Home > Carved in Stone (The Blackstone Legacy, #1)(5)

Carved in Stone (The Blackstone Legacy, #1)(5)
Author: Elizabeth Camden

The college had helped the Blackstones slowly rehabilitate their image, but all that goodwill would suffer if this revolting memoir stirred up old animosity against them.

She placed a trembling hand over the book. “I didn’t even realize Mick Malone was still alive.”

“He’s a washed-up old drunk,” her grandfather said. “I won’t take this lying down. We’ve already filed paperwork with the court to halt publication. I’ll sue them for libel and defamation of character.”

Gwen instinctively recoiled from lawsuits, lawyers, and anything that smacked of conflict. Why couldn’t people simply behave like decent human beings? She and her father had created a paradise on earth in their forty-acre campus where people respected and supported each other. It was as close to the Garden of Eden as could exist in a fallen world, and this awful book on her lap awakened old demons she believed were safely consigned to the past.

“I don’t think so,” she said, scrambling for ways to mitigate this disaster. “Suing Mick Malone will roll back decades of goodwill we have garnered from the college. We need to handle this with finesse.”

“What do you recommend?” Oscar asked. In truth, her uncle wasn’t a horrible man. He was smart and had suffered more than most from the hatred aimed at her family. Perhaps she could work with him to defeat a common enemy.

“Mick Malone is obviously in need of funds,” she said. “I suggest we quietly pay him off. A thousand dollars ought to do it, and it will save us the headache of this memoir seeing the light of day.”

“Absolutely not,” Oscar snapped. “That man killed my nephew and destroyed my brother’s spirit. I won’t pay him a dime.”

“Then look the other way while I do it,” she said. It was galling, but her family’s peace of mind was worth it.

Uncle Oscar began pacing. “Malone will never settle for a thousand dollars. He knows the book will earn far more.”

“Agreed,” Gwen said. “That’s why we offer his lawyer the same deal to persuade him to settle.”

Uncle Oscar’s brow quirked in reluctant admiration, but he shouldn’t be surprised. It was impossible to grow up in the Blackstone family without a bit of their cunning rubbing off on her.

“The lawyer will know that we have unlimited funds to stop this book,” she continued. “We can drag this out, delay their profits, and cost Malone’s publisher a fortune in legal fees. Or we can pay Malone’s lawyer in hope that he will pressure Malone to come to terms.”

Uncle Oscar wanted to keep arguing, but Frederick lifted a hand to call an end to the discussion. “An excellent suggestion,” he said. “I’ll have one of our lawyers begin the process.”

“Let me do it,” Gwen said. “I’m less threatening than a lawyer, and I’ll get the job done quickly. And if I can scuttle Mick Malone’s memoir, will you sign a document restoring the college’s annual funding in perpetuity?”

Frederick’s eyes narrowed. “I’d never guarantee anything in perpetuity,” he said instantly. “Try again.”

“Five years,” she countered. “Continue the college’s annual funding for the next five years, at which time the college must show the ability to generate enough revenue to cover our operating budget.”

The corner of her grandfather’s mouth turned down as he considered her proposal. It didn’t take long for him to reach a decision.

“Our lawyers have already initiated a preliminary injunction to halt the publication of the book,” he said. “I don’t like calling attention to scandal better left in the past, so if you can prevent that public court case, I will authorize a five-year extension on the college’s funding. I will commission a profile of Mick Malone’s lawyer to discover his weaknesses and provide insight for your fight.”

Her grandfather’s terms were nonnegotiable, and Gwen felt compelled to accept. It wasn’t what she’d hoped. She now had to deliver on this unsavory deal or her grandfather would never reverse Uncle Oscar’s decision to yank the college’s funding.

But she was not without hope. In her experience, lawyers would do anything for a quick payoff, and she suspected any man who aligned himself with Mick Malone would be no different.

 

 

3

 


Patrick poured more water over the pot of wilting marigolds on his office’s window ledge. It hadn’t looked this droopy when he bought it last week, and he’d been watering it daily in hope of a resurrection. His mother swore that talking to plants could perk them up, but Patrick couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Besides, he had a meeting with a prospective client in a few minutes. He had no idea what Mrs. Gwen Kellerman wanted, but he hoped she could pay in cash instead of eggs or laundry service. The rent on his office was due in two weeks, and he needed the money.

It wasn’t much of an office. No telephone, no electricity, and only a single window with a view of the brick wall across the alley. He kept the window and office door open to encourage a little breeze, even though it exposed him to noise from a leather-stamping shop below. It wasn’t anyone’s idea of an ideal office, but it came with a desk and a filing cabinet, which was all he needed. A scrap of paper folded into a tight square and placed beneath the leg of his rickety desk kept it steady, so all was perfectly fine.

Except for this miserable, wilting plant on the windowsill. “Come on, what is it you want?” he broke down and asked the plant.

“It wants a little air for its roots,” a cool voice said behind him. “You’re drowning that poor marigold.”

Patrick almost dropped the plant when he spotted the woman standing in the open doorway of his office. What a stunner! She had pale green eyes and a long braid of honey-blond hair draped over her shoulder. She looked serene. It was the perfect word to describe that swanlike neck and gentle humor on her face. She wore a loose, flowing gown in a soft printed silk and was probably the prettiest woman he’d ever seen.

“Mrs. Kellerman?” he asked, holding his breath in silent prayer. She looked like someone who could pay in cash, and a client like this could pay his office rent for months.

“Indeed,” she replied. “And you are Mr. O’Neill?”

“That I am,” he said, stepping around the desk to tilt an office chair toward her. Too late, he noticed an ugly beetle squatting in the center of the seat and blanched, but she calmly picked it up before he could knock it away.

“Beetles are good luck,” she said, cradling it in her palm as she carried it to the open window and set it on the ledge. “This one eats aphids, so you should count yourself fortunate.”

He counted himself a prime idiot for making a terrible first impression, but she didn’t seem upset as she returned to sit in the same chair that had so recently housed that beetle. He was about to apologize for it when he noticed two hulking men standing in the hall outside his office.

“Who are the toughies?” he asked, immediately on guard. The men exuded menacing suspicion despite their fine clothing.

“They accompanied me here,” she replied. She glanced over her shoulder at the closest man. “It’s all right, Zeke. I’ll be fine if you’d like to wait downstairs.”

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