my collar and ran my finger around the starched material. I shouldn’t have acted so rashly.
“Mr. King, I can make some time for you on Wednesday. Mr. Jayne will see you and Harper at twelve thirty at La Grenouille.”
Shit. That was the answer I wanted and the one that made me feel uncomfortable.
I hoped I’d done the right thing.
After thanking Margaret, I hung up the phone.
Maybe I didn’t have to tell Harper. Maybe I could just turn up to lunch on my own and say Harper had been caught up in the office or was sick.
But then Charles Jayne hadn’t founded a leading investment bank without the ability to smell bullshit a mile away. No. I’d have to confess to Harper what I’d done, and if she didn’t want to come to lunch, I’d have to cancel.
Jesus, why was this so fucking complicated? I’d done what I needed in order to win. If Harper and I hadn’t banged, would I be second guessing myself?
“Did you get it?” Donna asked as she burst through the door.
I nodded and leaned back in my chair. “Wednesday,” I said.
“Well, why don’t you look happier about it? Things are coming together just as you’d planned.”
I scrubbed my face with my hands. “Yeah, maybe.”
“What’s the matter with you? This is great news.” She closed the door.
Donna was right; this was what I’d been hoping for. What had been my ultimate goal just three weeks ago was now tarnished with the knowledge I’d gotten there by using Harper.
People said I was ruthless in business and that may be true, but I’d never been underhanded and I always tried to do the right thing. I wanted to be someone my daughter could admire and respect and emulate in some ways. I wanted her to be ambitious and driven. But my greatest wish was for her to grow up knowing what was important, that she became someone who understood integrity and hard work was the way to go. I didn’t want to raise a daughter who would sell her soul for a piece of corporate pie. And I’d worked hard not to be that guy. Had I just thrown that all away?
I’d always found the ethical boundaries were drawn quite distinctly on Wall Street, but today that line had become fuzzier and I wasn’t sure on which side of it I stood.
Instead of calling for an elevator when I got home after work, I took the stairs. Was I about to make a dick move by giving these shoes to Harper?
Quite possibly.
My shoes made clunking sounds against the metal steps, as if they were trying to call attention to my climb, which was the last thing I wanted. The white Jimmy Choo bag swung against my side. I’d spent about an hour in the Bleaker Street store before committing to the purchase that had made me late to work. I’d never a bought a woman outside of my family anything, ever. But since I’d seen the look of pure joy lighting up Harper’s face when she picked out Amanda’s shoes, I’d wanted to see that expression again. She’d been excited and bright and full of enthusiasm. And as the daughter of one of the richest men in New York, it was nice to see. She should have been used to luxury, but somehow she’d managed to make Amanda feel special.
I wanted her to feel the same way again.
The assistant at the store had been very patient with me. But I’d seen the pair I wanted as soon as I walked in. They were like an adult version of the pair I’d bought Amanda. The heel was higher and thinner and straps more intricate but they were covered in that glittery finish she and Amanda had gone wild over on Saturday.
I’d torn the buttons from her blouse so I owed her, didn’t I? Memories of revealing her full breasts when I’d ripped her blouse drifted into my head, and I tried to shake them off.
But I had more than one reason to buy her shoes. She’d found a dress for my daughter that reduced the chances of me going to jail for the murder of every fourteen-year-old boy who so much as looked at her. I had to thank her, and shoes were an appropriate gift.
As I reached her floor, I paused before opening the fire door. I could just leave them on her doorstep. I wanted her to have them more than I wanted to be the one to give them to her, to see that look of pleasure on her face. At least I hoped it would be pleasure. Buying an employee shoes wasn’t the actions of a boss—they had a touch of Vegas about them and I wasn’t sure how she’d react to that.
I needed to stop being such a pussy.
I knocked three times on her door and stretched out my hands, trying to resist the buzz in my fingers I knew would start when she appeared. It was as if I were pre-programmed to reach for her whenever I saw her.
She appeared seconds later, dressed in a Berkeley T-shirt and leggings, her hair in a high ponytail—a style I’d never seen her wear to work. She looked breathtaking.
“Hi,” she said, her mouth slightly open.
“Hi.” I held out the bag.
Her eyebrows knitted together. “What’s that?” she asked, though she didn’t take it.
“A thank you. For Saturday and . . . You know, for giving up your time last weekend.”