them all disgustingly rich.
Jonathon, though always impeccably dressed and by far the most organized of the three, might impress some as overly persnickety. But those were only the people who didn't know him, the people who were bound to underestimate him. It was a mistake few people made more than once.
In reality, it was unlike Jonathon to care whether or not his desk was scuffed, regardless of how much it was worth.
Still, to mollify Jonathon, Ford abandoned the chair he'd been sitting in and returned to his own desk. Since they worked so closely together, they didn't have individual offices. Instead, they'd converted the entire top floor of FMJ's Palo Alto headquarters to a shared office. On one end sat Jonathon's twenty-thousand-dollar art deco monstrosity. The other end was lined with three worktables, every inch of them covered by computers and gadgets in various stages of dissection. In the middle sat Ford's desk, a sleek modern job the building's interior designer had picked out for him.
With a shrug, he asked, "Is Matt right? You just trying to get a rise out of me?"
Jonathon flashed him a cocky grin. "Well, you're talking now, aren't you?"
"I wasn't before?"
"No. You've been picking at your nails for an hour now. You haven't heard a word I've said."
"Not true," Ford protested. "You've been babbling about how you think it's time we diversify again. You've rambled on and on about half a dozen companies that are about to be delisted by the NYSE, but that you think could be retooled to be profitable again. You and Matt voted while I was in China visiting the new plant and you've already started to put together the offer. Have I left anything out?"
"And..." Jonathon prodded.
"And what?" Ford asked. When Jonathon gave an exasperated sigh and plopped back in his chair, Ford shot a questioning look at Matt, who was still typing away. "And what?"
Matt, who'd always had the uncanny ability to hold a conversation while solving some engineering problem, gave a few more clicks before shutting his laptop. "He's waiting for you to voice an opinion. You're the CEO. You get final vote."
FMJ specialized in taking over flailing businesses and turning them around, much like the snack shack they'd whipped into prosperity all those years ago. Jonathon used his wizardry to streamline the company's finances. Matt, with his engineering background, inevitably developed innovations that helped turn the company around. Ford's own role in their magic act was a little more vague.
Ford had a way with people. Inevitably, when FMJ took over a company, there was resentment from the ownership and employees. People resisted, even feared, change. And that's where Ford came in. He talked to them. Smoothed the way. Convinced them that FMJ was a company they could trust.
He flashed a smile at Matt. "I can do my part no matter what the company is. Why do I need to vote?"
While he spoke, he absently opened his desk drawer and tossed the pocketknife in. As if of their own accord, his fingers drifted to the delicate gold earring he kept stored in the right-hand corner.
The earring was shaped like a bird, some kind of seabird, if he wasn't mistaken. Its wings were outstretched as if it were diving for a fish, its motion and yearning captured in perfect miniscule detail.
Ford's fingertip barely grazed the length of its wingspan before he jerked his hand out and slammed the drawer shut.
It was her earring. Kitty Biedermann's. The woman from the bar in Texas.
He'd discovered it in the front of his rented pickup when he'd gone to turn the truck in. Now he wished he'd left it there. It wasn't like he was going to actually return the earring to its owner.
Yes, when he'd first found the earring, he'd had Wendy, FMJ's executive assistant, look Kitty up, just to see how hard it would be to hunt her down. But then Kitty Biedermann turned out to be a jewelry store heiress.
What was he going to do, fly to New York to return the earring? He was
Jonathon, though always impeccably dressed and by far the most organized of the three, might impress some as overly persnickety. But those were only the people who didn't know him, the people who were bound to underestimate him. It was a mistake few people made more than once.
In reality, it was unlike Jonathon to care whether or not his desk was scuffed, regardless of how much it was worth.
Still, to mollify Jonathon, Ford abandoned the chair he'd been sitting in and returned to his own desk. Since they worked so closely together, they didn't have individual offices. Instead, they'd converted the entire top floor of FMJ's Palo Alto headquarters to a shared office. On one end sat Jonathon's twenty-thousand-dollar art deco monstrosity. The other end was lined with three worktables, every inch of them covered by computers and gadgets in various stages of dissection. In the middle sat Ford's desk, a sleek modern job the building's interior designer had picked out for him.
With a shrug, he asked, "Is Matt right? You just trying to get a rise out of me?"
Jonathon flashed him a cocky grin. "Well, you're talking now, aren't you?"
"I wasn't before?"
"No. You've been picking at your nails for an hour now. You haven't heard a word I've said."
"Not true," Ford protested. "You've been babbling about how you think it's time we diversify again. You've rambled on and on about half a dozen companies that are about to be delisted by the NYSE, but that you think could be retooled to be profitable again. You and Matt voted while I was in China visiting the new plant and you've already started to put together the offer. Have I left anything out?"
"And..." Jonathon prodded.
"And what?" Ford asked. When Jonathon gave an exasperated sigh and plopped back in his chair, Ford shot a questioning look at Matt, who was still typing away. "And what?"
Matt, who'd always had the uncanny ability to hold a conversation while solving some engineering problem, gave a few more clicks before shutting his laptop. "He's waiting for you to voice an opinion. You're the CEO. You get final vote."
FMJ specialized in taking over flailing businesses and turning them around, much like the snack shack they'd whipped into prosperity all those years ago. Jonathon used his wizardry to streamline the company's finances. Matt, with his engineering background, inevitably developed innovations that helped turn the company around. Ford's own role in their magic act was a little more vague.
Ford had a way with people. Inevitably, when FMJ took over a company, there was resentment from the ownership and employees. People resisted, even feared, change. And that's where Ford came in. He talked to them. Smoothed the way. Convinced them that FMJ was a company they could trust.
He flashed a smile at Matt. "I can do my part no matter what the company is. Why do I need to vote?"
While he spoke, he absently opened his desk drawer and tossed the pocketknife in. As if of their own accord, his fingers drifted to the delicate gold earring he kept stored in the right-hand corner.
The earring was shaped like a bird, some kind of seabird, if he wasn't mistaken. Its wings were outstretched as if it were diving for a fish, its motion and yearning captured in perfect miniscule detail.
Ford's fingertip barely grazed the length of its wingspan before he jerked his hand out and slammed the drawer shut.
It was her earring. Kitty Biedermann's. The woman from the bar in Texas.
He'd discovered it in the front of his rented pickup when he'd gone to turn the truck in. Now he wished he'd left it there. It wasn't like he was going to actually return the earring to its owner.
Yes, when he'd first found the earring, he'd had Wendy, FMJ's executive assistant, look Kitty up, just to see how hard it would be to hunt her down. But then Kitty Biedermann turned out to be a jewelry store heiress.
What was he going to do, fly to New York to return the earring? He was
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