Читать книгу Hot Under Pressure - Kathleen O'Reilly, Kathleen O'Reilly - Страница 10

THE FRIENDLY SKIES were extinct, along with dinosaurs, cheap interest rates and the commitment to customer service. The next week David flew fifteen thousand pain-filled miles to Portland, Houston, Seattle and two trips to DC. In the process, he discovered that the plastics company in Portland was running dangerously low on working capital, the oil services company in Houston was ripe for a friendly buyout and the people who worked in government had zero people skills. As he was waiting on the tarmac to head back to New York, Christine called.

“I’m sorry about your meeting. I debated a long time to call, kept hoping that you would call, but you didn’t, so I decided I should. It would mean a lot to me, and Chris, too, if you could come and visit.”

David eyed the air-sickness bag, felt the aftertaste of hard feelings rise in his throat and in the end politely opted to spare his fellow passengers excessive hurling noises. He was thirty-four, not four. “I’ll try,” he lied.

“Maybe you can reschedule the meeting. He misses you. He’s your only brother.”

Sucks, dude. I feel your pain.

“They’re telling us to shut off all electronic devices, Christine. I need to hang up.”

“David, you don’t have to be like this.”

Because he was exactly like that, David hung up.

IT WAS A WEDNESDAY afternoon at the start of earnings season, and the offices of Brooks Capital were humming with closing-bell guesses and bets and gossip and shadow numbers that were most likely pulled from someone’s ass. David’s office was on the forty-seventh floor, one below the executive floor, but he wasn’t worried. His boss liked him. He liked his boss. Things were proceeding nicely. And nowhere else but Brooks Capital could he learn from the best of the best, Andrew and Jamie Brooks.

There were three monitors on his desk, one green screen to monitor the markets, one open to e-mail and the last was his latest work in progress, Portland Plastics. Market recommendation: Hold.

The door opened, and his boss, Jamie Brooks, walked in, perching herself on the desk, high heels swinging to an unknown beat.

“You have the latest on Houston Field Works?” she asked coolly.

Without missing a step, David handed over the folder. It was a test. She liked to test him, see if he was ever at a loss. He hadn’t failed yet. “Anything else?” he asked confidently.

Jamie opened it, skimming over the introductory fluff, jumping right to the bottom line. “You’re going to Omaha on Friday?” she asked, not looking up from the words, her expression an unreadable blank. David still wasn’t worried.

“I’ll be there.” Nebraska was the home to an alternative energy company that was close to going public. On paper, they looked good. But David’s job was to visit, kick the tires, peek under the hood and in general, see if the hype was worth it.

“Good,” she said, and then closed the folder with a snap. “You’re in for the pool on the Mercantile Financials report?”

David pulled a crisp c-note from his pocket. “Down ten-point-one percent.”

She stared at him with appraising eyes. “Gutsy.”

He shrugged modestly.

“Andrew says up three-point-four,” she remarked. Andrew was Jamie’s husband. The Man. Capital T, capital M.

In the last seven years, David had followed Andrew’s every move. When Andrew opened his own fund, David jumped at the chance to follow. When the market had put most hedge fund managers out on the street dancing for nickels, Brooks Capital had not only survived, but they were also still turning the same solid returns year after year. Andrew was as thorough and methodical as David, and he was usually right. Andrew Brooks made his reputation on being right. This time, however, Andrew Brooks was wrong.

“He’s too high,” David told her, perhaps more confidently than he should, but he’d done his homework, and he had a feeling. You always did your research, always gleaned over every piece of data available, but when push came to shove, bet on your instincts.

Not taking her eyes off David, Jamie slid the bill back and forth through her fingertips, thinking, considering, wondering if David could beat the master. Eventually she broke down and laughed. “Breaking from the crowd. I like it.”

During his first days on the job at Brooks Capital, Jamie had intimidated David, but then one afternoon he had brought her a report on a waste management company in Dallas, and she’d pointed out the one tiny, yet deal-breaking detail that he’d missed. At first, he’d been all pissed and thought there was no way that she could be right, until that night, when his cooler head prevailed, and he went over his numbers, and holy shit, she was correct. Since then, she’d earned his respect in spades.

“We’ll see who knows better,” she said, still doubting him, but he didn’t mind. Jamie provided a novel perspective in the male-dominated world of finance. And currently, that was exactly what he needed. A novel female perspective.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“Do you know fashion, you know, the business side—what makes a company work, what makes it not work, what women like in clothes?”

The swinging high heel froze. “Broadening your horizons into fashion?” she asked, coughing discreetly. “Brave and not afraid of the stereotypes. Definitely gutsy.”

“What do you know?” he asked, battling forward, even though he was deathly afraid of stereotypes.

“Driven by trends at the high end. At the mid-level, it’s more about the classics and originality, and at the low end of the spectrum, it’s nothing but trendy knockoffs and bargain-basement prices. What are you interested in?”

David thought over Ashley’s travel attire and took a guess. “Mid-level. So, classics and originality are the drivers?”

Jamie nodded. “It’s the America’s Next Top Designer mentality. Women don’t like to wear something that someone else is wearing. We’re very territorial about fashion.”

“America’s Next Top Designer?”

“Television show. Ratings up ten percent on an annual basis, three years running. They’ve launched four successful designers, one not-so-successful designer, but I think that’s because of his crappy designs. The guy was a certified disaster area.”

His face assumed the requisite manly look of horror. “A show about sewing?”

“You have to watch. It’s a train wreck, but a fun one. Why the interest?” she asked.

“It’s for a friend. She’s got these clothing boutiques, and is having some issues. I thought I could give her some advice. Try and figure out what’s going wrong.” Next week Ashley would be in New York, and he wanted to understand the fashion industry, help her determine what problems could be fixed, and also have his wicked way with her eight ways to Sunday. It was a big assignment, but not impossible. It might mean watching reality TV. It might mean learning what was hot on the female clothing market. He would survive. Probably. Hopefully.

“This is all for a she?” asked Jamie, quirking one perfectly arched brow, just as David’s e-mail window popped into sight, indicating an unread e-mail had arrived.

David, I would love to meet you. I’m nineteen, which is younger than what you requested in your profile, but it’s a mature nineteen…

He inched his shoulders forward, blocking the view, blocking the view…not quite blocking the view from his boss.

Jamie glanced at the now-fading window, then glanced pointedly at David. He elected to stay silent. It seemed the prudent thing to do.

“Dating again?”

He shrugged in a completely noncommittal, I-don’t-want-to-talk-about-my-private-life manner.

She didn’t take the hint. “I think it’s a good thing. You should have done this a long time ago. I have some friends—”

“No,” he answered quickly.

His boss shook her head, then smiled. “All right. Have it your way. But if you change your mind, I swear, they’re all nice women.”

David pulled another hundred out of his pocket, mainly to divert her. “Give me another hundred on Mercantile Financial.”

She took the bill, clearly not fooled by the diversionary tactic, but gave him a pass, because Jamie was nice like that. “More courage, sport. And Andrew’s going to kick your ass, but you’re brave. I like it.”

Once Jamie left, David wiped the wayward sweat from his brow and opened the offending e-mail.