“Jillian’s client list is already past her limit—her words, not mine—and Seth’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown,” I said. “We need someone to make this client their one and only priority.”
“And you think I have the time to do that between running two departments and being on the board?”
“You’ll find a way.” I glanced at my wrist, checking my Rolex. “You always do.”
Eight o’clock, and no Mercer, I thought. What a surprise.
A minute later, the door opened, and Nora escorted an older gentleman into the room. Although he was balding and in his early sixties, Jonas Rift wasn’t as frail as people assumed. He had been on the publishing scene for over thirty years—he could have seen action in Lebanon and Libya, or Grenada.
Devon and I stood and exchanged greetings as Nora left us alone, closing the door behind her. Mercer was still missing, and, along with him, his chances of ever being promoted. I swallowed my anger and greeted Rift with a thin gentlemanly smile, one that insisted he make himself right at home.
Once Mr. Rift had helped himself to a coffee and fresh pastry, Devon cast me a quick look. “Shall we get started?”
“Shouldn’t we wait for Mr. Mercer?” Jonas Rift asked, taking the seat across from us. He seemed confused, obviously expecting to see the fast-talking man who had wooed him, after taking a seat at his table in one of the most elite seafood restaurants on the Lower West Side. Mercer was good at the whole maverick schtick. He could snare clients no one else could get a phone call with, simply because he was willing to do crazy things and put himself out there. It would have made him a great employee if he wasn’t so glaringly inept in every other way.
I gave the client my most soothing smile as I leaned back in my chair. “There’s no need,” I said. “Devon will handle your needs for the time being. Now, Mr. Rift, please tell us how we can help you.”
If my abruptness shocked Rift, he didn’t show it. “As you probably know, Matrix Publishing is in a period of growth,” he began. “We started off as a small indie publisher a few years ago, but with our most recent bestseller, we’ve experienced an explosive amount of interest and attracted new clientele. We’re looking to expand into the mainstream, and we need to rebrand. There’s a lot of young energy in our house, with new ideas about the direction to take the company in, but they don’t seem to be speaking with a unified voice. I was hoping if we brought a couple of our best and brightest in to consult with you, Patterson could help us shift toward a new identity.”
“We can definitely help you with that,” Devon said.
“He knows that already, that’s why he’s here,” I ground out. I detested unnecessary filler talk, which Devon could never seem to get enough of. “My question is, what are you looking for us to offer that your current advertiser can’t provide?”
Rift hesitated for a moment, fidgeting in his seat as if the question made him uncomfortable. I’d known it would, but I still needed his answer. “Pace Marketing has been with us for the last three years, and they’re wonderful.”
“But …” I prompted.
“But, we need someone larger, someone with more resources and pull,” Rift admitted. “Your work speaks for itself. You’ve been around half as long as Pace and already have double the client list. You’re willing to take the risks that Pace isn’t. Put simply, Pace is too traditional and too poorly equipped for our needs.”
That was precisely the answer I was looking for and I threw Rift a smile.
“I never get tired of hearing that,” I said to my brother, earning a chuckle from him.
Through the glass walls of the conference room, I saw Mercer hurrying toward us. He was tucking his shirt into his slacks and draining the last dregs of coffee from a Starbucks cup, before tossing it into Nora’s trash can. She snapped at him, and he ignored her, waving her away as he marched toward the conference room with the dogged confidence only fools have.
“Devon, why don’t you get a list of Mr. Rift’s needs?” I suggested, getting to my feet and adjusting my suit jacket. “Find out what’s working, what’s not?”
Devon saw what had drawn my focus away and knew better than to question what I was about to do. Keeping his composure, he took over Rift’s attention while I left the room. I met Mercer about a foot from the door.
“Mercer,” I said calmly, letting the door swing shut behind me in a way that told him I wasn’t going to allow him to enter the room.
Mercer was only a year or two older than I was, although he acted as if it were more. Tall and stocky, he was the kind of guy who had been a varsity heartthrob in high school and a football golden boy in college. He was the kind of guy who’d spent most of his life resting on the laurels of his moneyed family name and partying his way through every vacation home in the Hamptons and the Berkshires. The kind of guy who still wore his class ring and insisted everything had been better back in his dad’s day.
“I’m sorry,” he began. “The traffic was—”
“It’s New York, Mercer.” I cut him off. “There’s always traffic. Go to your cubicle. I don’t want to see your face for the rest of the day.”
“But the meeting—”
“Is no longer your concern.” I interrupted. “Devon will handle Mr. Rift from now on.”
Mercer’s face blossomed a bright-red color, and I could see the effort it took for him to restrain his temper. It could be explosive—if the gossip I’d heard from the intern who worked in the copy room was right—but, thus far, he had been wise enough not to turn it on me.
“Please, Mr. Patterson, I brought this client in,” Mercer said, smiling through the anger with gritted teeth. “Let me—”
“No.” I turned my back on him and walked toward the conference room.
I heard footsteps behind me, and a hand grabbed my wrist. “It was just a few minutes,” Mercer declared. “You have to give me a chance!”
I twisted my hand out of his grasp as I whirled back around to face him, seizing his wrist in one fluid movement. “I would think very carefully about your next move,” I said in a low voice. “Because aside from kicking your ass through that glass wall, I can not only fire you, but I can also make sure you never work in the marketing industry again.”
Mercer pressed his lips together and took a step back. “I got you this meeting.” His voice was a warning—as low and dangerous as distant thunder.
I put more space between us, stepping backward. This animal-like posturing that happened between high-powered men bored and annoyed me. I had gotten my desire to scrap with someone in the dirt out in high school, and if I wanted someone handled, I would rather just fire them or watch them get torn apart in the papers. I had better ways of proving I was the most powerful one in the room than throwing a punch. Stooping to men like Mercer’s level was unnecessary.
“Yes, you did,” I agreed. “And it’s my job to make sure something comes of it since you obviously don’t care enough.”
Mercer’s face was so red, it was almost comical. It put a smile on my face as I reentered my first meeting of the day, breathing deeply through my nose to dispense any excess irritation I may have been feeling.