The delisting notice had been delivered to Nathan Hockley's desk in May; Nathan had turned it over to Cal after the wedding. "Business has its up and downs," he'd told his son, as if Cal didn't already know this—he had been conditioned for the eventual takeover of Hockley Steel since he was thirteen and there was very little that he didn't understand.
Chuckling, Nathan went on to add, "A successful businessman does whatever it takes to stay at the top, Caledon. I have no doubt that you'll be able to maneuver around this…initial stumbling block.”
The delisting of stock didn't necessarily spell doom for a corporation, but it was often the first step on the road to bankruptcy. Major stock exchanges, like exclusive clubs, were highly selective because of the profitability and prestige they offered companies; in order to be listed, and therefore made public, firms had to meet and maintain certain numerical standards. If a company's stockholder level fell below a certain point, the head of the stock exchange's Listing Qualifications Department was likely to issue a ninety-day warning notice. Get your numbers up or you're dropped.
While it was possible for a delisted company to recover and continue to make money in the private sector, finances were much less secure and a delisting was always a black spot on a company's record so stockholders were less likely to invest if they believed their fortunes weren't in good hands.
Unfortunately, despite the best marketing efforts of the firm under Cal's authority, stockholder numbers had stabilized but failed to rise back up to previous levels. It seemed that Nathan had done very little to fix the problem within the first sixty days of receiving the delisting notice, and Cal couldn't help but feel a little disgusted with him even though he knew his father had meant it as a test of his competency as a businessman.
Cal was running out of time, and all tactical approaches had fallen short of fixing the problem. He would have to move on to the next level of persuasion.
*****
"I'm afraid that it simply cannot be arranged for any price. Policy allots for a ninety day trial. I myself could get in serious trouble if I were to extend your due date, and such things are somewhat difficult to keep under wraps.”
"Of course," said Cal with half a smile. "I wouldn't want to put you in an awkward position.”
Subtly he studied the man behind the desk. Any successful businessman understood the necessity of learning to read the motives and morals of his constituents, and Cal was no exception; over time he had grown quite practiced at categorizing anyone he rubbed shoulders with professionally. And he had known from the very beginning that Walter Sullivan was a man concerned with his reputation but lacking much of anything underneath.
Sullivan smiled. Or rather, his upper lip curled back to reveal his front row of teeth. He was sixty-something, with a ruinous face full of pouches and popped blood vessels and scars probably from cystic acne in his youth. "Might I suggest withdrawing your funds voluntarily? It won't do you any benefit in the public's eyes, but at least you won't have record of a delisting in your history.”
"I had planned on that, in the case that you were…unable to help me," Cal agreed. He snapped his briefcase shut and stood, extending his hand to Sullivan. "Good of you to take my appointment on such short notice. I imagine you'll contact me when you have the paperwork together.”
Do something, you idiot, said a voice at the back of his head.
Stop sniveling like a little girl, he remembered his father saying almost two decades ago as he towered over Cal, acting out the role of a ruthless company exec. I'm trying to help you. You'll never be a successful businessman if you don't get thicker skin than this.
"It's a pity we couldn't have come to an agreement," he added, putting just the right amount of subliminal hatred into his voice. "But as we all know well, business comes with its share of ups and downs.”
"Indeed," said Sullivan. "On a brighter note, did I hear correctly that your wife is in the family way?”
"Hmm? Oh—yes, yes she is.”
"Then I offer you my congratulations. You're a lucky man, Hockley. A beautiful young wife and a child on the way…if only your finances were in such perfect order." He gave a good-natured laugh.
"If only," repeated Cal with a fake smile.
"I always found Miss DeWitt Bukater most charming. If I were a little younger, I would have snapped her up myself. Ha ha.”
Cal returned the laugh, wishing he could hit Sullivan.
"Good afternoon, Walter," he said as he turned to leave.
And then he had an idea.
"Won't you come to dinner sometime?" he asked at the door. "As a thank you for your efforts. We can finalize the paperwork then.”
"I would be delighted—if only I hadn't been so flooded lately here at the office—”
"Come on, man. Surely you can find it within yourself to take an evening off. I insist.”
Sullivan flashed his awkward smile. "I can't resist such a forceful invitation," he said. "It would be a pleasure to join you and your wife for dinner.”
"Friday at seven?”
"I'll most certainly be there.”
And it'll be a pleasure to have you, Walter, thought Cal, smiling cynically to himself as he left the building.
*****
He had known she was thinking about Dawson when she pulled away, and he couldn't bear to look at her when he knew what was going through her head.
Never would he have told her to leave otherwise. Goddamn it, this was what he'd wanted—she had opened to him, she had let down her guard long enough to forget how much she detested him, even if it was only for a moment.
It should never have happened.
Cal had very little patience for being taunted with what he couldn't have.
*****
"Come in.”
Cal pushed open the door and looked inside. Rose sat at the bay window in her nightgown, a book open across her lap. She glanced at him and then returned her eyes to the page. "Did you need something?" she asked.
Ignoring the fact that she obviously didn't want him there, he shut the door and took a seat next to her. "I don't know quite how to put this without upsetting you in some way or another," he said, hesitating. "But—”
Rose looked up.
"—if you'll recall, that night—”
"Yes?" she said.
"—my overcoat…I had left the diamond in my pocket, and you—”
"Are you actually daring to ask me about this?" she demanded, her eyes darkening. "You really only care for money, Cal, don't you?”
He had known she'd react this way. "I believe it's completely within my right to ask about it," he said, "as it was a priceless item filed under my name.”
"If you must know, I still have it.”
She returned to her book.
Rather than ask her for it, Cal found himself asking another question. "Why didn't you sell it?”
"Pardon me?”
"You were scrounging in the streets for more than a month and yet you had an object in your possession that was worth a fortune—why did you not sell it and forgo coming to me for help?”
She stared at him. Her eyes were glassy and blank. "I tried," she said. "I took it to a pawn shop in New York and they told me it was worth several million, but they said they would have to run a background check on it because of its value and fame. I knew it would be filed under your name or your father's name, so I couldn't.”
"Can I see it?”
Rose shot him a look of disgust and then walked to her vanity and opened a drawer. Dim lamplight streamed through the diamond, throwing a scatter of deep blue reflections against the walls and ceiling.
She dropped it back and shut the drawer. "There," she said. "You've seen it.”
Cal could easily have snapped on her—it was, after all, his diamond, and she was acting as though it were irrefutably hers—but he decided against it. For now, he didn't need the Heart of the Ocean. As a last resort he could take it from her vanity, if his plan somehow fell through and he had to resort to high-level bribery.
"All right, then," he said. He got up and made his way to the door. Rose stood watching him like she expected him to grab for the diamond and run. Her arms were crossed, her expression stony.
She had looked at him like that often while they were engaged. He knew it was intended to intimidate him and make him feel foolish for thinking he had even a chance at breaking through the walls she chose to erect around herself, and it was rather effective. But he was older, stronger and more worldly than her in every way, and those were things he had constantly reminded himself of in order to offset the insecurity that she sometimes stirred up in him.
"Good night, Cal," she said, not budging from her spot near the vanity.
He looked at her and hesitated. He could feel something setting in, some sort of sentiment—and perhaps it had something to do with her, but he couldn't begin to find the words he'd need to express it, and the sight of her expressionless face left him cold.
The feeling retreated.
"Good night," he replied, and quickly left.
*****
Walter Sullivan arrived promptly at seven that Friday. Rose had been irritated when Cal told her he'd invited Sullivan to dinner.
"I can't stand that man," she said. "He reminds me of a hog.”
Cal scoffed at her, told her she was being childish and that he needed her to cooperate because he was about to clinch a very important business deal.
This was mostly a lie, but it could have been construed as the truth depending upon one's perspective.
Cal's gut twisted with nerves as he paced his study, waiting for the hour to strike. His plan was simple and probably foolproof, but he knew that what he was about to do would end Sullivan's goodwill toward him. Sullivan would look at him with a new light of understanding in his eyes and he would never recommend anyone to do business with him again, despite the fact that he wouldn't be able to take any direct negative action against him. But it had to be done. The power and prestige of Hockley Steel was at stake.
Slamming the door, Cal left his study and stormed into Rose's room without bothering to knock. Rose was in her undergarments, having her maid help her with her corset.
"Cal!" she said, reaching for her dressing gown in modesty as though he had walked in on her naked.
Of course, she'd had absolutely no qualms about stripping for Dawson so he could sketch her. What did modesty matter between a couple of almost-strangers?
"Leave us, Elizabeth," Cal commanded, and the maid darted out like a scared rabbit.
He went to Rose, gripped the strings of her corset and began tearing at them somewhat viciously.
"Cal!" she exclaimed again, clearly scandalized at his behavior. "What on earth—”
"Never mind, dear," he said absently. He didn't think her body had changed very much at three and a half months along in her pregnancy, but he never saw her undressed to know for sure—she was always either laced up in her corset or hidden under her flowing nightgown. He needed her to look stunning, and paranoia made him concerned with even the slightest difference in her figure.
"Why don't you wear this tonight?" he said, ignoring her continued protests as he went to her vanity and withdrew the diamond. "It's beautiful on you, despite whatever memories you've probably attached to it now.”
"I can dress myself, Cal!" She pointed to the door in a wordless order for him to leave.
He unclasped the necklace and fastened it around her neck before she could protest. She gaped at him in disbelief.
"There," he said, brushing his fingers along her neck. "You're a vision.”
He left without giving her a moment to respond or even react.
At dinner Sullivan was jovial and dense, as he always was, and he ate lots of veal and drank lots of wine, as Cal had known he would. He looked often at Rose, who had removed the necklace but still radiated pure, innocent, youthful beauty. Cal saw to it that the servants kept Sullivan's wine glass filled.
Afterward Cal suggested they all retire to the sitting room. Rose wanted to return to her room to rest, but Cal insisted that she stay and make small talk. He led her to the sofa and sat her down next to Sullivan while he took a chair across from them.
"Fetch the champagne," said Cal to a maid. "Would you care for one, Walter?”
"Don't mind if I do," said Sullivan with a curl of his upper lip. Rose's description of him had been rather astute; he did have a certain hog-like quality.
He leaned forward to clink his glass against Cal's, shifting slightly over Rose to reach. Cal watched her squirm in discomfort.
"I must thank you again for your kind dinner invitation," said Sullivan. "It was high time I took a night away from work. Ha ha.”
"We're more than thrilled that you could join us," Cal replied in a bored tone that didn't match his words. "Aren't we, darling?”
"Yes," said Rose, narrowing her eyes in a way that made him think she'd begun to catch onto the fact that he had ulterior motives.
Cal rose from his seat and moved to the window, turning his back to Sullivan, but he could see a reflection in the glass. Sullivan had grown red in the face from food and alcohol. What an idiot.
"What say you about that election, eh, Hockley?" Sullivan prattled. "I read in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette the other day that Wilson's pulling ahead in polls. Don't know what I think about that. I'm a bit of a Taft man myself. Ha ha.”
"I haven't followed the election as closely as I might have," replied Cal, glancing over his shoulder. "I'm afraid my patience for political discourse is running short lately.”
"Of course, of course! How repetitive it does become after a while," said Sullivan with another of his hog smiles. Cal watched his eyes flit over the room as he seemed to cast around for something to talk about. They landed on the wall a few yards from Cal. "What an unusual painting," he said.
It was one that Rose had insisted upon mounting above the fireplace. She'd claimed that the room felt cold and uninviting, that her personal touch would improve it. Cal hadn't made an issue of it, although he personally found the painting distasteful—some sort of bizarre portrait of a woman and child picnicking beneath a parasol. Rose called it art.
"That was a selection of Rose's," Cal said. "I don't care for it, myself.”
Sullivan stood and moved closer, squinting at the portrait. "How strange," he murmured.
"I think it's lovely," said Rose. "So serene.”
Chuckling, Sullivan started back to the sofa.
Cal saw his chance.
He stomped one foot on the edge of the oriental rug and gave it a violent jerk.
Sullivan went stumbling. Cal knew his balance would be poor after all he'd had to drink.
Arms flailing, he pitched forward on top of Rose, his face pushing into her chest.
"Oh!" Rose cried out in surprise and horror.
Cal took one look at the scene before him and flew into a premeditated rage. "You son of a bitch," he growled, grabbing roughly at Sullivan. "How dare you throw yourself at my wife! And in my presence!”
He plowed a fist into Sullivan's face. Sullivan seemed disoriented as blood gushed from his nose. "Certainly you don't think," Sullivan garbled when Cal shoved him away in disgust. "Must have lost my balance—”
"I'll say you lost your balance!" Cal shouted. "Now get out of my sight! Baxter," he called for his valet, "escort Mr. Sullivan out this instant.”
"Mr. Hockley, this is all a misunderstanding," Sullivan protested as Baxter hauled him to his feet. "I didn't intend—”
"Out!" Cal screamed.
Baxter dragged Sullivan away and silence fell over the sitting room. Stricken, Rose looked up at Cal.
"You staged that," she whispered in utter incredulity. "I saw you pull the rug out from under him!”
"I had to," said Cal, straightening his dinner jacket. "There's no need for you to understand.”
"Yes, there is! Is this about money somehow? Is that it? Did you want someone to blackmail?”
Cal merely smiled at her.
He knew her esteem for him had just plummeted to a new low. But there was nothing he could do about that.
After all, a successful businessman does whatever it takes to stay at the top.