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Morgan stops in mid power trip when he notices me. “Rhett Westing. What a surprise,” he deadpans.
“Paul,” I say, mentally calculating how long this line is going to be and just how long this conversation is going to last. “Here for the convention?”
“You could say that,” he responds. “And why are you here, Rhett?” The question is laced with his knowledge of exactly why I’m here, but I don’t bend to it. I give the answer Mother has pounded into my brain since she told me about this ill-conceived trip.
“Mother is interested in investing in the future of technology. She’s sent me ahead to scout out some favorable investments.”
Paul smirks. “You almost sounded like a businessman there.”
And you almost didn’t sound like a dirty douche. I don’t say it though. Not out of politeness, but because it’d be a lie; Paul Morgan always sounds like an unwiped asshole. No, instead I don’t say anything. I also don’t advert my eyes.
Paul holds my gaze for a solid three seconds and then turns to Liz. “And you are?” he asks.
“Elizabeth Slate,” she says coolly.
“The girlfriend?” he asks.
“The associate,” she replies.
Paul’s mouth curls. “Who’s to say you aren’t both?”
I try desperately not to let the memory of this morning show on my face. Thankfully, Paul is now examining Liz like she’s a lobster in a tank at a Michelin star restaurant.
I’m a moment from saying something truly hostile when Paul abruptly cuts the tension with a sharp laugh and a slick smile. “But I’m joking, of course. Apologies for my manners, Ms. Slate, but I’ll confess I’m just a bit jealous. When I heard you left Robinson and Robinson I was hoping there may be an opportunity to snatch you up.”
Liz isn’t thrown by the abrupt face. “Should have been quicker on the offer then,” she says.
“When you outgrow Sloane, you know where to find me,” Paul says. “It’d be a shame for a woman of your talents to waste them working at a bank that has maybe a good decade left in its run.”
“Underestimating your competition has never been a particularly strong spot for you, Paul,” I say.
Paul chuckles. “I’ll admit that your mother turned out to be a rather fearless opponent, Rhett. But while Sloane and I teeter toward equals. You and I? Well, I guess if I ever need to get to an airport quickly, you’re the guy to call.”
“And you’ll be first on our list for advice if we have a harassment suit to handle,” Liz fires back with an impressive level of I-don’t-give-a-shit. “I’m always so curious when lawsuits are settled out of court. Can you give me a ballpark figure? Please? I want to win a bet.”
Liz is bringing up a sexual harassment case that had resulted in Paul recently having to fire his second-in-command, Evan Walsh. It’s obviously a sore subject. Paul’s mouth puckers, and he turns to a young man standing behind him.
“Why are we standing in this fucking line?” he demands.
At first I think this is a hotel employee who’s wandered into Paul’s warpath like a bunny onto a freeway. But then I realize that this is someone here with Paul, and very unhappy about it.
“They’re making everyone sign in at the desk,” he squeaks.
“Clark! You prolapsed asshole! Do I fucking look like everyone?!”
“No, sir.”
“And is it your job to ride my dick instead of fixing this?”
“No, sir.”
“Then isn’t it your fault that I’m standing here with my dick in my hand instead of getting into my jacuzzi?”
“No, sir. I— I mean, yes sir. Right away.”
Clark is tall and skinny and doesn’t look much older than twenty-five. He also looks fucking terrified as he elbows his way to the front of the line and starts talking to the desk clerk who is clearly not happy about the interruption.
Paul adjusts his jacket around his thick chest and smiles again, having dispensed some of his rage onto Clark. “Let’s be frank, Rhett. I know why you’re here, and I know that you wasted your time coming. Marie Alencar is transferring her funds to a separate account within Generations Bank. There’s nothing you can do to stop that.”
