Retreat, p.1
Retreat, page 1
RETREAT
Liv James
RETREAT
by Liv James
© 2008, 2011
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or printed without the written consent of the author.
This is a work of fiction: any resemblance to events, people, places or things, living or dead, is coincidental.
For Jim
CHAPTER 1
Clara steadied herself against the glass-and-metal door, fighting the wind that whipped up Will Rogers Boulevard. She cursed the copper key as she twisted it in the handmade lock, using all of her weight to hold the door shut.
Who made a lock out of hammered copper, anyway? Certainly not someone who had to use the damned thing.
Only an artist, she scowled as she spun the key until the lock clicked.
She belted her cherry-red rain coat around her, pulling her dark hair out from under the wide collar.
She glanced up at the graying sky, hoping the rain would hold off until she reached the restaurant. The wind had picked up considerably, swirling grit and swelling the heavy air with the threat of the storm. Within moments the first giant drops would hit the sidewalk.
She picked up her pace.
A rumble of thunder followed her into the darkened vestibule, then deadened behind the oak slab that closed with the solid, confident thud of a door that understood its purpose.
A mirror hung to her right above a row of bronze coat hooks. She nudged a dark wave of bang into place and performed a cursory make-up check before turning her attention to the well-heeled patrons and scanning the room for her friend Marcy Becker.
Clara survived Penn State a decade before with Marcy’s help, so she was thrilled to find a message on her desk that afternoon saying she was in town and wanted to meet for dinner.
Her best friend would want the dish on David before the wedding, but that conversation could wait. Clara was more interested in telling Marcy about the struggling businesses she’d uncovered here in Tulsa. With any luck she’d pique her interest enough that she’d consider becoming Clara’s partner when she opened her own firm. It’d be a hard sell, since Marcy was happy at Freedman’s in Fort Worth, but Clara thought she could convince her to come on board.
It was with this anticipation that Clara found herself greeted not by her long-time friend as expected, but by a drawl she’d spent a year trying to forget.
“That’s a hell of a ring.”
Clara met the too-familiar gaze, trying not to look as startled as she felt. Jon Griffin leaned against the dark paneling with that confident grin that she once found charming but that now seemed cavalier.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, lowering her eyes at him as he strolled toward her. She stole another glance through the crowd, hoping to spot Marcy.
“Having dinner with you,” he said, lifting her raincoat from her shoulders and draping it over his arm. She realized a moment too late how easily she’d allowed him that courtesy, as if nothing between them had changed.
“No, you’re not,” Clara said firmly. “I’m meeting Marcy.” She put a hand out to retrieve her coat, but he deftly swept it into his other arm.
“No. The meeting is with me. I asked your assistant to set it up so you’d think you were having dinner with Marcy. I figured you wouldn’t come if you knew it was with me.”
He’d figured right. She wouldn’t have come. She’d have stayed as far from the restaurant as possible, preferably holed up at home with David until she was sure Jon Griffin was on his way back to Fort Worth.
Even if, in a bout of madness, she’d agreed to go to dinner with him, she wouldn’t have picked Mangiones, where she was guaranteed to run into someone she knew. And she wouldn’t have worn her new suit, with a navy blue pencil skirt that ended just above her knees and a cranberry blouse that gave it all a splash of color. Now she’d think of him whenever she wore it, which meant she’d never be able to wear it again.
That thought alone made her want to pull back her pointed pumps and give him a good jab in the shins.
Jon watched her, poker-faced, waiting for a response.
She considered walking away, but was afraid he’d follow her outside and then she’d be alone with him, which would be even worse than standing here in the noisy vestibule where she was already finding it difficult to concentrate.
She crossed her arms and glared up into his dark eyes. “She’s not my assistant.” She left out the part that if he knew anything at all about her anymore he’d already know that. “She answers the phones for everyone. You shouldn’t have put Terry in that position.”
“She didn’t seem to mind.” He motioned toward the wooden staircase that led to the main dining room. “You’re here now. Make the most of it.”
“You shouldn’t have tricked me.”
“It worked.” The grin resurfaced. “After you.”
She didn’t want to go up those stairs – that was a fact. But more than that, she couldn’t cause a scene at Mangiones unless she wanted to hear about it for weeks from the crinkled gossips. A dinner with Jon she could stand. Weeks of explaining herself? No thanks.
She glanced around, buying time, wary of familiar faces. There were a few – mostly older – in the line forming behind her, the building pressure of which pushed her to follow Jon’s outstretched hand up the stairs. She passed close enough to catch the earthy scent of his cologne, instantly reminding her why she’d put a state between them.
She grabbed the wooden railing and kept moving without looking back.
Maureen Mangione greeted them at the top of the stairs, her crooked smile outlined in deep red lipstick. Maureen co-owned the restaurant with her husband and frequently served as the hostess.
“Where’s Mr. Carpenter tonight?” Maureen asked as she led them to a candlelit table near the back of the busy restaurant.
“He’s at home,” Clara said. Maureen had seated them the night David proposed. She felt compelled to add: “This is a business dinner.”
Maureen winked at Jon. “Perhaps you got your signals crossed?”
David was a regular customer and a good tipper so it was in Maureen’s best interest to keep an ear trained for juicy gossip or any changes in his personal life that might mean he needed extra attention.
Damn it! Clara thought. Who knew what Jon told Maureen before she arrived. He could charm the socks off a disgruntled troll with those wide shoulders and that damned grin.
Jon pulled out a cushioned chair for Clara, then took the seat across from her, watching her intently as Maureen handed them each an open menu and left the table, content for now with the dirt she’d gathered.
“You clean up nice,” Jon said, motioning toward her suit.
“What is this about?” She closed her menu. “Are you trying to get me in trouble or what?”
“Now why would going to dinner with me get you into trouble?” he drawled, his eyes dancing wickedly.
Clara pursed her lips, aware that her single statement revealed more about her state of mind than she’d intended to share. The corner of Jon’s mouth curved upward as he continued.
“I’m thinking about making a donation to Aesthetics and figured I’d get the inside scoop from an old friend.”
“Oh please. You hate art. And charity. And Oklahoma, for that matter.” She leaned forward and blew out the candle. Nothing about this was going to be romantic.
“So do you but you’re here,” he said, “raising money for that overblown arts center, right? I’ll work with you. Whatever you need. Just send Marcy an email and I’ll tell her to make it work.”
“Nice due diligence.”
“I trust their lead fundraiser,” he said. “We have … what would you call it? History.”
“Ancient history.”
“Feels fresh to me,” he said. “Let’s say we set business aside and catch up a bit.”
“That sounds like a bad idea. This has gone far enough. I can’t have dinner with you. As you pointed out I’m engaged.” She picked up her navy blue clutch from beside the preset charger and stood to leave. “You shouldn’t have come. We’re done here.”
“Clara,” he said, standing as she did. “Please stay.”
“I have nothing to say to you.” She wanted to wring his thick neck for reminding her that she still ached from the way he’d behaved that dreadful night in Fort Worth. He had to know his sudden appearance would rock her.
“That’s fine. We’ll sit here and look at each other and eat a wonderful meal. Don’t embarrass me by walking out before the wine is served.”
He towered above her, his hair a mass of short dark curls that threatened to tumble into his eyes. He smiled and she had to glance away. As she did she noticed that there were indeed familiar faces at the tables around them, and they’d turned to watch her.
“Clara,” he said.
She sat back down, tucked her hair behind her ears and leaned over to him. “Don’t ever do this to me again,” she said. “People here know who I am and who I’m engaged to. I don’t need rumors starting.”
“You have my word.”
She scowled at him as she picked up her menu. He smothered a grin and did the same.
She studied her menu and tried to pretend he wasn’t there, but it was hard to ignore him when he was sitting across from her looking handsome in his suit and interested in hers.
So much for moving on, she thought. Oh God, this was a mistake.
“So tell me about the ring,” Jon said after they’d ordered.
“I thought we were g
“Then I call mercy. I want to know about that ring.”
“Jon, enough.” She lifted her eyes momentarily to shoot him a warning glance. He was rubbing a hint of rough shadow on his chin.
He didn’t take the hint.
“Who’s the lucky guy?”
“None of your business.”
“Oh, but it is. His name is David Carpenter. He’s 42 and a day-trader at the largest brokerage house in Tulsa. He drives a black Cadillac, visits his mother once a week and has a weakness for smart, beautiful women.”
Clara opened her mouth to say something and then closed it.
“Surprised?” he asked.
“A little weirded out.”
“Don’t be.”
“Okay. Fine. You have my attention. You must have better ways to spend your time than checking up on me, or David for that matter. I haven’t seen you in forever. Why do you care? And why on earth are you here?”
“I need to make sure he knows what he’s getting into with you.”
“Oh please,” she said, rolling her eyes. “As if you have a clue. Or the right.”
“I have much more than a clue. I’m not sure he can handle that kind of excitement. He’s a decade older than you, Clara.”
“So? What does that have to do with anything?” Clara asked. “As I recall your kind of excitement doesn’t extend beyond the bedroom. When it comes to being a man in the light of day you leave a lot to be desired.”
“Clara, I …”
“David treats me well.” She held up a hand to stop him from going further. “Not that it’s any of your business. At all.”
“Does he give you everything you need?”
“Meaning?”
“You never struck me as the kind of girl who’d be happy in the passenger’s seat of a Cadillac sedan, or volunteering at an arts center where rich people pretend they’re talented.”
“Things change.”
“I don’t think you’ve changed that much.” He reached for her hand but she picked up her wine glass instead.
He frowned and sat back in his chair.
“Come on, Clara. What’s the deal? I know it’s not about his money. You’re more than capable of earning your own. So what is it? What is it about this guy that made you give up everything you set out to do?”
She considered him for a moment, surprised. He thought she’d withered away here, sold out.
“Is that what you think I’m doing? Giving up? Jon, think about it. What other possible reason could I have for compiling information about who has money to give and who just pretends they do?”
He studied her for a moment. “Due diligence.”
She hated that he looked pleased. “The light goes on. Someday, when I open my own liquidation firm this information will come in very handy.”
“So then what’s with the guy?”
“What about him? He loves me. He wants to marry me. He has a good job and a steady routine that bodes well for him not kicking me to the curb when things get hairy.”
“That’s what you think I did?”
“That’s what I know you did,” she said, giving him a hard look.
Jon searched her light eyes, trying to decide whether to go there or not. He finished his wine and motioned for the waitress to bring him more.
“So does Carpenter know what you’re up to? Scoping out his friends to see who you can take down?”
“They’re not his friends and it’s not his business.” She shrugged, trying to appear more confident than she felt. “Besides, the ones who are struggling will think I’m doing them a favor when I relieve them of their corporate burdens. It’s all about the process.”
“And what about your so-called engagement?” Jon said coolly. “How does that fit into the process?”
“It’s not so-called. It’s real.” She flashed her substantial ring at him. “And, as you pointed out, David works for a brokerage firm and he’s done well. When the time is right I don’t think I’ll have trouble convincing him to throw in some start-up capital.”
“Do you love him?”
“He loves me.” She shifted in her chair. “And trust me, he’s not going anywhere.”
“That’s not what I asked. And, for the record, I don’t think you know this guy as well as you think you do.”
“I know he’d be less than thrilled to find out I’m here with you.”
“Less than thrilled? So you told him about me, then.”
“Of course not. That would mean you mattered to me in some way.” She hoped her words stung. A few verbal jabs might make this night worthwhile after all.
“Then what will he care?”
“Do you know what you are?” The anger that stewed for the past year bubbled into her words. “You, you …” she tried to form the thought as he raised his eyebrows at her. She got it and threw her hands up, no longer concerned with who was watching them.
“What?”
She pointed an accusing finger at him. “You’re Tequila Thursday.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Ask Marcy. She’ll remember and I bet she’ll agree with me.”
“You’re comparing me to a drinking game?”
“It wasn’t a game. Marcy and I went to this bar near campus that served gigantic margaritas. It’d be playful at first but inevitably we’d progress to lick it, slam it, suck it with straight shots of Cuervo.”
“Lick it, slam it, suck it?”
“The next thing you know you’re waking up with a wicked hangover wondering where you left your underwear and swearing, swearing, you’ll never do it again.”
He laughed. “You’re losing me.”
She sounded ridiculous but she didn’t care. It was the best analogy she could come up with and she wasn’t letting him off the hook. “I’ve sworn off your kind of hangover, Jon. You bring out the worst in me. You’re Tequila Thursday in human form.”
“And Carpenter?”
“Isn’t.”
“Don’t marry him.”
“How dare you? How dare you come here after the way you treated me and …”
“Don’t,” he said, the laughter gone from his eyes. “Damn it, it’s not right. I’m telling you.”
“I can’t believe this.”
“Look, I can’t let you make this mistake.”
“How could you possibly know it’s a mistake? And isn’t it my mistake to make?”
“Because he won’t be a good father.”
Clara sat back in her chair as if he’d punched her.
“Clara?”
She hesitated.
“What makes you think I want to have kids?”
“Don’t you?”
She felt her cheeks flare, her heart stutter.
“Well?”
“Eventually …maybe …,” she admitted. Oh this was not something she wanted to talk with Jon about. If there was one way to lose her edge it was to talk babies with Jon Griffin. She needed her head in the game, not swirling on images of what their babies could look like, with Jon’s curls and her fair skin.
“Well, he’d suck as a father,” Jon was saying. “He’d never be there.”
“How do you know?” Clara slid back to the moment. “You don’t even know him. He’s really a solid …”
“Because he already has two kids he doesn’t take care of.”
His words hung in the air. Clara crossed her arms and glared at him.
“You don’t believe me?” Jon asked, genuinely surprised.
“No,” she said, shaking her head confidently. “No I don’t. If David had kids I’d know about them.”
“Would you?”
“We’re engaged. I think I’d know if my fiancé had children!”
Jon reached into the inside pocket of his black suit coat and pulled out a wallet-size photograph. He slid it over to her.
Clara went still.
It was definitely David with his sandy hair and hazel eyes, with a tall, attractive woman and two toddlers.
“David Carpenter, his wife, Sally, and their two children, Dallas and MaryJo. This photo was taken two years ago.”
“This can’t be right,” she said, even though she knew Jon’s surveillance was never wrong. He’d proved that to her again and again when she worked with him at Freedman’s in Fort Worth. There was a reason the takeover attempts he structured never failed. He knew all the cards going in, and then dealt an expert hand.
