Fifteen minutes later, I shoved the imposing door open and walked into the intimidating steel and glass building of Sinclair Investments Inc.’s head offices in the Financial District. Even thoughts of my ‘date’ with Logan and the kids in tow didn’t ease the edginess riding me.
The narrow-eyed stares coming my way from the suits in the building had me glaring back coldly. Did they not like my sweats and tee? Or was it my tatts on display? Snobby damn assholes.
Shifting my tote to my shoulder, I headed for the bank of elevators. The security guard walking past nodded in acknowledgment. Obviously, he recognized me.
Inside an empty cab, I jabbed the button for the top floor and then stared blankly at the ascending numbers.
I’d always thought I’d end up at Sinclair Inc. after university. Hell, it was all I’d wanted. I enjoyed the wheeling and dealing of investment banking. Then, last year, while I’d interned here, it all went to hell. Fast.
I still couldn’t get over or accept my father hooking up with Cecilia. The evening I’d spotted them together as I left the office—my father seeing her into his car, and then her pulling him down and kissing him—finally cracked me, the betrayal deep. Cecilia was my mother’s BFF. A bare three fucking years had passed since Mom’s death, and he’d already moved on!
Anger had erupted like a volcano, and I’d smashed his Bentley. I didn’t bother coming back to finish my internship. I quit school and left my MBA major behind, and, adding to my old man’s fury, enrolled at the Music Conservatory. That it pissed him off was an added bonus, but right then, music was the only thing that kept me sane and from completely falling off the edge—my one link to the only person who mattered to me—my mother. Music had been her life.
The elevator dinged. I walked out and headed down the brightly lit passage. The older redhead working at the front desk glanced up, and her gaze drifted down my inked arms in a dismissive sweep.
A fake smile appeared. No doubt she would prefer that I not tarnish these sacred halls, either. “Good morning, Mr. Meade-Sinclair, I’ll let him know you’re here.”
I preferred she didn’t, but that meant speaking, and I wasn’t in the mood. Besides, no one got past her intohishallowed ground.
While she made the requisite call, I pushed the door open and walked into the office. Ignoring its only occupant seated at the huge, cherrywood desk, I crossed the marble floor, dropped my tote on one of the two leather chairs facing the desk, and sprawled in the other.
As usual, Leland Sinclair was impeccably dressed in a charcoal-gray designer suit and white shirt. Not a strand of his immaculate dark hair was out of place. It wouldn’t dare, or it’d risk being beaten into submission.
Cool, steel-gray eyes set in an equally cool face looked me over. In his early forties, my father was the invariable “ice man” of the banking world. Everyone knew the nickname his business cohorts gave him because he was a cold-hearted bastard.
“You’re back.”
Since it wasn’t a question, I didn’t respond. Instead, I stared out through the wall of windows into the bright morning. Doubtless, he probably regretted that I was still breathing after being in the wilds for so long. After all, I was responsible for the tragedy that had brought us to this point. Made him hate me—yeah, whatever.
Two minutes tops, and I was outta here. I wouldn’t have to report in until next month’s parole meeting. That was the deal for keeping my ass out of prison after my fracas at the Conservatory.
In my grief, I’d trashed the music room, and my old man had been called instead of the police. And pissed all over me because the reporters had been having a field day at yet another front row seat to the Meade-Sinclair heir’s downward spiral. I’d disappeared to Peru to get away from my old man, the media circus, and myself.
He’d never bothered to ask why I’d wrecked the place. Not once. I didn’t care to explain or defend myself.
I pulled my attention from the window and found him studying me. Nothing showed on his face, but the flat gaze said,you look like trash.
Whatever. I held his stare. “Are we done?”
His expression hardened. “You quit your business degree—your music career is over. What are your plans now?”
A tic started in my jaw. When I didn’t respond, he continued. “The barbecue’s in a months’ time. I want you in attendance. Cecilia will be there. I expect you to be civil—”
“Forget it!” As if a spring in the seat suddenly gave way, I shot up. I might have to report to him but no way in hell would I go anywhere near the mansion. Or his damn girlfriend. I headed for the door.
“You will be there, Maxwell.” His threat followed me like a heat-seeking missile.
Yeah, got it. Or I would no longer inherit a cent from the Meade-Sinclair fortune, let alone have a spot in the lofty bank that had been in our family for generations. Tanner was welcome to the business. He was the perfect son my father no doubt wished he’d spawned.
I didn’t give a shit. No way would I be paraded in front of people who doubtless felt the same way about me as my father, a wreck who couldn’t get his life straight since that night four years ago. The night my mother had died.
Scrubbing my face, I stopped on the busy curb, struggling to shut out the pain and guilt eating at me. Childish laughter cut through the chaos in my head. A woman and three kids alighted from a cab. Oh, shit, Logan, I was supposed to meet her. Dammit! I pushed the entire crappy morning out of my mind and grabbed the cab after the woman and her kids had exited.
“Where to?” the cabbie asked.
Hell, I had no idea where the park was. Pulling out my cell, I called Ray…
Ila
