Loved Me Once (Love, Romance and Business)

by Gail Hewitt

  "Let's hope that's that," Tom said, totally serious for once, and it was only then that Maggie realized he'd become genuinely worried about the turn that Wells' calls had taken. "I'm sorry you've had to go through this. I can't believe we had this kind of nut case working here."

  "It's O.K. I'm just glad I can get back to work and focus on the Monday presentation."

  Tom shook his head. "Take a break to celebrate the end of this thing. I've got reservations for lunch at the Chef 's Table at Le Bernardin."

  "Tom, I can't," Maggie pleaded. "I've just got to finish the presentation. If I go out, it'll be hours before I get back."

  "What if I told you it's an order?" he asked lightly.

  "I'd ask you to rescind it," she spoke just as lightly. "Seriously, I'd rather go to Le Bernardin — who wouldn't? — but can't I have a rain check? I couldn't enjoy myself, not today."

  "These reservations are almost impossible to get," Tom told her, now frowning a little.

  "Please?"

  He made a gesture of capitulation and grinned, and the tense moment passed. "I don't know what we're going to do with you," he said. "Just be sure to have Tami at least get you a pizza. You can't exist on work alone. And you're to continue to stay with Aunt Martha until all this is cleared up. She insists. Promise?"

  "I promise, and – seriously, Tom – I appreciate it."

  He gave her an odd look, and she remembered his objection to her habitual use of the phrase.

  "Well, I do appreciate it," she told him, grinning, and had the satisfaction of eliciting a smile in return.

  After he left and Tami, resummoned to guard duty until Wells was safely in hand, ordered a pizza, Maggie sat for a moment, thinking that it would have been fun to eat at the Chef 's Table at probably the best restaurant in New York. It would possibly have been an incredible experience, the kind of impossible thing that Tom's money and position made easy. She might never have that chance again, but the presentation had to go well. This job was the solution to too many problems to take any chance that it would not last. Tom did not understand that. He would never understand that. She thought, however, that she understood him. He liked thinking about the old days, and at this moment in time that was what she represented to him. He would keep dangling interesting experiences in front of her because he liked having someone around who shared memories of a meaningful time in his life, who could appreciate how far he'd come.

  And wasn't that exactly what Miles had said he would do? But Miles had been wrong as to Tom's intentions, she told herself. Common sense demanded that Miles had been wrong. What had happened between her and Tom had occurred a lifetime ago. Neither of them wanted to recreate it. To claim that Tom's offer of lunch had anything to do with romance put much too high a premium on her charms, she thought. It was just that it was Christmas week and Tom was remembering that other Christmas, revisiting a time that had mattered more to him than she'd realized.

  After lunch, as she was inputting at her usual breakneck speed, the notification popup indicated an email from Susan Broad. She hesitated. Perhaps she should simply delete it, unread. Then she noticed that it contained a link. Clicking onto it, she saw that the link was to a YouTube clip of Miles and the French supermodel at yet another dance. This one was a featured video. It required a definite effort to back out of the site and leave the link for later. She'd look at it once she was done for the day, she decided. For now, nothing could interrupt the momentum she'd developed, not even Miles. And, truth be told, until she'd actually seen the clip, she didn't have to acknowledge to herself what it might show.

  It was almost seven when she told Tami she was ready to return next door. She'd worked so intensively that the back of her head felt numb. When Tami knocked and opened the connecting door, she walked into Mrs. Evans' apricot-toned sitting room to find a tuxedoed Tom saying goodnight to his aunt. It was the first time she'd seen him in a tux, and he looked almost impossibly handsome, like a Hollywood leading man of the 1930s.

  Tom nodded to her, "Maggie, you missed an amazing experience this afternoon at the Chef's Table. I'll tell you about it later." Then he returned his attention to his aunt. "I don't know why you call her 'the dreadful Miss Owens,' Aunt Martha . . . "

  "Because she is," Mrs. Evans snapped. "She's after something, you wait and see."

  "She has her own money," Tom pointed out.

  "Yes, from two earlier husbands," Mrs. Evans said acerbically. "She may be looking for a third to replenish her coffers. You watch yourself."

  Tom laughed, winked at Maggie, and left.

  "That's why he needs a good sensible woman, a nice woman," Mrs. Evans said, frowning. "A nice woman will look after him."

  "You make him sound like a baby who needs protection," Maggie laughed. "He strikes me as someone who can take care of himself."

  "It's always the ones who think they're the toughest who get into trouble," Mrs. Evans said grimly. "One of these days, he'll be in a weak mood and someone like this one — some fortune hunter or publicity seeker — will walk through the right door at the right time and trick him into marriage for her own ends."

  She turned and fixed Maggie with a gimlet eye. "How do you really feel about him, my dear?"

  "Brotherly, I guess," Maggie told her. "That's what he and I agreed we are probably like to each other — bratty siblings. So I guess I see him as a big, bossy brother."

  "Brother?" Mrs. Evans was indignant. "That's a horrible thing to say, given that the way in which he looks at you is anything but familial."

  "I haven't noticed him looking at me any special way, Mrs. Evans," Maggie protested. "I'm flattered that you think he does, of course. Any woman would be."

  Mrs. Evans looked at her shrewdly. "So you honestly think he sees you as a sister? Amazing. And do please call me Martha, even Aunt Martha if you prefer. From what Tom tells me, we're going to be housemates for at least a few days longer, and I feel like the housekeeper in an English murder mystery when you call me Mrs. Evans."

  Sari had set out a cold meal upstairs in the library. "I thought we could just nibble on sandwiches while we watch a movie," Martha told Maggie. "The DVD player hates me, but Tom says that all we have to do is to hit play because he's already put in a movie we should like."

  Maggie picked up the box by the large monitor. "The Golden Compass — I've read the reviews. The special effects are marvelous."

  "According to Tom, it's the story of a girl with great courage who goes on a magical journey." She looked at Maggie perceptively. "Perhaps, subconsciously, he was thinking of you, my dear."

  Suddenly, Maggie did not think she could endure an evening of Tom's aunt delivering probing questions and attempting to manufacture a relationship where there was none. She especially was not in a mood to monitor every syllable that crossed her lips in case anything might be repeated to Tom and misinterpreted. No comment could be casual because, in spite of all the little courtesies and treats, Tom was first and foremost her boss. Suddenly, all she wanted to do was sleep.

  "You know, Mrs. Evans — Martha, I'm exhausted. My head is actually swimming. Could I take a rain check on the movie? I think I just want to go to bed."

  "Of course, you poor child. You do what you must, and if you need anything, all you have to do is to let Sari know. And I'm going to tell Tom he's overworking you."

  "Please don't, Martha," Maggie said. "I'm fine, but it was a long day. I'm just suddenly ready to close my eyes and go to sleep."

  Back in her room, Maggie showered and changed into pjs. She lay down on the bed with her pad and a pen, intending to note a couple of things that had occurred to her about the Monday presentation, but she couldn't focus on work. For once, her personal life prevented her usual efficiency, but tonight it wasn't Tom and his aunt who were interfering with her concentration, but rather Miles. She'd avoided looking at the YouTube video all afternoon. Now she could resist no more. She went to the desk and opened the laptop. Susan Broad's covering memo said only "Thought you'd enjo
y this." The name of the video link was "The Perfect Couple" and Maggie quickly saw the reason for the title.

  The venue was a Christmas Eve costume party to which Miles had evidently taken Aimée Girard. He was dressed as Fred Astaire, with Aimée as Ginger Rogers. The video — brief, unedited, amateurish in quality and probably taken with a phone or pocket camera — was no more than one long, continuous shot of Miles in tails and Aimée in a red feathered gown, moving across a dance floor as an admiring crowd watched their gliding, swooping turns. It couldn't have been simpler in its breathtaking loveliness, just a glimpse of grace and seamless perfection with neither of them putting a foot wrong, the dance ending with Miles pulling the leggy blonde to him and gently kissing her forehead.

  Tears came into Maggie's eyes. She did not think she could bear it. She walked around the room for a minute or two, hugging her pain, wishing she'd never paid any more attention to Miles Brewster than to any of the others who'd hung around over the years. Why had she let down her guard with Miles? The only consolation, she told herself, tears running down her cheeks, was that she could make sure that it would not happen again. From this time forward, she would be totally about the work. Tom had given her the chance of a lifetime, and she was going to take it.

  Drying her eyes, she returned to the desk where the laptop sat, determined to focus on her presentation. She was about to click out of Safari when she realized that the Christmas Eve dance with the supermodel was by no means the only YouTube video featuring Miles, who evidently served as the public face of the family business on many occasions. She read down the list. Some of the videos were short, less than a minute. Others were several minutes long. One by one, she clicked on the titles, beginning with the most recent. There was Miles, looking very businesslike, on MSNBC being interviewed about energy credits. There was Miles testifying on the same topic before a House Energy Committee. There were Miles, his mother, his sister, and his brother cutting the ribbon of a new library wing that they'd underwritten, Miles sailing in a charity regatta, Miles with a British model at a London premiere, Miles posing with a student who'd won a scholarship sponsored by his family, Miles at a gallery opening with an American model, Miles working on a Habitat for Humanity house in New Orleans after Katrina, Miles crossing the finish line of the Boston Marathon. The oldest of the videos probably dated to five years before. This was a side of Miles she hadn't seen. He'd never mentioned any of this to her, not even the fact that he'd run the Marathon at least once, which would have figured prominently in the conversation of the typical male. Still, now that she thought about it, their conversations had been mostly about her and her company and the scene immediately before them.

  Had she really been that oblivious to Miles? Like someone unable to resist probing an aching tooth, she clicked PLAY and watched the "Perfect Couple" video once again. The camera loved Miles. She loved Miles. She didn't understand how she could have been so wrong about him at every stage of their relationship. Now, here he was, practically melded together with this impossibly beautiful, graceful girl – for she was just a girl.

  Not that she cared what Miles chose to do, she told herself, or the females with whom he chose to do it. There was no point. He'd evidently walked away without a backward glance. If he could blow her off that easily, she'd just have to adjust, and quickly, to feeling the same way about him.

  Still, something about this just didn't seem like Miles. It was only ten days ago that he'd staged that dramatic confrontation in the private dining room at Lake View, only ten days ago that they'd had that first incredible night together in his suite, only eight days ago that they'd last been together, which meant only eight days since they'd argued and he'd essentially told her it was his way or no way, that he was ready to cut his losses, and she'd returned his great-grandmother's ring and walked out. Had she really been no more than a target of opportunity, and everything he'd done no more than a ploy? She didn't buy that. She still could hear the things he'd said, the things she'd said, still feel thrills up and down her spine as she thought of what they'd done together. He'd felt the same way. She was sure of it.

  This was different than when she'd been with Tom. She was now no innocent girl but an experienced woman with well-developed radar for game-playing men. Miles hadn't been faking any more than had she. And she felt instinctively he wasn't shallow enough for warp-speed bedhopping. This whole French supermodel thing just didn't scan. She watched the video again. Still, there the evidence was, before her. Maybe she was just deluding herself that what had happened at Lake View had meant the same thing to him that it had to her. Had any of it been true? Or had he just caught her when she was vulnerable and figured out what he needed to say to get whatever it was that he wanted before moving on?

  Would she ever know? Possibly not, she conceded. Of one thing, however, she was now totally sure. It was not going to be easy to stop thinking about Miles. It might have taken him a while, but he'd planted an image of himself squarely in her consciousness that wasn't about to let go without a fight, which was ironic since Miles himself seemed to have left the field.

  Command Performance

  The long Christmas weekend gave Maggie the opportunity to work in her office in peace, the only reminder of the outside world the presence of Tami Lane, the security detail who seemed — on Tom's orders — to have taken up semipermanent residence outside her door. When, at noon on Sunday, her phone rang for the first time in almost two days, she was rereading a section of her presentation with which she was not satisfied. Tami stuck her head in the door in case the call was from the still-missing Heather Thomas. It was, however, Tom's assistant Alysha Harding. "Miss McLaurin? Mr. Scott wants you to meet him in his office at 9 p.m. for a run-through of your presentation. He said that he has a dinner first and may be a couple of minutes late, but to wait for him. He said to bring three alternative clothing outfits and also to invite his aunt to join you, as he wants her opinion about the clothes."

  "I'll be there," Maggie answered, vaguely irritated. Alysha's tone was as professionally friendly as ever, but the essence of the message was peremptory to the point of insult. Tom wanting to review the presentation she understood and even appreciated, but Tom reviewing her clothes? Further, he wanted his aunt to join him in the process? Maggie liked Martha Evans, but the older woman's clothes sense had made no particular impression in the days she had spent as her guest. After Maggie hung up, she thought about the call. There was no point in allowing the message to affect her focus. Instead, why not use the clues it contained to make the process easier? After all, she didn't care what she wore. Clothes had never been a personal preoccupation for her, just another of the tools one used in business or a clue to the nature of the person with whom one was working. She picked up the phone again.

  "Hi, Martha? It's Maggie. You know that presentation I'm making tomorrow for the TTI team? I just got a message from Tom's assistant that he wants me to meet him at nine tonight in his office to review it, and he wants your opinion about what I should wear. Can you come? Terrific. He's told me to bring three alternate outfits. Can I come over and talk to you a few minutes about what kind of clothes you think I should take?"

  Tami Lane took up residence in the Evans' kitchen while Maggie rode the elevator upstairs to the library. There, she found Martha before the fire, Tommy Cat in her lap, the Kindle at her elbow on the side table.

  "I really appreciate your help with this," Maggie told her, leaning over to pet the big ginger cat, who rewarded her with a loud purr. "I didn't realize that you involved yourself in TTI or I'd have asked you already."

  "My only involvement is that I hosted a couple of the luncheons that Tom gave the TTI people a few months ago. There are some pictures here somewhere." Martha put Tommy Cat in the chair and went to a bookcase full of photograph albums, which Maggie realized were labeled by year. Opening the current year's, Martha flipped back almost to the beginning of the album and handed the open book to Maggie. "This was the first event."


  Maggie studied the half-dozen-or-so photographs. Martha wore a conservatively attractive pant suit. Tom was in a leather jacket, jeans and his signature cowboy boots. The guests, both the men and women, were wearing business suits, nice but nothing special. Martha flipped a few pages further. "This is the second occasion," she said. In this set of photographs, Martha was still in a pant suit, Tom wore an extremely well-cut suit, almost certainly custom-made, and the others looked more sharply dressed than they had at the earlier luncheon. Maggie lifted her eyebrows.

  "Tom had a stylist work with each of them," Martha explained.

  "That's interesting," Maggie said thoughtfully. "I wonder why?"

  "All he told me was that if you were doing something extraordinary, you should look the part. I've always thought it had to do with that woman he was seeing at the time, a very social type from San Francisco. She probably made some comment about how boring everyone looked in these first pictures, and recommended a stylist. That's the sort of thing Tom is very alert to, any hint that something isn't quite good enough."

  "I gather the style maven is no longer around?"

  "She lasted about as long as they usually do. After that, Tom lost interest in how everyone dressed."

  "Then I wonder why . . . " Maggie began.

  "I said Tom lost interest," Martha laughed. "I gather from something he said after the last TTI meeting that the others have upped the stakes. He probably wants to be sure you fit in from the first second you appear."

  "So you're saying I should look at designer suits?" Maggie asked doubtfully. She hadn't had a designer suit in years. Martha thought about it. "Well, I think something from your closet would probably work as long as . . . "

  Maggie shook her head. "In my job at WHT, I wore conservative pant suits all the time, which Tom has made very clear he doesn't want me to wear here. He said they make me look like an auditor. What I've been wearing the last few days is my casual wardrobe. In order for me to bring three alternative outfits that resemble anything like this," she tapped a photograph of the two female TTI team members, "I've got to buy something – unless you think I can get away with variants of this."