Free Magnate by Joanna Shupe Page B

given anything to be there. Single-day stock swings of that nature were rare and a thing of beauty—as long as you weren’t on the losing end.
    â€œIt was.” He stared at her a beat. “I’m not certain I can guarantee a large return in a short amount of time. I’ll do my best, though.”
    â€œI’d like you to hold off investing it for now. Just until we see an opportunity for a large gain.” She withdrew the check out of her small purse. “Here is the money.”
    He accepted the paper and tucked it into his inner coat pocket. “So I’m just to hold on to this for now?”
    â€œYes. I’ll be in touch soon.”
    â€œI assume you’ll be asking your brother’s advice on where to invest it.”
    The implication was clear: no woman could possibly be savvy enough to understand stocks. Lizzie longed to set Robbie straight, to tell him she likely knew as much as he did, if not more. But he would learn of her skills in due time, provided he did not balk at dealing with her.
    So, for now, she would play the game. “Yes, of course,” she lied. “I plan to speak with him at my first opportunity.”
    * * *
    As he did the first Thursday of every month, Emmett Cavanaugh entered an alley off Thirty-Second Street and stepped into the busy kitchens of the Knickerbocker Club. The four men always met here, on neutral territory, where the risk of discovery was low. Not his preferred location—the blue-blooded club had once refused his membership application—but the other three had agreed on it, so Emmett went along.
    Hardly mattered where they met, as long as they continued their little cabal. This was how business ran—serious business, anyway. The men here tonight were the visionaries, with enough power and money to shape the future. And Emmett aimed to see those plans shaped to his benefit, which was the reason he never missed a meeting. Who knew what would be set in motion if he didn’t show up to protect his interests?
    The waiters and cooks ignored him as he strode along the white tiled floor, the staff too well-trained to gawk—not that Emmett would have cared either way. Once up the service stairs, he continued to the big private dining suite at the end of the hall. A waiter in a black coat and white shirt opened the paneled door for him without a word. Emmett handed over his stick, hat, and coat.
    Harper had already arrived. “Cavanaugh,” the man said, rising to shake Emmett’s hand. A financial genius, Theodore Harper was a force to be reckoned with on the exchange. His New American Bank was one of the most powerful in the world, a backer to many of Emmett’s ventures.
    â€œEvening, Harper,” Emmett said as the two of them relaxed into seats around the large, linen-covered dining table. A waiter slipped a glass onto the table in front of Emmett, his preferred drink of chilled gin, a hint of vermouth, and a twist of orange rind. A long way from the days in Ragpicker’s Row, Emmett thought, when straight gin had been like mother’s milk.
    Emmett sipped the spirits, enjoying the burn of juniper and citrus as it slid down his throat. “Where are Sloane and Cabot?”
    â€œCabot was coming into Grand Central from out west somewhere,” Harper said, referring to Calvin Cabot, the publisher of three of the country’s most powerful newspapers. Harper swirled a tumbler of bourbon whiskey. “But he cabled that he’d be here. I have no idea why Sloane’s late. He’s usually early.”
    Perhaps Sloane wasn’t coming. The man had been furious when he stormed into Emmett’s house on Saturday morning. Emmett nearly smiled at the memory. Sloane could be a sanctimonious prick, and Emmett had been on the receiving end of Sloane’s scorn more times than he could count. He’d be damned before he gave up an opportunity to annoy the elitist bastard.
    â€œHow’s Mrs.