Desperate to know more about the Miles brothers? Read on for an exclusive first chapter of the next book in the series, The Takeover, out very soon . . .
Chapter 1
The phone buzzes on my desk. “Hello,” I answer.
“Hi, Tristan Miles is on line two for you,” Marley replies.
“Tell him I’m busy.”
“Claire.” She pauses. “This is the third time he’s called this week.”
“So?”
“Pretty soon, he’s going to stop calling.”
“And your point is?” I snap in exasperation. I love Marley, but damn it, I wish she would mind her business. Sometimes, it really blows having your best friend as your receptionist.
“My point is we paid the staff out of the overdraft this week. And I know you don’t want to admit this, but we are in trouble, Claire. You need to hear him out.”
I exhale heavily and drag my hand down my face. I know she’s right: our company, Anderson Media, is struggling. We’re down to our last three hundred staff members, having downscaled from the original six hundred. Miles Media has been circling like wolves for months, watching and waiting for the perfect time to move in for the kill. Tristan Miles: the head of acquisitions and the archenemy of every struggling company in the world. Like a leech, he takes over companies when they’re at their lowest, tears them apart, and then with his never-ending funds, turns them into huge successes. He’s the lowest snake in the snake pit. Preying on weaknesses and getting paid millions of dollars a year for the privilege. He’s a rich, spoiled bastard with a reputation of being acutely intelligent, hard as nails, and conscience-free.
He’s everything I hate about business.
“Just listen to what he has to say—that’s all. You never know what he might offer,” Marley pleads.
“Oh, come on,” I scoff. “We both know what he wants.”
“Claire, please.” She pauses. “You can’t lose your family home. I won’t let that happen.”
Sadness rolls over me; what a mess I’ve made of everything. “Fine.” I sigh, defeated. “Schedule a meeting.”
“Okay, great.”
“Don’t get excited,” I snap. “I’m just doing this to shut you up, you know?”
“Good, mouth officially shut from here on out. Cross my heart.”
I roll my eyes. “If only. Will you come with me?”
“Yes, for sure. We’ll stick Mr. Fancy Pants’s checkbook where the sun doesn’t shine.”
I giggle at the idea. “Okay, deal.”
I hang up and go back to my report, wishing it were Friday and I didn’t have to worry about Anderson Media and the bills.
I’m tired . . . so tired.
Thursday morning Marley and I power down the street on the way to our meeting. “Why are we meeting here again?” I ask.
“He wanted to meet somewhere neutral. He has a table booked at Bryant Park Grill.”
“That’s odd—it’s not a date,” I scoff.
“It’s probably all part of his grand plan.” She holds her hands up and does an air rainbow. “Neutral ground.” She widens her eyes in jest. “While he tries to fuck us up the ass.”
“With a smile on his face.” I huff. “Oh god, I hate him already.”
“So remember the strategy.” She coaches me as we walk.
“Yes.”
“Tell me it again . . . so I remember it.”
I smile. Marley is an idiot. A funny idiot nonetheless. “Stay calm; don’t let him ruffle my feathers. Don’t say an outright no—just keep him on ice in the background as an insurance policy.”
“Yes, that’s a great plan.”
“It should be . . . you thought of it.” We arrive at the restaurant. I take out my compact and reapply my lipstick. My dark hair is twisted up into a loose knot. I’m wearing a navy pantsuit with a cream silk blouse, closed-toe high-heeled patent pumps, and my pearl earrings. Sensible clothes—I want him to take me seriously. “Do I look okay?” I ask.
“You look hot.”
My face falls. “I don’t want to look hot, Marley. I want to look hard.”
She scowls as she falls into character. “Totally hard.” She punches her hand with her fist. “Iron maiden snatch style.”
I smirk at my gorgeous friend; her bright-red zany hair is short and punky, and her pink cat-eye glasses are in full swing. She’s wearing a red dress with a bright-yellow shirt underneath with red stockings and shoes. She’s so trendy that she’s actually scruffy. Marley is my best friend, my confidante, and the hardest worker in our company. She hasn’t left my side for the last five years; her friendship is a gift, and I have no idea where I would be without her.
“Are you ready?” she asks.
“Yes. We are twenty minutes early—I wanted to get here first. Get the upper hand.”
Her shoulders slump. “When I ask you if you’re ready, you’re supposed to answer with, ‘I was born ready.’”
I roll my eyes. “This isn’t a fucking Rocky Balboa movie, Marley,” I snap as I push past her. “Let’s get this over with.”
We drop our shoulders, steel ourselves, and walk into the foyer. The waiter smiles. “Hello, ladies. How can I help you?”
“Ah.” I glance at Marley. “We are meeting someone here.”
“Tristan Miles?” he asks.
I frown. How did he know that? “Yes . . . actually.”
“He has the private dining room booked upstairs.” He gestures to the stairs.
“Of course he does,” I mutter under my breath.
Marley curls her lip in disgust, and we make our way up the stairs. The top floor is empty. We look around, and I see a man out on the balcony on his phone. Perfectly fit navy suit, crisp white shirt, tall and muscular. His hair is longer on top, dark brown with a curl. He looks like he belongs on a modeling shoot, not the snake pit at all.
“Holy fuck . . . he’s hot,” Marley whispers.
“Shut up,” I stammer in a panic that he will hear her. “Act fucking cool, will you?”
“I know.” She hits me in the thigh, and I hit her back.
He turns toward us and flashes a broad smile and holds up a finger, gesturing he will be just a moment. I fake a smile, and he turns his back to us to wrap up his call. I glare at his back as my anger rises. How dare he make us wait. “Don’t speak,” I whisper.
“Can I whistle?” she whispers as she looks him up and down. “I totally want to wolf whistle the fuck out of this guy. Asshole or not.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose—this is a disaster already. “Please, just don’t speak,” I remind her again.
“Okay, okay.” She does a zip-her-lips-closed gesture.
He hangs up his call and walks toward us, confidence personified. Smiling broadly, he holds out his hand. “Hello, I’m Tristan Miles.” He’s all dimples and square jaw and white teeth and . . .
I shake his hand like a truck driver, hard and emotionless. “Hello, I’m Claire Anderson. Nice to meet you.” I gesture to Marley. “This is Marley Smithson, my assistant.”