Excerpt

ONE

Amelia Carlson's office was large and the wide window overlooking Halifax Harbor kept it well-lit in spite of the traditional dark woods of the paneling and furniture.

Nothing in the room screamed money, but everything said it quietly, well aware—given the quality of the furnishings—that shouting wasn't necessary to make the point.

All right, Algoma Hill, the Lauren Harris painting hanging across from her desk, screamed money but only because the price paid during the Sotheby's auction, while unfortunately not a record, had been high enough to make the front page of even the American papers. She'd purchased it anonymously, of course, but the people it had been bought to impress recognized it and exhibited the expected sticker shock. So much easier to attract investors when her personal salary allowed her to purchase a painting by one of the Group of Seven.

And they said that when her father died, the company had died with him. She may have been a competent Vice President of Exploration and Development, but they didn't hesitate to announce that a fort…thirty-six-year-old woman with a twent…fifteen-year-old engineering degree couldn't run the second largest oil company in the Maritimes. She wasn't a member of the old boys' club and she wasn't a hot, young Ph.D. who'd picked up an MBA on the way to a petrochemical doctorate. Worst of all, at least to those running the largest oil company in the Maritimes, she had no extended family to help her. They said she'd run the company into the ground in two, three years at the most. Several of them had offered to take the company off her hands.

A year later, a year of betting everything on one roll of the dice, and she was on the verge of gaining the rights to one of the biggest fields in the North Atlantic. After that debacle in the Gulf, no one else had the balls to try for it, to spend three hundred and sixty-five days quietly working behind the scenes convincing the decision makers to make the right decision. And they all had. The moment the Minister of the Environment stopped faffing about, appearing to weigh the potential of spilled oil against jobs and tax income, and issued the drilling permit, the barges would be out of Sydney Harbor so fast they'd look like jet skis.

Granted, even given near guarantees of five hundred million barrels accessible of a three billion barrel potential by the best geophysicists in the business, there was no oil at all until drilling replaced science. Which was why the drilling platform had to be in place as soon as possible. Once they started production, they'd quickly surpass Hibernia's fifty thousand barrels a day.

The board of directors had given her until the end of the year to get the permit. She'd been promised it by the end of the summer.

They could shove their sexist, patronizing, dumbass…

When the door opened, she raised her head, her expression neutral, and met the worried gaze of Paul Belleveau, her executive assistant.

"It's happened," he said, "just like she told you it would. The Ministry of the Environment is being pressured by Two Seventy-five N, the same Hay Island group that stopped the seal hunt."

"Nice to have so much free time," she muttered. Two Seventy-five N were a group of crazy environmentalists run by an old Cape Breton family. The name referred to life jacket buoyancy. Measured in newtons, one newton equaling one kilogram of flotation, a two seventy-five newton life jacket was intended for extreme conditions. Amelia admitted it was a clever name and despised the anti-development, anti-growth rhetoric the group clung to. Until recently, she'd believed the group's successes could be laid at the door of deep pockets and an under-employed membership with time to meddle, but new information had revealed they were so much more.

"We're front page in the Herald," Paul continued. "There's articles in both the Globe and the Post, and their objection to the well was the lead on Canada AM's business report. Mr. Conway isn't returning my calls, but his aide…"

"The chatty one?"

"Yes. He says that the minister is talking about a class two environmental assessment or even asking for a Royal Commission on offshore drilling, so he doesn't actually have to make a decision."

Royal Commissions could take years and were the traditional way politicians avoided handling hot topics while still looking like they gave a shit. With the investment Carlson Oil had already made in this well, they'd never survive the delay. She could feel the edges of her very expensive manicure cutting half moons into the equally expensive wood of the desk.

"Rallies and protests against the drilling are in the planning stages," Paul finished, "although reports from the legislature say Mr. Peterson has already added us to his inventory."

Gandalf Peterson—he'd had his name legally changed—sat in front of the provincial legislature Monday to Friday, eight thirty to five thirty, protesting the Sable Island wells with a rotating series of sandwich boards. He was out there rain or shine, whether the legislature was in session or not, reasonably well-behaved unless he recognized one of the industry players; then all bets were off. One of the most recognizable, Amelia made it a point to walk directly past him whenever she had to enter the building, accepting his vitriol as evidence of a job well done.

"All right." She took a deep breath and forced her fingers to release their hold on the edge of her desk. "She told us what was going to happen and she was right about everything up to and including Mr. Peterson. That leads me to believe her when she tells us she can fix things in our favor."

"Ms. Carlson…"

"You don't believe her?"

"Believe her?" Paul shook his head. "I'm not sure I believe in her. Or them. Or any of this."

"Any of this?" Had the Botox allowed her to arch a brow, she would have. "And yet, you still cash your paycheck."

"I believe in you."

"I'm pleased to hear that." When he smiled, Amelia took a moment to admire the effect. While undeniably gorgeous, with the shaved head and neat goatee she felt only black men could successfully pull off, Paul's good looks were surpassed by his skill at the job which was surpassed in turn by his extreme discretion. He'd been with her just over two years, cut from the herd of brand new MBAs the company employed, and she didn't know what she'd do without him.

Beyond the obvious: work twice as hard and get half as much done.

"All right," she said again, although it wasn't. "She's proven her point. Turn her loose."