Chapter 19
Anton
‘Ihave Genevieve Carew on the line for you.’
One of my PAs, Rix, sticks her head through my office door. Unlike my EA, my PAs only do actual office work. Like her, they’re very good at what they do.
I smirk to myself as I nod at Rix. ‘I’ll take it.’
Well, well, well.
The flowers I sent Genevieve last week were met with a stony silence, but I had a feeling my latest move might prompt a response. Not that I did it to rile her.
I did it because when I see an opportunity, I always act.
Winding her up was merely a beautiful bonus.
I accept the call on speaker. ‘Wolff.’
Her voice comes through, crisp and melodic and pissed off.
‘What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?’
I grin widely. Christ, that woman needs a good seeing to, and the sooner she accepts it, the better for everyone.
‘Good morning to you too, Genevieve,’ I say smoothly, settling back in my armchair for a little light verbal sparring, which is always my favourite form of foreplay.
‘Why did your henchman email Rafe to call a meeting?’
‘That’s the point of the meeting,’ I explain as if she’s a small child. ‘To lay it all out for you.’
‘We’re not for sale, if that’s what you’re thinking. So there’s no point in sniffing around.’
‘I’m not trying to buy you, Genevieve.’ Ah, the imprecision of the English language. Usually cause for rue, but the ambiguity of the word you in this instance allows for some entertaining subtext.
‘What do you want, then?’
‘I have a proposition for your management team. Very little risk to you guys and a lot of upside.’
‘It sounds sketchy.’
‘It’s not.’
‘Why did you email him?’ she demands. ‘I’m your contact.’
Ahh, the little lamb is jealous. So sweet. ‘Firstly, I didn’t email him. My chief of staff, Max, did. And while your possessiveness is truly touching, Max emailed Rafe because he’s the CEO, unless I’m mistaken?’
Silence, though I swear I hear a huff of annoyance. My favourite ice queen is far worse at concealing her reactions than she gives herself credit for.
‘Get over yourself. And Rafe doesn’t take meetings unless he knows the agenda up front,’ she says. ‘None of us do. It’s a waste of time.’
‘I’m hardly some random. I am, objectively speaking, the highest-profile serial entrepreneur in this country.
Come on, Genevieve. People would kill for a minute of my time.
And here you are, blowing me off because you’re pissed off about the other night.
Don’t let whatever unfounded ill feelings you have for me get in the way of business.
I’m excellent at what I do. And I have a business proposal for your team that could kick Alchemy up a gear.
Several gears. So do I get a meeting or not?
Because most business owners would kill to get into bed with me. ’
God, I am king of subtext today. I let that image linger between us for a moment.
‘Fine,’ she grits out.
I nearly say good girl, but stop myself just in time. ‘Excellent. I’ll get my assistants to set something up. Now, what are you wearing?’
‘Stop being a creepy old man. What the hell is wrong with you?’
I snigger. I can’t help it. She’s quite ridiculous. There’s nothing old about me or my stamina, and she damn well knows it. ‘Just tell me.’
‘Dior.’
‘I didn’t ask who you were wearing, I asked what.’
‘That’s all you’re getting. Now please go away and stop wasting my time. Don’t you have an empire to run or something?’
She’s right. I shouldn’t have taken the call. I shouldn’t even be bothering myself with this spark of an idea. Max could kick-start it easily and allocate a VP to run with it, but I can’t help myself.
First, it gets me closer to her.
Second, no matter how many decades I spend in business, this is the part that still gives me the biggest kick.
My more mature businesses, like Wolff Media and Wolff Property Holdings and Wolff Chemicals, with their complex structures and stable cash flows and nice, dependable dividends bore the utter fuck out of me.
Trying to implement any change in those beasts is like turning the Titanic.
It’s the kernels that get to me, that make me feel like a boy again.
This isn’t even a kernel, in the grand scheme of things. It’s more of a pet project. Something to amuse me while I run my other businesses at arm’s length. Something to light that fire in my belly—the fire that grows tougher to ignite the more my success, my entrenchment in British industry, grows.
But I won’t admit any of that to Genevieve. Not yet, not when she gives me so little back.
‘You called me, remember,’ I say, my tone colder now. ‘I took the call as a courtesy.’
‘Whatever,’ she says, her tone clipped. ‘Goodbye, Anton.’
‘I meant what I said on that card,’ I tell her, and I end the call before she can respond.