Back in his room, he caught sight of his dark hair in the mirror. He needed a haircut. Taming the ends was an episode in futility. Bristles met his hand as he ran his palm over his jaw.
He dressed in his suit, one custom-made to fit him. With his tall height and swimmer’s shoulders, it was hard to find anything off the rack. Deep navy blue. White dress shirt. Silver cuff links that had belonged to his grandfather. Bowtie because it was expected. Black shoes he’d polished to perfection before he’d left home.
With a final check that he had his wallet in his back pocket and his phone and room key in his suit jacket, he stepped out into the hallway. Moments later, he was inside the elevator heading for the ballroom. What were the chances, Connor thought, that the Ms. Dyer he’d met on the aircraft was the one and only Emerson Dyer, CEO of Dyer’s Gin?
Donovan Finch, his father, had dreamed of creating an empire like the Bacardi family, a rags-to-riches story. He’d wanted to build a product and establish a world-class distillery and brand. From there, he’d aspired to forge an empire that had global reach.
But over three decades before, Donovan’s business partner, Paul Dyer, had screwed him over. Just when the distillery they’d built together was about to open, his business partner pulled the company out from beneath him, leaving him penniless with nothing but a vengeful ambition to become the most successful liquor business in North America.
The previous evening, on the way to the hotel, Connor had looked up the Dyer family as soon as he’d gotten into the cab. His father’s constant ranting about the company had piqued Connor’s levels of curiosity enough to form a periodic check-in to see how the company was performing. He’d already done a cursory study of Paul Dyer several years before. Dyer’s Gin Distillery had never done well enough for Connor to understand why his father’s anger had lasted this long. There had been other deals that hadn’t worked out over the years, and he doubted his father could remember half of them. Perhaps it was because Dyer’s Gin Distillery had been his first major loss, and that made it so…personal.
But now, as Connor studied the liquor market, he could see a shift toward artisanal brands and an opportunity to acquire a portion of the market.
Making Dyer’s Gin Distillery a potential target.
Connor’s cab-ride search had been about the people, not the numbers. Especially the former operations manager, now CEO, known as Emerson Dyer.
Emerson.
The name suited her, and the thought irritated him.
He’d noticed her as soon as he’d boarded. Attractive, with thick brown hair, her delicate gold earring catching the light from somewhere.
But after the shitty morning he had in argumentative meetings with his Uncle Cameron, the company’s Chief Financial Officer, and the evening’s pending deadline for a new contract he was working on, he’d just wanted to get seated and get on with his work, so his uncle had one less thing to complain to his father about.
When she’d finally lost her cool, those syrup-brown eyes of hers heated, he’d been distracted…momentarily entertained. She was a flash fire when provoked but was quick to quench it, and he liked it. He’d even considered taking the window seat so he could get to know her a little bit more.
Until he heard the attendant say her name, and he realized who she was.
And while taking his seat was not on the same level as stealing a company, Connor guessed that the genetics of taking whatever you wanted had been passed from father to daughter. He guessed she was headed for the same event he was and wondered how he should handle meeting her again.
A part of him wanted to tell her where she could get off. Ask her whether her father had been able to live with the shady decisions he’d made. A part of him wondered if he should play nice, get to know more about the woman—or rather, get to know more of her distillery. It wasn’t unthinkable that Dyer’s could be their first acquisition of a successful small-batch distillery, once he convinced his father. But perhaps he didn’t need to. His father was due to retire, the company becoming Connor’s on the first day of January. Perhaps it could be his first decision. No, the first decision was already made—to get rid of his uncle.
And another part of him, a small part he wasn’t overly proud of right now, wanted to know a little more about the attractive firecracker who had set him in his place.
To do all but one of those things, he’d need to use some charm. The idea of apologizing flashed in his brain. On the one hand, it felt almost disloyal to his father to apologize to any Dyer. But on the other, as a man who held himself to a high moral standard, he knew he’d been a dick.
Fuck it.
Why was he so concerned about what Emerson Dyer thought?
He shook his head to clear thoughts of the woman from his mind.
The ballroom was filled with tables covered in blue damask cloths with large white floral arrangements in the center. A DJ played gratingly cheery pop songs as servers circulated the room with trays of glasses filled with champagne, and he immediately thought of Emerson again.
She’d been as good as her word. She’d worked damned hard on the flight, poring over spreadsheet after spreadsheet at speeds even he felt were impressive.
His thoughts were restless, and he needed some air before the ceremony began. The ballroom had large doors along one side that appeared to open out to a patio, and he wandered outside. He followed the steps into the lit gardens.
A warm breeze ruffled Connor’s hair, blowing through his suit and white dress shirt. The bright lights of the ballroom flickered in his peripheral vision, but for now he simply wanted to breathe.
“Goddamn stupid heels,” a voice muttered behind him near the stairs.
The frustration made him smile, and he turned to offer his assistance. All he could see was the top of a chestnut brown updo, and a woman with a heel seemingly stuck in the hem of her full skirt.
“Here,” he said, walking to her side. “Take my elbow.”
A pair of familiar almond eyes the color of dark maple syrup looked up at him. “You,” Emerson said, taking his elbow with a scowl. Her fingers were slender and unadorned, nails short and painted in a pale pink.
“A pleasure to see you again,” he said curtly. “Do you always like to make a scene?”
She released the heel from the hem and stood. The black dress was simple, fitted to the waist and falling in voluminous waves to her calves. Only a fool would have missed the way it skimmed her body to perfection.
Her body was trim, her breasts pressed delightfully against the scooping neckline of the dress.
“I didn’t make a scene earlier.” She appeared to be unaware that her hand was still on his arm. Her eyes were focused on him, and he found that he liked it. “I merely responded to your rude behavior. And lamenting my decision to wear heels with a low hem dress is a wardrobe malfunction, not a scene.”
“That sounds a lot like semantics.”
“That sounds a lot like avoidance of your role in the earlier matter.”
Connor sighed. “You are right. I was in a foul mood when I stepped on the airplane. I apologize for the way I handled finding you in my seat.”
Emerson rolled her eyes. “My seat.”
“I suppose that technically it was our seat. It’s called the ‘And Stance.’ You were in my seat, and I was in your seat. Both of us are correct. Both statements are true.”