Those figures are not available-damn! That bastard had the pat phrases down cold. In corporate jargon, he had just said, "Eat your heart out, sweetheart. I'm not saying anything more until I'm good and ready!"

Shit! It was times like this you hated being a negotiator. It was clear that the Oilers wanted those hookups and on their terms. And they'd get them. Ivan was far too confident not to be sure his offer would be beyond refusal.

The irritating part was that he had specifically chosen Fred to make his offer to. Not only did he know his offer couldn't be refused, he also knew Fred hated like the plague to give in. If Fred had his way, Oil could offer their entire North American-hell, their whole western hemisphere holdings before he sold their own men down the river.

But he followed orders just like everyone else, and if the Lord High Muckity-Mucks decided it was a good idea, he'd have to knuckle under and accept it. Ivan knew that and was doubtlessly glorying in it.

Not for the first time, Fred contemplated what Ivan's face would look like mashed to a bloody pulp. With a deep sigh he entered the conference room.

It was a spacious room, even with two dozen men in it. Fred smiled at the two groups huddled at their respective ends of the room, murmuring together and casting dark glances at their opposing numbers. He was greeted by the traditional assortment of grunts and vague waves. Really friendly bunch, this. But then again, they weren't being paid to be friendly. Like everyone else in the world of corporations they were paid for results.

The unfortunate part about being a negotiator was that no one was ever satisfied with your results. Everyone could have done better. Small wonder the rate of casualties due to nervous breakdowns and/or suicide was so high. Of those that survived, most retired young. Fred was the exception; at fifty-three, he was one of the oldest and most respected negotiators in the business.