He was up to something because no one befriended my ornery cat, who was now supposed to watch over me—gah! I didn’t care how stomach-churning his kisses were, Jack Griffin was giving me a headache.
Jack
It had been a hard fight.Hell, I’d worked my ass off in the last four years to get to the position I currently held—Junior VP of Griffin Blackstone Group, overseeing the Blackstone hotels worldwide.
And I’m still in the damn boxing ring!
At the straight, unimpressed faces and cold stares of management boring holes into me, I cast them a flat look and leaned back in my chair at the head of the mile-long table, one Pops would have been seated at. These assholes, er…partners were staid and old-school, and no doubt waiting to see me fall flat on my face and into the pile of shit that was steadily growing.
The two senior architects who’d just presented the rendering of the renovation for the Blackstone hotels worldwide wore their usual patronizing expressions. Yeah, they were happy with their projection of the hotels, which appeared as if a few walls had been knocked down, a splash of paint added, and some plants scattered sporadically. And would likely cost us millions of dollars.
It fucking gave me a headache.
“So, you all agree that these new changes are good? Something that moves us out of the mundane to stand out and above other hotels?” I asked in a congenial tone as if waiting for their decision to approve the concept and go ahead with the renovations.
Heads bobbed in agreement. Smiles started.
“They are good, Jack—I mean, Mr. Griffin,” Mike Planter corrected at my cold stare. We weren’t friends for him to use my name, even if he was a named partner in his architectural firm. “Our best, actually.”
Don Palin, one of the board members who’d sat in on this meeting, nodded. “We should give it the go-ahead instead of wasting time. Be ready for peak season’s opening.”
My expression cool, I got to my feet, blocking the projected images for the BlackRock Hotels on the screen behind me, and braced my palms on the table. “This company is not wasting millions on rehashing old”—fucking—“ideas every other new hotel has.”
Silence. Then rumbles exploded. Margo Blackstone, CEO of BlackRock Hotels, straightened in her chair at the opposite end of the table from me, her deep brown eyes like steel. No, she wasn’t happy that I’d thrashed her favorite architects’ ideas to shreds.
“When you’re ready with a better concept, make an appointment.” Because very little of what I’d suggested at the get-go had made an appearance in the final execution. I wasn’t a fool. In their eyes, I was too young, and they thought they knew better. But they would learn. “I’ve already given my vision for the revamps. Meeting’s adjourned.”
I didn’t give a shit that they all kowtowed to Margo. I would have what I wanted for the hotels.
Hauling in my irritation, I strode for the door, except Margo intercepted me. “Jack.”
At seventy-two, one would think she’d retire and relax at some fancy resort, taking it easy. But, no, not Margo. Tall and elegant, with her straight, platinum hair cut to her angular jawline, she intimidated most people. Now, her shrewd dark eyes were locked on me as the boardroom cleared out.
Yeah, I understood exactly how a prey floundered when a barracuda circled. And this one was about to snap. But I wasn’t some helpless fish. I wasn’t like my parents. I simply held her stare.
“What are you up to, Jack? Planters & Associates are our trusted architects. We’ve worked with them for a long time. You embarrassed them in front of everyone.”
“Their work is boring as shit—”
“Language, Jack.”
“I’m not wasting time with people happy to ride the receding wave they’ve been on for forty years and who refuse to welcome change. You should put them to pasture. I want new blood, someone who’ll take the renovation into the future, not give me the samecrapover and over.” I stalked out and headed for my office overlooking the city and bay, well aware she’d follow me.
Trying to calm down didn’t work, not with her on my heels, blocking me at every damn turn. I waited for the shit to hit the fan and busied myself, checking messages and the appointments lined up for the rest of the day, wishing she’d just leave. No such luck.
Margo Blackstone, my maternal grandmother, shut the door and faced me. “Jack—”
“I earned this position.” I straightened and met her impenetrable gaze. “But you won’t let me do my job.”
“You’re young…”
I was almost twenty-five—hell, I could be forty, and she’d still see me as a boy. She might not like me, but I was family and her heir, which was obviously more important than breathing.
“You don’t know what it takes to run a multi-billion-dollar conglomerate of this size.”
“Then fire me if you think I’m a waste of time.”
Her mouth tightened. It mattered little that she couldn’t, not when I was also Pops’ heir.
