"I've been asked," Mitch replied as the waitress approached with the pizzas he had ordered. "Actually, I've had a number of interesting offers in the past few weeks. A lot of high-tech companies, naturally, but Detroit, too. And the soft drink people have been pretty persuasive." As they ate, he detailed several of his offers, including one from Cal Theroux at FBT.
Sam listened with increasing impatience, then pushed away his pizza and leaned back in the booth. "Sounds safe. Safe and predictable."
Mitch gave him a long stare. "It's a miracle that you've managed to keep SysVal alive this long. You don't know anything about selling a product. You don't have any organization, any definable market. Your company is so eccentric that it's a joke." He went on and on, detailing their shortcomings until Sam's mouth had tightened in a grim line and Susannah felt as if someone was banging her head into the wall. Yank drew three more happy faces.
Finally, Sam had had enough. He wadded up his paper napkin and tossed it down on the table. "If we're such a joke, then why did you come back, you son of a bitch?"
For the first time, Mitch seemed to relax. A smile spread slowly over his broad, good-looking face. "Because you hooked me. You hooked me good. SysVal is all I've been able to think about since I went back to Boston. I told myself I needed a vacation. I've tried to take some time off. But nothing's worked."
Sam sat slowly upright, his expression cautious, afraid to hope. "Are you telling me—"
"I'm in." Mitch shook his head. "For better or worse, I'm in all the way."
Yank smiled. Sam let out a whoop that startled one of the waitresses so badly she dropped a pie.
"That's great! God, that's really great!"
"We have to deal first," Mitch said, holding up his hand. "I have some conditions."
Sam could barely contain his excitement. "Name them."
"I want an equal partnership with you and Yank. Each of us takes one third of SysVal. In return, I'll guarantee a $100,000 line of credit at the banks. That'll keep us away from the venture capitalists for a while." He opened a leather folder he had brought with him and pulled out a gold pen. "Yank, you have to leave Atari. The SysVal I is only a toy. Our future is locked up in that prototype you're building, and you have to commit to it full-time."
"I like Atari," Yank said. "I have this new game coming out in a couple of months."
"Are you crazy?" Sam exclaimed. "This is a hell of a lot more important than a goddamn video game."
"I don't know about that, Sam," Yank replied earnestly. "It's one heck of a good game."
Sam rolled his eyes to the ceiling and turned to Mitch. "I'll take care of him. I promise."
Mitch began to discuss contingencies, eventual strategies for venture capital, a marketing plan, but Susannah didn't hear anything more. All the muscles in her torso seemed to have contracted into tight, painful bands. At the same time, her legs were rubbery and her pulse was beating much too fast. On and on they went—their exclusive male chatter cutting her out and pushing her aside like a whore who has been well-used and is no longer wanted. She drew herself up and tried to calm her heartbeat, but her voice was unsteady. "What about me?" she said.
Sam immediately grew cautious. "Let's talk about this later."
No scenes, Susannah. Be good. Be polite
. The voices of the past whispered their earnest cautious messages. But she had learned brashness from Sam Gamble, and she pushed the voices away. "No. I think we need to talk about it now, since this concerns everyone here."
Mitch crossed his arms over his chest and looked irritated. "Another item on my list of conditions, Sam. Keep your woman troubles away from the company."
Susannah could feel her cheeks burning. Sam put all his weight on one hip and pulled Yank's car keys from his opposite pocket. "Look, Suzie. Take the car. I'll meet you at home in a couple of hours and we'll go over this."
"No!" She found herself on her feet, standing at the end of the booth and glaring down at the three of them. A pulse throbbed in her neck beneath skin as tight as a drumhead. She was dizzy and reckless with anger, uncaring of the scene she was creating for the people in the neighboring booths. "None of this is satisfactory to me, Mr. Blaine. None of it."
He waved his hand dismissively. "Miss Faulconer, I—"
"I've got the floor now, and it's my turn to talk. Sam seems to have forgotten to give you one important piece of information. If you intend to work with him, you need to know that he's quite brilliant in defining the big picture, but abysmal when it comes to details.
He should have told you that tending to the details has been my job. Like finding the money to build those first forty boards. And paying our bills. And making certain dealers took us seriously when we went to Atlantic City. The fact is, Mr. Blaine, SysVal wouldn't exist today if it weren't for me."
She looked first at Sam and then at Yank, daring them to contradict her. Sam was scowling and Yank was studying the beer pitcher. Neither of them said anything.
"Vision isn't enough to run a company, and neither is genius. A company needs somebody to do the work, somebody to see to the everyday details, somebody to get the job done. That person has been me. And if any of you—if any
one
of you—thinks he's going to cut me out now, he's grossly mistaken."
Sam looked down at the table, refusing for the first time since she had known him to meet her eyes. Only Mitch met her gaze directly. He was tough. She could see that. And his stiff, starchy exterior hid the instincts of a street fighter.
"Aren't you being a little melodramatic, Miss Faulconer? Perhaps you'd better separate your romantic difficulties from company business," His voice was silky with condescension.
She had no one to help her. Only herself. Her intelligence and her guts. If she didn't stand up to this man right now, he would gun her down and leave her for dead. "This has nothing to do with my personal relationship with Sam. You've deliberately ignored me from the beginning, but you're not going to do it again. I told you that Sam wasn't good with details, so I'm not surprised that he seems to have forgotten to discuss one of those details with you."
"And what's that?"
"SysVal already has a binding three-way partnership agreement. And I'm one of those three partners."
Sam's head shot up. She saw consternation in his face, and realized that he had actually forgotten about the piece of paper she'd thrust under his nose that afternoon before they'd gone to Atlantic City.
"We all signed it, Mr. Blaine—even though one of us seems to have forgotten." She didn't mention that the paper hadn't been witnessed, that it probably wasn't legal at all, that the socialite was once again trying to pull a hustle.
"I see."
Her voice had begun to shake ever so slightly. "I'm not just Sam's tootsie, Mr. Blaine, as you seem determined to believe. Whether you like it or not, I'm the president of SysVal."
"That title doesn't mean anything!" Sam exclaimed. "We were just using the Faulconer name on those business cards. It was your idea."
"And without my name on those business cards, we wouldn't exist today."
Sam's arm shot out across the table. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her roughly down on the seat. His eyes were hard, glittering with anger. "You're going to ruin this for us, you know that? You're going to fucking ruin everything. What difference does it make how we divide things up? If you and I get married, what difference does it make?"
The pain was so sharp, she had to close her eyes for a moment. A knife, diamond-edged and lethal, sliced through her. She wanted to buckle over and curl into a tiny ball.
Whenever she had wanted to talk about their feelings for each other—about their future together—he had evaded her. Now he was using marriage as a bargaining chip to manipulate her, as a carrot to dangle in front of her so she would do as he wished. Her body managed to feel both cold and hot at the same time. For the first time, she wondered if SysVal was worth it.
Yank spoke, apropos of nothing. "If I leave Atari, I won't have any health insurance."
His interruption gave her the chance to steady herself. Later. She would think about Sam's emotional betrayal when she was alone. For now she would force herself to separate the personal from the professional, just as men had been doing for centuries.
Like a child playing in a sandbox, she would bury every one of her feelings to be retrieved later.
Sam's fingers had loosened on her wrist. She drew away from him, then crossed her hands on the table to keep them steady. She forced herself to forget about Sam, to concentrate only on Mitchell Blaine. "You have the reputation and the experience we lack. On the other hand, we have something you need. I've studied your career, Mr.
Blaine. Sometimes you've been a bit too bold for your employers, haven't you? It must be frustrating to have some of your most innovative ideas curbed by men who are more conservative than you."
She thought she saw a flicker of surprise, and she pressed her point home. "At SysVal, you'll find the aggressive, creative climate you've been looking for—something to relieve that boredom that's been bothering you. Because of our inexperience, we don't have preconceived notions of how things have to be done. We have a chance to build a humane, progressive company from the bottom up—a company that cares about people as well as its product. The three of us would very much like to have you as a fourth partner, Mr. Blaine; however, as president of this company, I have some conditions of my own."
Sam made a small exclamation, but she ignored him. "Your offer of a $100,000 line of credit with the banks is generous, but not quite generous enough if you want an equal partnership. I handle the books, Mr. Blaine, and we're going to need double that if we want to put the self-contained computer on the market without going to the venture capitalists right away. I'd also like to see you toss in $25,000 of your own money as soon as possible to show good faith and get us out of our immediate cash bind." She turned to Yank. "Is that agreeable with you?"
Yank nodded vaguely.
"Sam?" She forced herself to look at him.
He had clamped his teeth together so tightly that a pale rim had formed around his lips.
"What the hell do you think you're doing? Mitch is holding all the cards. We're not in any position to bargain with him."
"That's not true. This is our company. As much as we may want him to be part of it, we have the final say. Isn't that correct, Mr. Blaine?"
"Up to a point, Miss Faulconer. But only to a point." His voice was soft, barely above a whisper, but it conveyed a cold authority. "Without me, you won't have a company much longer."
"Without you," she said quietly, "Sam will find someone else."
Silence fell over the table. For the first time since their confrontation had begun, Mitch had lost some of his composure. She continued to press her advantage. "Don't make the mistake of underestimating him. Sam is brash, arrogant, and lousy with details. But he has a gift. It's a gift few people have and even fewer know how to use, but he happens to be one of them. Sam has the ability to make sensible people do impossible things."
"Sensible people like you, Miss Faulconer?"
"And like you, Mr. Blaine."
For a moment he looked at her thoughtfully, and then he rose and tossed some bills down on the table. Without saying another word to any of them, he left the restaurant.
The air outside was chill. Mitch picked up his steps as he crossed the parking lot, the soles of his loafers slapping angrily on the pavement. He prided himself on his analytical mind, his ability to make decisions without being influenced by emotional overtones. But he had blown it badly in that restaurant tonight.
She wasn't anything like Louise. He couldn't imagine the woman who had gone into battle with him tonight abandoning a seven-year marriage without making any effort to confront her husband with her grievances. Despite her distant air, she was a fighter and not quite the dilettante he had imagined.
But then, maybe he was wrong. Maybe he was still so shell-shocked from his impending divorce that he couldn't judge women anymore. He slipped the key to his rental car out of his pocket and fit it in the lock. What would happen if she got her way? Would she grow bored and start looking for a new diversion?
"Mr. Blaine."
He reluctantly turned his head.
Although she was walking toward him quickly, she gave no real appearance of haste. He had noticed that about her from the beginning—the restraint in her movements, the stillness about her, the closed, cool facial expression. Those mannerisms reminded him of someone else. Louise, of course. But no, that wasn't quite right. Now that he had watched Susannah in action, he realized that she wasn't like Louise at all. She was like someone else. But who?
She stopped next to him. He drew his eyes away from her and removed the key from the door lock. "Haven't you finished raking me over the coals yet, Miss Faulconer?"
She started to speak and then stopped, no longer quite the confident woman she had been a few moments earlier. Her hesitation pleased him. He didn't enjoy finishing second place to a woman, and certainly not to one who was a neophyte.
"Just one more thing," she said. "I'd like to know why you dislike me so much. It's because of my father, isn't it?"
She was so earnest, so proper. Once again he experienced that twinge of familiarity, the nagging sense that he had met her before. "I don't like your father, but I respect him. He has nothing to do with this."
He saw that his response had thrown her off balance, and he was pleased.
"Then what? Have I done something specific? I know it can't be because of what I said tonight. You've disliked me from the beginning, haven't you?"
She was determined to press him, and he was equally determined not to put himself at any further disadvantage. He certainly wasn't going to tell her about Louise. "Do you mind if we just let this discussion go?"
She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, and he knew she hadn't finished with him.