No, itwouldchange. It was best to be prepared.
Once a month, Callum insisted on a family meeting to be held around the two-hundred-year-old dining table at Ryder’s Rest. After they were done discussing Ryder International and Ryder-White business, they adjourned to Callum’s reception room to drink sherry while his housekeeper set the dining table for a four-course dinner followed by port and, if they felt so inclined, a hand of cards or a game of billiards.
It was all very Downton Abbey. Every family member’s attendance was mandatory and, being so busy, Kinga and Tinsley chafed at the wasted time and mentally mocked their grandfather’s pretensions.
He was not a bloody duke or a member of the peerage. This wasn’t aristocratic England, for God’s sake.
But because no good ever came of rocking the boat, Kinga gritted her teeth, drank his revolting sherry and followed Tinsley to her seat at the dining table where they’d discuss business over dinner.
Tinsley glanced around, and seeing that her grandfather was preoccupied at the other end of the room with pouring himself another whiskey, nudged Kinga with her elbow. “You’re looking very militant, Kingaroo. What’s up?”
“A thousand and one things,” Kinga muttered, flipping open the cover to her iPad. Not least of which was the fact that she couldn’t stop thinking about that man-devil, Griff O’Hare. He popped into her thoughts all the time and then she spent a few minutes remembering the color of his eyes, the width of his shoulders, the way his jeans cupped his very nice package...
Dear God, she was losing her mind.
“Whose stupid idea was it to have a yearlong celebration of everything Ryder International?” she demanded, sounding irritated.
Her dad stopped next to her seat and dropped a kiss on her head. “Yours, darling.”
Kinga twisted her lips. “And, except for the notion of hiring O’Hare to sing at the ball, it was the stupidest idea ever.”
Tinsley sent her a sympathetic look and jerked her chin. Kinga turned her head to see Callum approaching his chair at the head of the table. He’d exchanged his suit jacket for one of his many vintage smoking jackets, this one a rich burgundy with black velvet lapels. Callum sat down, opened his leather folder and picked up his Montblanc fountain pen, one of only six made in the world. The unlined paper on which he made notes was handcrafted and his whiskey glass was made in Bohemia. Callum was a blue blood and nothing but the best was good enough for him.
Griff was annoying, sure, but at least the man wasn’t pretentious. And why was she thinking about him?
Callum cleared his throat and his pale blue eyes landed on James. “Why have you made no progress in establishing who owns the block of shares that are out of my control?”
James gave his father the same answer he did every time he was asked this question. “Callum, the shares are held in a trust. The trust is confidential.” James lifted up his hand. “All we can do is send letters—as we have been doing—via the trustee’s lawyers and hope he responds. If he doesn’t, our hands are tied.”
Callum released a low growl. “What the hell was Benjamin thinking leaving those shares to someone out of the family?”
Ah, that might be because you, Callum, flipped out when he told you he was in love with another man.Karma, as she’d learned, never lost an address or failed to deliver.
Kinga caught Tinsley’s eye and rolled her own.
“Would it help to hire a private investigator to look into Benjamin’s life at the time that he bequeathed the shares?” Callum demanded.
Kinga saw frustration in her father’s eyes. “We did that, and the only person close to Ben at the time was the man he briefly lived with, the man he wanted to marry.” James shook his head at Callum’s look of distaste. Unlike Callum, her parents were tolerant and accepting. They’d taught her and Tinsley that love was love.
“I had the PI dig into his life, but Carlos lived simply, a solidly upper-middle-class life. If he had access to Ben’s wealth, he would’ve at least paid off his mortgage. He didn’t. The investigator found no indication that Carlos controls those shares, but we don’t know who else might.”
“Can we please move on?” Penelope demanded.
Kinga frowned at her mom’s terse tone. “Mom? Are you okay?”
“We keep beating the same dead horse! The shares are out of our reach. Maybe it’s time to accept that!” Penelope muttered.
Callum narrowed his eyes at his daughter-in-law. “If I simply accepted what I was told, I would not own a ten-billion-dollar company, Penelope. You would not be wearing Chanel or sporting a five-carat diamond or driving the latest BMW.”
Penelope pushed her fingertips into her eye sockets. “Yes, I understand, Callum. Sorry.”
Stop apologizing, Mom! You didn’t do anything wrong.Kinga shook her head. She saw the glint in her grandfather’s eye as he looked at her mom’s bent head, the small smile on his lips.
Callum loved putting people in their place; he got a kick out of knocking people down, especially women. So why was she still working for the man? Why didn’t she just leave?
Kinga sighed. Because, while she didn’t like her grandfather, she loved the business, loved her demanding and interesting job and she thought that, maybe, she could draw some of Callum’s fire from her father.
“I sent you a copy of Griff O’Hare’s signed contract, Callum,” Kinga said, wanting to move the meeting along. Damn, even saying his name made her feel squidgy, off balance. What was wrong with her?