The Argentine's Price. Maisey Yates
fail at the only thing that made her matter in his eyes.
She couldn’t be the one to see it all end, couldn’t be the cause of that. She’d let go of vague, half-imagined dreams in order to keep Pickett alive already. She couldn’t lose it now. She couldn’t see someone else in the position her father had always wanted reserved for someone in their family.
Her great-grandfather had built the business up using family money, and it had been passed down to Vanessa’s grandfather, and then to her father. It would have gone on to Thomas next.
The memory of that day was always there, sharp and vivid down to the way the rug in her father’s office had made her bare feet itch, to the way her stomach had ached, so intensely she’d been convinced she would die too. Just like her brother.
It’s up to you now, Vanessa. Without you, everything crumbles. Everything I’ve worked for, everything Thomas dreamed of.
She’d been thirteen. All of her brother’s responsibilities had been passed on to her that night, the weight of her family’s legacy. She’d be damned if she failed.
“It’s difficult to compete now that the market has changed. So many things are being done overseas now because there’s cheaper labor and lower taxes. It’s a hard position for us to be in, but we’re committed to keeping the factory here, to keeping the jobs here.”
“Idealistic. Not necessarily practical.”
He was right, and the worst thing was, she knew it. Had known it from the moment she’d taken her position in the big corporate office. She was fighting a losing battle, and she had been for three long years.
But she didn’t want to move the factory, didn’t want to eliminate all those jobs. Most of the employees had been with the company for more than twenty years and she couldn’t fathom taking that from them. They were her friends in some ways. Her responsibility.
Of course, if the company ceased to exist, the point was moot.
“Maybe not, but I don’t have any better ideas right now.” It galled to have to say that to him. To be put in the position of having to admit to deficiencies she was far too familiar with.
“As your principal shareholder, I’m not very pleased to hear that.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What do you want from me, Lazaro?”
“From you? Nothing. But I very much enjoy the fact that the fate of Pickett is now resting with me.”
“Maybe a better question for you is whether this is business or personal.”
“It is business. But it is also an interesting quirk of fate, isn’t it? Your father once held my future, my mother’s future, in his hands. He paid her miserable wages to do work that was so beneath any of you. To keep house and be treated very much as the help. And now I could buy your father ten times over. I have bought the portions of the business that were available.”
“So you just intend to lord over us with all that newfound power?”
“As your father has done to others?”
Vanessa bit the inside of her cheek. She knew her father, knew he was difficult at best. But he was all she had, her only family. The most important things to him were their family name, the tradition of the company and their standing in the community. He needed to know that he would always have his place as a pillar of the city, his favorite chair and cigars in his country club.
She wouldn’t be the one to lose that for him. Not now.
“I won’t say he’s been perfect, but he’s an old man, he … Pickett means the world to him.” And he—they—had lost too much already: Thomas, Vanessa’s mother. They couldn’t lose any more. It was up to her to make sure that they didn’t.
Lazaro looked at Vanessa, her dark brown eyes cool and unreadable, her full lips settled into a slight frown, a berry gloss adding shine to her sexy mouth. She looked every bit what she was. Rich and upper-class, her silver gown hugging her curves without being over the top, the neckline high, the only skin on display the elegant line of her back. Restraint, dignity. That was how the Picketts were. In public at least.
He’d seen a different side to Vanessa Pickett twelve years ago. A side of her that was branded into him, under his skin.
He redirected his thoughts. “What’s more important, Vanessa? The bottom line or tradition?”
To Michael Pickett, it was probably tradition. The blood in his veins was as blue as it came. He’d married old money and his daughter was the perfect aristocratic specimen, designed to keep the family name in a position of honor, to keep the family legacy going strong. Likely meant to marry a man of equal stock. That was what mattered to men like him. Not hard work, certainly not any sort of integrity. Just the preservation of an image and a way of life that was as outdated as his business practices.
When the opportunity to buy the shares had come up, Lazaro hadn’t been able to turn it down. He hadn’t been seeking any kind of poetic justice, but passing the chance up had been impossible when it had landed in his lap.
“I … Of course profit is the most important thing but we—my family—is Pickett Industries. We’re the soul of the company, the reason it’s lasted as long as it has. Without us, it wouldn’t be the same.”
“Of course it wouldn’t be the same. It would be new, modern. Which your father is most definitely not. And you are running things based on systems put into place by him some thirty years ago. It’s outdated in the extreme.”
Her throat convulsed and a muscle ticked in her cheek. Her delicate hands clung tightly to her purse, the tendons standing out, the effort it took to maintain composure evident. “I don’t know what else to do,” she said, her voice flat.
He could see the admission cost her. He wasn’t surprised by it, though. Vanessa had never seemed the CEO type. At sixteen she’d been sweet—at least he had seen her that way at first. She’d liked to swim in the pool in her family home’s massive backyard. The image of her lying in a lounge chair in her electric-pink bikini was burned into his brain, a watermark that colored his view of things more often than he cared to admit.
She’d been intrigued by him from the start, the kid who mowed her daddy’s lawn. He’d sensed her attraction right away, her hungry looks open, obvious. He imagined it had been some form of rebellion for her. To be attracted to not just a poor boy, but an immigrant, one who was so far removed from the long, storied lineage of the Pickett family it was nearly laughable.
The fact that she’d managed to burrow beneath his skin, that the thought of her had made his heart race faster, that he’d looked forward to weeding the flower beds so that he could catch sight of the princess in her tower was even more laughable.
He’d been a fool. That air of sweetness and light had been the perfect way to capture his attention, the kindness she’d shown to him so rare he’d lapped it up like a man dying of thirst. But she’d only been toying with him. And she’d made that clear the evening she rejected him. Later that same night, as a bonus prize to go with the rejection, he’d woken up facedown in an alley, his nose broken along with any of his naive notions of a romance between him and Vanessa, as one of Pickett’s hired henchmen warned him to keep away from the precious heiress.
It had been the beginning of rock bottom, both for him and his mother. He at least had crawled his way to the top. His mother had never had the chance. He curled his hands into fists, fought against the blinding rage that always came when he thought of his mother. Of how needlessly she’d suffered.
He chose instead to focus on how far he’d come, how much power he held. Of course, even now, with all of his billions in the bank, he wouldn’t be considered good enough for the hallowed Vanessa Pickett. He could have any woman he desired, and had spent many years doing exactly that with women whose names and faces he could no longer remember. But Vanessa was burned into his consciousness. A face he couldn’t forget. Kisses he could still remember