Page 42 of An Angel’s Share (The Greystone Family: Greystone Brothers #1)

Jonno

Four gone. She is totally amazing, fronting it out without batting an eye.

I’m itching to get my hands on her. But I need to maintain my dignity, and not throw myself at her feet.

I fucking want to. Long to run my hands up that figure.

I was practically coming in my pants when she slammed her hands on that table. Fuck me, she is magnificent.

The only survivors? Patrick, who looks like hellfire is in his veins. Liam, the biggest dickwad on this planet. His cousin Chris, who is the head of Export. And the head of Legal.

Patrick fires into life the instant his arse hits the chair. “Well you’ve done it now. We’ve no marketing, no HR, no strategy, and no partnerships left. Who do you think will run all this lot?”

“Well, we will have to do some of the work until we can fill positions within the ranks. We never had lots of heads before. The O’Clery brothers did most of the work, and to be honest, we haven’t grown much in the last ten years, so the workload can’t be much more.”

He huffs out a laugh, clearly thinking she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.

She fronts him up and asks outright, “Patrick, do you want to be here? Because this day is not getting better. We’re going into the numbers now, so you can see where we’re at.

We’ll all have to get on with it.” She’s not backing down, her eyes flashing at Patrick and his remaining minions.

“And whose fault is that?” Patrick hits back.

She throws up her hands. “I’m assuming if you’re still here you want to be. Let’s get moving forward, work hard and look for ways to move these numbers upwards.” She’s putting a positive spin on it. But in Patrick's next statement, she may have played directly into his hands.

“I have a plan for that. Liam, can you get out the business plan we worked out. It’ll be a total game changer for O’Clerys. Exactly the type of business we need. The clientele we pitch at, our demographic.”

He’s starting to gush, so excited about his plan. He is infectious, I'll give him that. The only problem is, his infections are proving a deadly virus to the balance sheet.

I raise my eyes to Liam, who is fussing with some paperwork, the laptop, and now the projector. Fuck me, they’ve gone all out on this presentation. I look across at Dermot, and see he’s put his head down. Jesus, even Patrick’s own dad knows he’s an idiot.

For the next hour, we sit through the most ridiculous plan for the purchase of the local golf course.

Full colour projections, fancy graphics, expansion plans, the holding of an international golf open.

Increased membership and fees. Only one bit mentions whiskey, and that is the selling of it in the bar and the sponsorship of events.

The total cost is eye-watering. But the projections in five years make it all back and us all millionaires.

How can we resist such a get rich quick scheme?

Patrick sits down with a flourish, looking around the room for his minions to tell him how amazing that idea is.

I see the head of Legal put his head down.

Patrick is playing to an audience of two—himself and Liam.

I decide to do Aoife’s dirty work for her.

I can see with the curl of her lip exactly what she thinks of his idea.

“Can I ask an obvious question?” I point towards the projection which has an amazing aerial photograph of Greystones Golf Course with the sea and countryside surrounding it.

“Is the golf course actually up for sale? I haven’t seen anything about it locally, or even in the business press.

I thought the Irish Greystone family owned it?

” I’m intentionally making the distinction from us, the English branch of the Greystone family.

“Marshall, with your relationship with them, do you know if they intend to sell?”

I pause and let that pertinent question hit home. “And secondly, the acres of land you want to buy—next to the golf course, for your resort—is that for sale? Again, I’ve not seen any notifications for land sale.”

The minions deflate, but Patrick and Liam do not.

If anything they seem more brash. Patrick starts with confidence, “No it’s not for sale, per se.

But let’s be right, everyone has their price.

And the Greystone family here, we know, are a bit hard up for cash.

” He smirks at that. Obviously he doesn’t like the Irish Greystones.

Although to be honest, I don’t think he likes the English ones much either.

“All the—in fact, most of the land around here is now owned by a property company. Not connected to the area. So I’m sure they’ll be happy to sell to us.

What were they called Liam? You checked them out, right? ”

Patrick is so dismissive, full of his self-importance. If you’re local, you do as he says. Don’t own the golf course? No problem. Don’t own the land you want to build your resort on? Fiddlesticks, we’re sweating the small stuff. Patrick isn’t.

“Yes, a company registered in the Isle of Man.” Liam has his notes out. “Usual faceless property company, too much money and just out for a quick buck.” He grins at us all as if we know the sort. “Rookwood Property International,” he reads from his sheet, and my heart stutters.

I’m careful that I don’t catch Marshall's eye. That company belongs to Kitten. The little devil has been buying land near Marshall's home, protecting it and them. I almost grin.

“So let me get this right. You’ve done this fabulous presentation.” Because it really was. “But you have no idea if the parties involved will sell?” I let my tone of voice show my thoughts, my incredulity

“Well, no, we know they will want to sell when we approach them.” Patrick, the eternal optimist, is just about to lose his shirt, his money, and his marriage in a shit property deal.

“But you don’t. With respect, you don’t know that at all. And property companies like Rookwood don’t sell land unless it is vastly overpriced. They’re happy to sit on it forever, and wait.”

“With respect to you, Jonno, you don’t know that either.” Liam tries to jab at me, countering me with my counter.

“Yes. But Liam, I haven’t spent time on a plan that is not set in stone and in fact will cost O’Clerys money, especially in the short term, rather than increase revenue from the off. Money you, as the finance director, should know the company does not have.”

“We do have the money,” Patrick chips in, cocky as hell.

I hear Aoife practically growl in the back of her throat. And she really needs to stop doing that. My cock thinks she’s calling his name.

“We don’t have the money for that, Patrick.” Aoife’s starting to lose her patience with him. “I know we will save money on salaries and houses, but it would nowhere near cover that cost. It’s millions, and we are just clinging on in the black. I really don’t want to post a loss.”

“We won’t make a loss. We have a large influx of money due in, around four million in fact. Am I right, Liam?” Chief imbecile nods his head, confident of himself.

Marshall and Aoife look perplexed, but Dermot’s head drops, and so too does Seamus’s. In fact, he’s practically cringing in embarrassment. What the hell is this?

“Four million, from where? I’ve looked through invoices, but there isn’t anything on that scale?” Aoife contradicts. “Certainly not in the short term.”

Patrick puffs his chest out. He can hardly contain himself, he’s so fucking proud of himself.

“Well, you may not think I’ve done an amazing job at this company”—he practically points at Aoife, preening—“but the Irish Board of International Trade does. We have won their accolades for the past four years, and this will be our fifth year as winners of the highest grossing exports of an Irish company.”

Silence descends on the room as Patrick prattles on into the void.

“We have received a minimum of five hundred thousand euro. That was year one, every other year has been a million, and this year it will be two. As we’ve won it consecutively, we also get another two million euros.

And the trophy to keep.” He waits for the pats on the back to start, looking bemused and confused when it doesn’t.

“Are you saying that the million in profit for the past few years hasn't actually been profit? It’s been winnings from the International Trade Board?” Aoife is trying to clarify what she knows is the truth.

“Winning, earnings, profit. All the same thing.” He brushes her off.

“Who exactly are you exporting to, to get an award of that magnitude? Is it a collective or is it a country? What?” I ask the dreaded question. Seamus has his eyes closed, clearly praying for something.

“America. The New York Whiskey Company, of course.” Patrick beams at Aoife. “Your amazing idea, Aoife, we set it all up. Just as you told us to. And it’s worked like a charm.”

My heart sinks to my boots. This is where the fraud is. This is where the thief is hiding. And she set it all up. She is the signatory on everything.

I hold in my despair and go for chilling accuracy. “So let me get this right. You’ve won millions of Euros for exporting to yourselves? Surely the Trade Board would not think that is right?” I need the cold clarity. But, oh God, I don’t want it.

“Well they don’t know it’s us. No one will. The company trades out of the Isle of Man, through a subsidiary in the states. None of it links back to us. Untraceable. Again, genius, Aoife. That doctorate came in handy.” He actually looks proud of her. She looks shell-shocked.

I carry on with my questions. “How do you know you’ve won? When is the winner announced?”

Liam looks smug at this point. Oh, sweet Jesus, I’m asking all the wrong questions.

“We have a relative on the inside of the Trade Board. He lets us know the tally and we simply invoice for more casks. Sending them on freight so we can prove they’ve left the country.”

Fraud, they’re committing fraud. And insider trading.

“Where do you store them if you aren’t actually selling them?” My heart rate is picking up. Please don’t say California.

“California,” states Patrick.

Fuck. I can’t look at Marshall.

“Well, if we actually send them,” sniggers Chris, the head of export.

I swing my head around to him. This cannot be happening. “Excuse me?”

“Well, as we own the company, we just invoice for them. We don’t send them all.

Why should we? Are we going to tell ourselves off?

We can do what we want. And Patrick set up an international sea freight company to ensure we controlled outflow.

” He shrugs, they’ve obviously been doing this for a while.

They’re totally desensitised to the level of fraud, deceit, and dishonesty.

“That California warehouse will be chock a block,” I add in to see who bites.

“Was it, Aoife?” My head swings around to her as Liam asks her. She has gone bright red, her cheeks competing with her dress. Please, no.

“Er, yes. Totally full,” she says loudly.

I watch her neck flush, and she pulls on her ear. She’s fucking lying. Why the fuck would she lie about that company? Give them an alibi? What the hell is wrong with her? There’s obviously something about that warehouse she doesn’t want anyone to know.

I shut down my emotions. I know she’s not the thief. I know it. But there was no chock a block fucking warehouse. No casks. Nothing. It’s a totally empty lot. I know because I went to look. I’d seen the invoices coming through the American company. But no fucking casks. Nothing. Not a thing.

I can’t look at her. Why is she lying so blatantly? I knew she was a shit liar the first time I got my hands on her, but this takes the biscuit. She’s not the thief, so why is she acting like she is? Is it something else? Has she done something she’s trying to hide?

She obviously didn’t know about the Trade Board competition. But the casks and warehouse? She knows. But she’s clever, I’ll give her that.

The Isle of Man was shady as fuck, and Patrick seems to think it can’t be traced back. But her name—sort of—is on it. It looks like for all the world that she set it all up.

My mind is spinning, but I’m starting to see the light. The mists are clearing, but why is she lying about California? Why? Why? Why? She’s so bothered about the business, it must be a front. Fucking hell, she’s good. So fucking good.