His Shy Cinderella. Kate Hardy
she couldn’t do until her lawyer had checked it over, and her lawyer couldn’t do that until the contract actually arrived...
But there was no point in brooding over something she couldn’t change. She’d just have to get on with things as best as she could, and hope that she didn’t have to come up with plan B. And she didn’t want to burden her parents with her worries. She knew they were enjoying their retirement, and the last thing she wanted was to drag them back from the extended vacation they’d been planning for years.
She’d grin and bear it, and if necessary she’d tell a white lie or two.
She went through the post, dealing with each piece as she opened it, and paused at the last envelope: cream vellum, with a handwritten address. Most people nowadays used computer-printed address labels, or if they did have to write something they’d simply grab the nearest ballpoint pen. This bold, flamboyant script looked as if it had been written with a proper fountain pen. Disappointingly, the letter itself was typewritten, but the signature at the bottom was in the same flamboyant handwriting as the envelope.
And her jaw dropped as she read the letter.
It was an offer to buy the company.
Selling up would be one way to solve McKenzie’s financial problems. But selling McKenzie’s to Brandon Stone? He seriously thought she would even consider it?
She knew the family history well enough. Her grandfather had set up in business with his best friend just after the Second World War, building quality cars that everyone could afford. Except then they’d both fallen in love with the same woman. Esther had chosen Jimmy McKenzie; in response, Barnaby Stone had dissolved their business partnership and left with all the equipment to go and start up another business, this time based on making factory-built cars. Jimmy McKenzie had started over, too, making his hand-built cars customisable—just as McKenzie’s still built their cars today.
On the eve of the wedding, Barnaby Stone had come back and asked Esther to run away with him. She’d said no.
Since then, the two families had never spoken again.
Until now.
If you could call a letter speaking.
Angel could see it from Brandon’s point of view. Buying McKenzie’s would salve his sense of family honour because then, although the grandfather had lost the girl, the grandson had won the business. It would also be the end of everything McKenzie’s did, because Stone’s would definitely get rid of their hand-made and customised process. She knew that Stone’s racing cars were all factory built, using robots and the newest technology; it was the total opposite of the hand-craftsmanship and personal experience at McKenzie’s.
She’d heard on the grapevine that Stone’s wanted to branch out into making roadsters, which would put them in direct competition with McKenzie’s: and what better way to get rid of your competitor than to buy them out? No doubt he’d keep the name—McKenzie’s was known for high quality, so the brand was definitely worth something. She’d overheard her parents discussing it during the last recession, when Larry Stone had offered to buy McKenzie’s. According to her father, Barnaby Stone had been a ruthless businessman, and his sons and grandsons came from the same mould. She knew Max McKenzie was a good judge of character, so it was obvious that Brandon would asset-strip the business and make all her staff redundant.
No way.
She wouldn’t sell her family business to Brandon Stone, not even if she was utterly desperate and he was the last person on earth.
And what did he really know about business, anyway? Driving race cars, yes: he’d won a few championships in his career, and had narrowly missed becoming the world champion a couple of times. But being good at driving a racing car wasn’t the same as being good at running a business that made racing cars. As far as she knew, dating supermodels and quaffing magnums of champagne weren’t requirements for running a successful business either. She was pretty sure that he was just the figurehead and someone else did the actual running of Stone’s.
Regardless, she wasn’t selling. Not to him.
She flicked into her email program. In his letter, Brandon Stone had said he looked forward to hearing from her at her earliest convenience. So she’d give him his answer right now.
Dear Mr Stone
No way is the McKenzie’s logo going on the front of your factory-made identikit cars. I wouldn’t sell my family business to you if you were the last person on earth. My grandfather would be turning in his grave even at the thought of it.
Then she took a deep breath and deleted the paragraph. Much as she’d like to send the email as it was, it sounded like a challenge. She wasn’t looking for a fight; she was simply looking to shut down his attempts at buying her out.
What was it that all the experts said about saying no? Keep it short. No apologies, no explanations—just no.
Dear Mr Stone
Thank you for your letter. My company is not for sale.
Yours sincerely
Angel McKenzie
She couldn’t make it much clearer than that.
* * *
When his computer pinged, Brandon flicked into his email program. Angel McKenzie was giving him an answer already? Good.
Then he read the email.
It was short, polite and definite.
And she was living in cloud cuckoo land.
She might not want to sell the business, but McKenzie’s was definitely going under. He’d seen their published accounts for the last four years, and the balance sheet looked grimmer every year. The recession had bitten hard in their corner of the market. The way things were going, she couldn’t afford not to sell the company.
Maybe he’d taken the wrong approach, writing to her. Maybe he should try shock tactics instead and be the first Stone to speak to a McKenzie for almost seven decades.
And, if he could talk her into selling the company to him, then finally he’d prove he was worthy of heading up Stone’s. To his father, to his uncle, and to everyone else who thought that Brandon Stone was just an empty-headed playboy who was only bothered about driving fast cars. To those who were just waiting for the golden boy to fail.
He glanced at the photograph of his older brother on his desk. And maybe, if he could pull off the deal, it would be the one thing to help assuage the guilt he’d spent three years failing to get rid of. The knowledge that it should’ve been him in that car, the day of the race, not Sam. That if he hadn’t gone skiing the week before the race and recklessly taken a diamond run, falling and breaking a rib in the process, he would’ve been fit to drive. Meaning that Sam wouldn’t have been his backup driver, so he wouldn’t have been in the crash; and Sam’s baby daughter would’ve grown up knowing her father as more than just a photograph.
Brandon wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to forgive himself for that.
But doing well by Stone’s was one way to atone for what he’d done. He’d worked hard and learned fast, and the company was going from strength to strength. But it still wasn’t enough to assuage the guilt.
‘I’m sorry, Sammy,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m sorry I was such an immature, selfish brat. And I really wish you were still here.’ For so many reasons. Sure, Brandon would still have been working in the family business by this point in his career—but Sam would’ve been at the helm of the company, where he belonged. Nobody would’ve doubted Sam’s managerial abilities. And their uncle Eric wouldn’t have been scrutinising Sam’s every move, waiting for an opportunity to criticise.
He shook himself. Eric was just disappointed because he thought that he should be heading up the business. Brandon needed to find him a different role, one that would make him happy and feel that he had a say in things. If Brandon could bring McKenzie’s into the fold, then maybe Eric could take charge there.