Rachel Haimowitz & Cat Grant - [Power Play 1] (9 page)

from anyone. I’m not asking you to take anything from me, either.

I’m asking for six months to devote myself to you—come, move in,

let me show you a side of yourself you’d never dared to explore until

you came through this door. And because I know that’s terrifying—

because I know how big a chance it is, how big a risk it feels like, how

much it might change your life, I’d offer you the power to change it

back when we’re done.” He waited a moment for that to sink in; for

all Brandon’s fury, he did at least appear to be listening.

“Change it back how?” Brandon demanded, each word bitten off

as if he’d tried to stop it from coming out.

“I liked your idea for shifting your boss’s construction business

over to green housing. You’ve certainly got the talent, the drive—

the
passion
—to make a go of it. So let me help you. Spend the next

six months here with me, and I’ll give you the money to buy the

business.”

Brandon glared, stone-faced. “Three million dol ars,” he said

flatly. “For six months of my life.”

A bit blunt, but, “I suppose that’s the long and short of it, yes.”

“And how is that not prostitution, again?”

“Because I’m not interested in
taking
something from you,

Brandon! I’m not interested in a transaction. Look at us! We’re

already fucking for fun—dare I say even growing to care a little? You

like me. I like you. I want to get to know you better. This isn’t . . .” He

shook his head. Now was
not
the time for words to be failing him,

damn it. “Think of it as a gift, then. The money’s nothing to me. But

this
”—he pointed back and forth between himself and Brandon—

”
this
could be something
spectacular
.”

Brandon seemed to think on it for a moment, then nodded once

and swung his jacket on. “Fuck you,” he said, and pushed the call

button on the elevator.

“Brandon, wait—”

“What part of ‘fuck you’ didn’t you understand?”

Jonathan swallowed. “At least let my driver take you home.”

“I’ll call a cab.”

He dug into his pocket, reaching for his wallet. “Well at least let

me—”

Brandon’s eyes flashed murder. “I don’t need your money,” he

growled, each word its own distinct, poison-filled sentence.

Jonathan pursed his lips, nodded. And then, softly, “Have a good

night.”

The elevator doors opened, and Brandon stepped inside. He

tossed one last look over his shoulder as he left—furious, yes, and

fierce with pride. And, Jonathan dared to hope—or maybe he was

just imagining it?—just as disappointed as he was.

CHAPTER
6

’m sorry, Mr. McKinney, but I’m afraid we can’t help you.”

Bran curled his fingers into the armrest of a chair that seemed

purpose-built to discourage people from getting too comfortable.

He’d taken the day off for
this
? The urge to punch the false sympathy

off the loan officer’s face was nearly overwhelming.

“Are you sure I can’t convince you otherwise? The business is

profitable even now, the client list impressive; we have projects

booked well past the proposed sale date, and—”

The loan officer held a hand up, just like the five before him had

when Bran had made the same argument to them. “I really would

like to help you, Mr. McKinney, and your credit score
is
solid, but

you have no col ateral, no down-payment to speak of, and you’re

asking us to fund a purchase in one of the most unstable industries

in the nation right now.” He consulted the file on his desk—more

a courtesy, Bran suspected, than with any intention of changing his

mind. “I see the business has collected down-payments on eleven

scheduled projects, but these are luxury homes we’re talking about;

statistically, six of those eleven projects will be deferred for three to

five years or cancelled altogether. What would you do then? How

would you make your loan payments in the meantime?”

That
was in his five-year plan, too, if only the bastard would
look.

“I’d turn focus from local construction to national and international

LEED-certified project design and management. The work’s more

competitive, of course, but we
do
have a strong reputation in both

areas both in and out of San Francisco, and green building is
growing
,

not shrinking. In fact, I plan to turn a stronger focus on green design

and development regardless.”

“With only one architect? Or does your boss plan to stay on and

consult?”

“Architects are an easy hire. We’ve brought in freelancers before—

people I’ve worked with and trust. Besides, I’ve apprenticed under

Mr. Sung for years, and I’ll have my degree soon.”

The loan officer eyed Bran over the file, then tapped a page with

his index finger. “I see it took you five years to earn your associates

degree—”

“I could only attend classes on Saturdays—”

“And you’re not even
enrolled
in a bachelor’s program right now.

Even if you do, I’m not convinced your time frame would be any

different if you owned the business. Harder, even. You couldn’t just

stay home because you have to study.”

“I
know
that—”

“Look, Mr. McKinney.
If
you fit the criteria for an SBA loan, then

I might consider it. But without government backing, I’m afraid this

is just too risky for this bank.” He closed the file: end of discussion.

“Again, Mr. McKinney, I’m very sorry. Maybe in a few years, when

construction picks back up . . .”

The business would be sold by then, the opportunity gone, and

this guy damn well knew it. Bran stood, jaw clenched. Yet he shook

the loan officer’s outstretched hand; he wasn’t dumb enough to burn

bridges he might need one day, no matter how much he wanted to

squeeze until he crushed the guy’s bones. “I understand,” he forced

himself to say. “Thank you for your time.”

The loan officer nodded. “Good luck.”

Yeah, right. Six banks, six no’s, three million dol ars short . . . He

was going to need
way
more than luck to figure this one out.

Bran took the bus home and trudged up to the fifth floor of his

building, glaring at peeling linoleum tiles and chipped paint, the

elevator that’d been broken since 2003, the grease stains and graffiti

on the walls. He stopped short in front of his door when he saw a

small potted orchid, purple this time instead of white, with a card

attached. He didn’t even want to look at it. A sigh, then he scooped

it up, pocketed the card, and left the flower in front of Mrs. Chan’s

door. She’d always been kind to him, and maybe it would brighten

her day a little. God knew she could use it, living alone in
this
dump.

The dump where he’d been for fourteen years. Jesus, was this his

life? He unlocked his apartment door, kicked off his one pair of dress

shoes and stood in the entranceway, unsure of what to do next. Was this

the best he’d ever be able to do? Threadbare carpet, a jammed window

he couldn’t get his landlord to fix, milk crates for bookshelves, and an

old folding table for a desk? God, even his computer was probably an

antique by now. It’d all seemed nice enough when he’d first rented the

couch here after half a year on the streets, but his roommates had all

moved up and out. Why hadn’t he?

His stomach rumbled. He’d skipped lunch bouncing from bank

to bank, which in retrospect seemed pretty stupid. His fridge was

as sad as the rest of the place, but the milk was still good, and he

didn’t feel like cooking anyway, so he grabbed a box of Oat-O’s and

a bowl and ate standing at the counter. Too tired to bring over the

desk chair.

Over the rim of his bowl, that damn gorgeous white orchid

stared at him. Why the hell hadn’t he thrown the damn thing away?

He put his back to it; it was like watching Jonathan smirk at him all

over again.

Jonathan. Rich stupid fucking rich asshole.
Must be nice to have

that kind of money.

Would it really be so bad?

Yes. Fuck yes.

But he
was
a good lay. And the food was great.

And you don’t need him.

Bran froze mid-chew and threw his bowl in the sink, cereal half-

finished.
Yes, you do. If you want to buy this business? You do.

God, he couldn’t believe he was actually considering this.

Suck it up, crybaby.

He’d sacrificed worse for his future, after al . And how bad could

it be, anyway? Certainly not as bad as
this
.

Well, if he really was going to consider this, he’d better do his

homework.

He fired up his computer, waited for his ancient modem to dial

up, and then went straight to Google. Over seventeen million hits.

This was gonna take a while.

He scrolled past the first two pages of results—all details

about SuperComputing (which had moved from $100 desktops

to $100 laptops in the last few years) and the Watkins Charitable

Foundation—but did stop to read his Wikipedia page.
Probably edited

to high hell by his own staff.
Still, he was able to learn a few things. Like

that Jonathan had been
married
. To a
girl
, no less
.
Divorced five years

back. Bran followed a few reference links. From the looks of it, she

took half his fortune with her when she left. And cited “some freaky

shit” in the bedroom as a reason for leaving, according to GoGossip.

Bran smiled to himself;
a trusted source if you’ve ever seen one, eh?

Twenty-four pages of results later, he found out Jonathan’s real

name was—
Are you
serious?—Ocean Windsong Watkins. When he

managed to stop laughing five or ten minutes later, he read on about

Jonathan’s hippie parents—mom British, which probably explained

that crisp proper diction of his—taking him from the commune at

age nine to spend nearly three years at sea doing research on sharks.

Two years after that—time spent, as best Bran could tell, being home-

schooled in Monterey—Jonathan was off to college with a shiny new

name, and who the hell could blame him?

Bran sat back, rubbed his eyes, realized the apartment had gone

dark and he was starving. Shit, when did it get to be almost ten

o’clock? He had to be up for work in seven hours. He looked back at

the screen: page 132 of Google results. Probably safe to call it quits at

this point. At least now he was reasonably sure Jonathan wasn’t an ax

murderer. And, though he hated to admit it, the guy
did
sound pretty

astonishing. Six months might go by fast with him.

Who knew? Might even be fun.