CHAPTER EIGHT
BENJAMIN CARTER SAT in a high-backed leather chair in a corner of the private members-only club. The lighting was artfully dim, and the atmosphere was hushed and exclusive. Warm golden lights and flickering candles added to the sense of rarefied privacy. Cigar smoke curled into the air from another dark corner, adding an exotic aroma and diffusing the light.
The club promised absolute discretion, which was specifically why he’d chosen it. And now Ben looked, one by one, at each of the other three men who had joined him at his table. At his request.
Sheikh Zayn Al-Ghamdi—the ruler of a desert kingdom rich in oil and minerals, whose wealth was astonishing and control absolute.
Dante Mancini—an Italian renewable energies mogul whose charming, handsome exterior hid a rapier-sharp intellect, business acumen and a sarcastic tongue that could strip paint from a wall—as Ben had discovered during one particularly acrimonious deal years before. Right now he wasn’t exuding charm; he was glowering darkly in Ben’s direction.
And, last but not least, Xander Trakas—the Greek billionaire CEO of a global luxury goods conglomerate. He was cool and aloof, with strong features that gave nothing away. Ben had once told him grudgingly that he should play poker if he ever lost his vast fortune and needed to win it back. Which was about as likely as a snowstorm in hell.
Ben might not rule over a desert kingdom, or half of Europe, but he ruled over Manhattan with his towering cranes and the deep pits he forged out of the ground in order to build new and impossibly ambitious buildings.
The tension around the table was palpable. These men had been his nemeses for so long—and each other’s—that it was truly surreal to be sitting here now. What had started out as minor infractions during various deals over the years had escalated into entrenched warfare, with each recognising in the others formidable adversaries to be defeated and vanquished. The only problem being that each one was as successfully ruthless and stubborn as the other, so all they’d ever achieved was a series of tense stalemates.
Ben sensed that Dante Mancini in particular was about ready to bolt, so he sat forward. It was time to talk.
‘Thank you all for coming here.’
Sheikh Zayn Al-Ghamdi’s dark eyes were hard. ‘I don’t appreciate being summoned like a recalcitrant child, Carter.’
‘And yet,’ Ben pointed out, ‘you’re here.’ He looked around. ‘You all are.’
Dante Mancini drawled, ‘And the prize for stating the obvious goes to Benjamin Carter.’ He lifted his heavy crystal glass in Ben’s direction and the dark liquid inside shimmered with golden opulence, reflecting the decadent luxury of the club around them. He downed his drink in one and simultaneously gestured for the waiter. He caught Ben’s look. ‘Tempted to drink something stronger than water, Carter?’
Ben fought down the urge to rise to Dante’s jibe. He was the only one of them not indulging in the finest single malt whisky one could buy outside of Ireland and Scotland.
He looked pointedly at the others. ‘Gentlemen, as fun as it’s been over the last decade, squaring up to each of you, I think you’ll agree that the time has come for us to stop giving the press an excuse to pit us against each other.’
Xander Trakas looked from Ben to the other men and sighed. ‘He’s right. The press have targeted us all, one by one, and what started out as a few salacious gossipy pieces in that rag Celebrity Spy! have turned into something much more serious. While I believe we’re responsible for the stories that end up in those rags due to our own lax PR, I draw the line at spurious claims of excessive partying, revolving bedroom doors and, most damaging of all, conspicuous absences at the office.’
The Greek tycoon’s face hardened with displeasure. ‘The fact that I’ve been pulling all-nighters in the office when they say I’m out partying is infuriating. I lost out on a lucrative contract last week because of doubts about my competence. It’s gone too far.’
Dante Mancini made a sound of grudging agreement. ‘I’m about to lose out on a deal because they want someone with “family values”—whatever that is.’ He took a healthy sip of his refreshed drink.
The fact that Dante Mancini and Xander Trakas were still here and agreeing with each other told Ben more effectively than anything that he’d done the right thing in asking them here this evening—and also that they had a very real threat on their hands.
He said, ‘We’re being reduced to caricatures, and these exaggerations of our private exploits are becoming too damaging to ignore. I can handle walking onto my construction sites and having my men rib me about a kiss and tell, but when gossip and innuendo starts to affect share prices and my professional reputation that’s unacceptable.’
Trakas looked at him and there was an unmistakable gleam of mockery in his eyes. ‘You’re not trying to imply that your ex-lover made it all up, Carter, are you?’
Memories of lurid headlines—The hard man of construction is just as hard in bed!—made Ben snap back, ‘Her story was as real as your infamous little black book that divulges the names and numbers of most of the world’s most beautiful women. What was it they said, Trakas? Still waters run deep?’
Trakas scowled and Mancini scoffed, ‘As if Trakas has the monopoly on the most beautiful women. Everyone knows that I—’
A cool voice cut them off, ‘If we’re quite finished with the dissing contest, perhaps we can discuss how to get ourselves out of this mess. I agree with Carter: it’s gone too far. This adverse attention is not only affecting confidence in my leadership, but also my business concerns. It’s even affecting my little sister’s chances of the marriage she wants, and that is unacceptable.’
They all looked at Sheikh Zayn Al-Ghamdi, who had sat forward. The dim lighting made the lines of his boldly handsome face stand out harshly. They were all dressed in classic black tuxedos except for Mancini, who was bucking the trend in a white jacket with his bow tie rakishly undone.
It reminded Ben of the function they’d just come from and he said grimly, ‘It’s not just our business concerns...or our families.’
Mancini sat forward too, frowning. ‘What do you mean?’
Ben glanced at him, and at the others. ‘The director of the charity came to me this evening and told me that if this media furore doesn’t disappear she’ll have to remove us all as patrons. She’s noticed an adverse effect, with less tickets sold and people not showing up.’
Dante Mancini cursed colourfully in Italian.
The Sheikh said ruminatively, ‘So that’s why you asked us to come and meet you?’
Ben nodded. ‘I think we can all agree that the last thing we want is for the charity to suffer because of us.’
The charity in question was the only thing that linked them all, outside of pitting their wits against each other during business deals, and its function was the only time of year when they were all in the same room at the same time, which invariably caused much media interest.
The Hope Foundation focused on giving funds to young kids—girls and boys who were from disadvantaged backgrounds and showed an aptitude for business and enterprise.
Dante said now, ‘Carter’s right. We can’t bring the charity into this mess.’
For