Chapter Four
No sooner had they stepped out the door than they were met by a young man with perfectly styled brown hair and charming brown eyes, his suit finely tailored and perfectly fitted enough to rival even Warren’s getup.
“Mr. Ellingham, I’ve proofread your speech, made the necessary edits, and printed out a copy for you to read from.
I’ve also cued the band to play ‘The Best Is Yet to Come’ per your request. Senator Clarke wants to discuss the tax bill with you, the Piedmonts insisted on a birthday cake but I told them no candles, Amery Bichou would like to give you a private birthday congratulations, and your son has insisted on making your introduction speech tonight.
Oh, and Troy Pham is making a scene in the galley again.
I’ve sent Brigitte to manage him, but I’m afraid he’ll keep this up until you handle that contract business. ”
As fast as the young man spoke, his words were clear as cut crystal and refined as a Darjeeling tea, with just the faintest trace of a British accent. He held out a glass to Warren and held up his palm as a sort of makeshift table with an assortment of multicolored pills.
“That’s … a lot of pills,” Juliette said, envisioning flashes of her future as a wealthy septuagenarian.
Or maybe those were more Dramamine/scopolamine flashes, because she was definitely seeing lights again.
The man in the suit in particular had a lovely golden glow around him.
Or maybe that was Juliette’s hormones joining the party.
She’d put all of her focus into making this deal with Warren happen, neglecting both her physical and sexual needs.
“Don’t worry, my girl, it’s all vitamins and supplements,” said Warren, kicking back the first handful. “Got a clean bill of health from my doc just last week. He said I had the heart of a twenty-five-year-old and the prostate of a teenager.”
Juliette didn’t realize teenagers had enviable prostates, and she figured that the only way Warren would have the heart of a twenty-five-year-old is if he bought one off the black market.
Still, it worked in her favor that Warren would be sticking around for a good long while.
It was hard to do publicity with a dead man.
“Healthy as a lion at the head of the pride,” Warren was saying. “I could wrestle a bear right now if I wanted. Or Clayton here, couldn’t I?”
“I’d rather you not, for both our sakes,” said the young man dryly. “I didn’t realize you would have company. I apologize for the intrusion.”
“Nonsense, it’s high time you two met,” Warren said. “Juliette, this is Clayton, my right-hand man and my gal Friday all rolled into one.”
“Clayton Westminster,” the man said with a tight smile, extending a hand. It was soft and smooth, his nails precisely cut. “Warren’s executive assistant.”
“Warren’s told me all about you,” Juliette said.
He hadn’t, actually, but she knew a vital connection when she saw one. The most powerful person in any company—after the CEO—was the person in charge of their schedule.
“Only the good bits, I hope,” Clayton said, that British accent coming out to play.
“Sometimes the bad bits are the best bits,” Juliette said, daring a wink at him. She might be laser-focused on this deal, but she wasn’t dead.
The band shifted from a low-key jazz number to a louder song, heavy on the electric guitar, and Warren made a face.
“I see my son has insisted on taking over the music selection,” he said. “Well, if he wants to make an ass of himself in front of everyone at the club, why not let him? At least it will quell the rumors that I’m retiring.”
Juliette had never met Bradley Ellingham, but she’d met plenty different versions of him growing up at the country club where her parents were members.
Short and wide, with slightly bowed legs and thick shoulders crammed into a suit that probably never fit him, black hair oiled to a high shine and eyes already bloodshot from too much liquor.
He looked like if someone took an oil portrait of Warren and smeared their hand over it, distorting all the crisp lines of determination that made Warren such an imposing figure.
“Hey! Let’s—guys, can we cool it on the music one moment?” He listed slightly to one side as he approached the band. “Somebody got a mic or something? Where’s the … where’s the mic?”
Clayton made an annoyed gesture to an amplifier set up behind Brad, a wireless microphone perched on top. Brad swiped it up, fiddling with the controls until the microphone popped to life, making everyone in the audience cringe.
“Sor … ahem!” Brad heaved a snorting sigh, clearing his throat.
“Sorry about that. Dang thing sure is turned up, isn’t it?
” Brad laughed like he’d made a joke, patting at his jacket as if he were missing his car keys.
“Well, look. Listen. Tonight, we’re here to honor a man.
A great man! My father, Warren Ellingham. Look at him!”
Warren made his way toward the front, June and Robert Piedmont positioning themselves in his path as he gave a humble wave to the cheering crowd.
Robert spoke something low in his ear, and Warren shook his head.
But still Robert didn’t move, his hand on Warren’s shoulder wrinkling up the fabric. Brad took the opportunity to continue.
“A great man!” Brad said, hugging the microphone toward him as if Warren were going to snatch it out of his hand.
It whined and buzzed, his voice cutting in and out as he continued.
“A man without whom most of us wouldn’t even be standing here today.
Some of us literally. This is a man who made his own way in the world, and isn’t too shy to tell you so.
A man who doesn’t know the meaning of the word quit.
A man who puts business above everything. Just ask his six ex-wives!”
“Okay, son,” Warren said, plastering on a patient smile as he finally disentangled himself from the Piedmonts’ clutches. “Why don’t you let me have that—”
“I’m not finished, Dad, I’m not finished,” Brad said.
The microphone cut out again—this time definitely an issue with the electronics.
Brad frowned down at it, bopping it against his hand and making the amplifier boom.
“I know every one of us here owes something to my dad. Every one of us has come to him in a time of need, a time of crisis, a time of deep personal distress. And he’s delivered us, every single time. Maybe even when we didn’t deserve it.”
Yikes, there were some deep Daddy Issues? in the look Bradley Ellingham so imploringly gave his father as he spoke.
He must be in some kind of trouble—not that he was ever really out of trouble, based on the comments everyone had made about him this evening alone.
But whatever reaction Brad hoped for, Warren only looked on passively, as if listening to a podcast.
“You know, I’ve got a lot of my dad in me,” Brad said, glaring the audience down, daring them to laugh or snort in disbelief.
“I know not everyone thinks so, not even my dear old dad, but I do. I’ve got his drive, and his focus.
I’m willing to do what it takes to get what I want.
Isn’t that what you always taught me, Pop?
Business before pleasure? Stocks over hugs?
Keep your friends close and your potential rival market shareholders even closer? ”
“Oh boy,” Clayton muttered. “I’d better stop him before he tells the band to play Everclear’s ‘Father of Mine.’”
But a woman who looked for all the world like Linda Evangelista but somehow hotter stepped up beside Brad with a hand on his arm, the neutral tint of her nails belying the death grip of her fingers as they dug in. She held a glass out to him with a faint smile.
“Shouldn’t we cheers, darling? The hour grows late.”
“Cheers?” Brad said, sounding confused. He blinked, looking around as if there were things floating in the air. Whatever he was on, it must be the good stuff. His forehead shone with sweat.
“Yes, cheers, darling,” the woman said. “To your father? Who must also give his speech?”
“I know what you’re doing,” Brad said bitterly, raising his voice into the mic. “My wife, ladies and gentleman. Brigitte Ellingham. Look at her, would you? Ass like a peach. Body like a panther. Heart like ice.”
“That’s enough, Bradley, darling,” said Brigitte, wrestling the microphone from his hand.
Clayton made a choked noise beside Juliette, no doubt wondering how long this shit show was going to go on.
As someone who also worked so hard to ensure her author events ran on a tight schedule, she imagined the well-organized man was fuming inside.
Brigitte frowned at the microphone, fiddling with the buttons as Brad had done.
For a luxury yacht, Juliette figured they could afford a sound system that actually worked.
“Please, everyone, raise your glasses to Warren. May we all be around long enough to live this down.”
Warren made to step forward, but June Piedmont beat him to the gorgeous woman who Juliette refused to believe allowed a man like Bradley Ellingham to see her naked.
June took the microphone, smiling widely at the crowd as her first words were lost in the fritzing noise of the mic.
She paused, looking at the thing cluelessly.
“For heaven’s sake,” Clayton muttered, stepping forward and taking the microphone from her.
He fiddled with it for a moment, calling over one of the band members and discussing it in hushed tones until finally someone hauled a cord over, plugging it into the microphone and seeming to solve the issue for the moment.
Honestly, all of these tech issues were really undercutting the glory of Juliette’s big moment.
“Thank you, everyone, for coming out tonight,” June Piedmont said, smiling widely as Clayton stepped back into the crowd.
“They think it might be the batteries,” Clayton said, rolling his eyes as June continued through her effusive praise of Warren.
The woman’s voice trembled, her hands fluttering around like butterflies.
“You plan everything down to the fold of the napkins and the damn batteries go out. I’ve got to see if I can find some replacements.
Keep an eye on Brad, would you? Warren looks ready to burst a blood vessel if his son so much as sneezes wrong. ”
Warren did look put out, but luckily for everyone else Brigitte seemed to have wrangled Brad away from the crowds.
Juliette kept an eye out for Chipper Floyd, too, but the angry golfer seemed to have disappeared.
June was speaking so fast she was tripping over her own words, and she looked as sweaty as Brad had been.
Must be the spotlight. Some people just couldn’t handle it, Juliette thought.
Though it did seem awfully warm on the boat just then, despite the sharp breeze blowing in off the water.
Juliette’s mouth was suddenly bone-dry, sour, and tasting of leather saddles. Damn whiskey.
“… here he is now, Warren Ellingham!” June proclaimed, nearly collapsing off the little stage as she breathlessly handed the microphone to Warren.
“Well, wasn’t that certainly something,” Warren said as he stepped up, his words cutting in and out. He gave the microphone a shake. “I thought we fixed the damn thing. There it is. Now, I know all of you came out for a good party, but first I’ve got an announcement to make. Something—”
The microphone cut out again, and Warren tapped it a few times before turning to the amplifier in annoyance.
The cord had come loose, and he waved off a band member as he stepped forward, squatting and shoving the cord back into its slot.
The lights on the yacht flared bright and sharp, piercing Juliette’s eyes.
Or more likely it was the scopolamine/Dramamine magic turning nasty.
The amplifier buzzed louder and louder before giving a pop, and Juliette’s heart nearly stopped from the fright.
Meanwhile, Warren was really milking the suspense of the announcement, dragging his dramatic pause out for longer than advisable as he hunched over the amplifier.
Only, the crowd had gone awfully quiet, too, their faces a mixture of confusion and concern.
Warren seemed to be frozen in time, his expression twisted in something like consternation.
Or pain. He gripped the microphone hard enough that his knuckles had gone white, his back bowed at an odd angle.
His other hand gripped his chest, wrinkling the fine linen as his lips twitched, tight and relaxed and then tight again.
The only indication that the microphone was still working was when it gave a big booming thud as it dropped, Warren following suit and toppling forward to crash face-first into the floor.