by Maryann Reid
So that’s what this is about. “That’s true. I stay so busy, it’s tough to find time for that anymore.” Busy letting Lang have the spotlight, because if he thought I was stealing attention away from him he’d beat me senseless. Maybe I should schedule an interview soon, just to show him I’m my own woman again?
“Understandable, that’s the way it goes with the best business leaders. I’d love to interview you whenever you’ve got an hour or two to spare, though.” Walker handed Blake his business card. “Maybe write about your plans now that you’re footloose and fancy free, eh?” Again his eyes roamed Blake’s body.
“Who’s your friend, Boss?”
Blake nearly jumped out of her flats. She’d been turned facing her bodyguards all the time, but she didn’t see Suki move. Now the woman stood by Blake’s side, making no effort to hide the fact that she was memorizing every detail of Walker’s appearance.
“Stan Walker, business writer.” He held out a hand to shake. Looked Suki over, put his nose a little higher in the air, turned his attention to Blake again.
Suki ignored Walker’s hand until he let it drop. Then she inquired, with a voice that almost dripped syrup, “Did you know you literally drool when you talk to a pretty woman?”
Walker’s pale face went cherry red. “That’s a lie.”
His necktie is damp, though, Blake realized, and fought the urge to grin. “I’m sorry, Mr. Walker; Suki here is one of my bodyguards. She’s just concerned about your intentions.”
“A woman bodyguard?” If contempt could kill, Walker’s stare would have turned Suki to ashes where she stood.
Suki, for her part, looked as serene as any Buddha statue. “I get by.”
“Hmmmpf.” Walker lifted the generic tablet that he’d left lying on his ample stomach, and showed Blake a business e-zine’s interview with Lang Bertrand. “You should make some time for an interview, in my professional opinion. Your ex is out there stealing all the thunder, while you haven’t let out a single rumble.”
“I had to fire my publicist just before my divorce was finalized. Since I plan to be in New York for a while, I thought I’d wait and hire someone local, and then I’ll do some thundering of my own. Thank you, though, for your professional opinion.” Blake nodded to Suki, and they stepped toward their own seats.
“Now you’re really in luck!” Walker stood and laid a hand on Blake’s arm.
She’d barely registered his touch before Suki, eyes fixed on Walker’s, gripped his hand and lifted it off Blake’s arm. Walker’s eyes seemed to double in size.
“Don’t touch my boss.” Suki dropped Walker’s hand.
“I’m sorry. I just forgot myself for a second.” Walker looked like a rabbit cornered by a fox.
Suki raised her hands, palms up. “Just don’t let it happen again. Next time it will cost you.”
Walker turned a big-eyed gaze to Blake. “I apologize, Ms. Bertrand. I really do. I just wanted to tell you I happen to have the best publicist east of Cali. I’d be glad to write her name and phone number on the back of my business card for you.”
Dazed by the exchange between Walker and Suki, Blake had to clear her throat before she could speak again. She handed the card back to Walker and managed, with a bit of a squeak, “Sure.”
Walker pulled his fountain pen out of his shirt pocket and hastily scribbled on the back of his business card, and thrust the card back into Blake’s still-outstretched hand. “Be seeing you,” he blurted as he sat down again.
Blake settled back into her seat and tucked the card into her purse without ever looking at it. My return to New York is certainly off to an entertaining start, she reflected.
#
“And then, sweet as pie, Suki asked the dude if he knows he literally drools when he talks to a pretty woman.” Matt laughed into his smartphone. He lay sprawled on the sofa in the living room of Blake’s new East Thirty-sixth Street penthouse apartment, chatting with his girlfriend back home in Miami. “I don’t know, babe. Raised by wolves is my theory.”
Blake listened to Matt’s end of the conversation as she unpacked. She didn’t have any choice, unless she asked him to take his phone call outside the apartment. He wasn’t being offensive, and he’d be going to bed soon, so she endured feeling like an eavesdropper.
That, and an opinionated outsider. Blake wanted to urge Matt to break up with his girlfriend and find someone closer to his own age. He was only twenty-two, and his lady Miranda was thirty-eight. They were about the same ages that Blake and Lang had been when they’d married. With the wisdom of hindsight, Blake now realized that hooking up with someone significantly older herself had been disastrous. But Matt and Miranda are not me and Lang, Blake reminded herself.
She looked around the master bedroom, trying to decide what to unpack next. Essentials, such as beds, sofa, a pair of recliners, dining table and chairs, and the flat-screen television, had been set up by the moving company Edith had hired to pack and deliver some of Blake’s most valued possessions to the penthouse, after Blake signed the lease and took her trio of bodyguards out for a late lunch.
Other items, such as her father’s turntable record player and collection of vinyl albums, sat in their labeled boxes waiting for Blake to position them. Blake decided she wanted the turntable centered under the single window that filled most of one wall. She dragged its shipping box to that spot and lifted it out with the utmost of care.
“I didn’t know anyone owned those anymore.” Suki’s voice drifted from the bedroom door.
“People who are nostalgic do.” Blake hefted one of the twin speakers, almost as tall as her own five feet nine inches.
“Can I help you with that, or anything?” Without waiting for an answer, Suki hurried to Blake’s side and helped her settle the speaker in a corner. Together they extracted its mate from the shipping box and placed it in the other corner.
Next to the turntable itself Blake set up the rack she kept the vinyl albums in. One at a time, with gentle handling, Blake began stacking the albums in the rack.
Suki examined the cover art of each album as Blake pulled them from their separate shipping container, a sturdy plastic case generously stuffed with protective padding to prevent damage to the contents. “I know some of these. Jelly Roll Morton, Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, Dizzy Gillespie, the Marsalis clan. Oh, and Amy Winehouse, best female jazz singer since Ella…” Her voice trailed off.
Blake paused and studied Suki as she hadn’t before. “You’re a jazz fan?”
“I’m more into classical and Eastern, but I also like some old jazz and Latin music.”
Smiling, Blake went back to stacking albums in the rack. “My dad would really like you, if he were still alive.”
“He was a jazz composer and band leader himself, wasn’t he?”
“Yeah.” Finished with that task, Blake pressed the power button on the turntable and put a Louis Armstrong record on to play.
They both stood silent for a minute or so, simply listening to the title track that opened Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World” album. Satchmo’s raspy voice filled the room, and Blake’s eyes watered as she remembered her father singing the song to her at bedtime, in a near-flawless imitation of Armstrong’s voice.
“Why didn’t you go into music, like your father? Instead of modeling and then real estate development?”
Blake gazed out the gigantic window at the frantic activity of Manhattan, far below. “I lack the talent.” She shrugged, then added, “I can barely carry a tune when I sing, and I can’t play piano without tripping over my own fingers. What most people don’t know is, by going into real estate investment I still followed in his footsteps. He spent a few years earning money by doing that, to finance promotion of his band.”
“Really? I had no idea.” For the first time, Blake could see real emotion in Suki’s face. The woman was impressed. “He’d be proud of you, I bet.”
“For that, yes. If he agreed with my mother, though
, he would have hated my marriage to Lang.” Blake shut her eyes and savored the rest of the title track, reopening them only when that song ended and Satchmo plunged into “Cabaret.” “Not that it’s his fault, but if Dad hadn’t died my marriage to Lang never would have happened.”
They looked at each other as Blake wondered whether Suki could be trusted to respect her privacy. Suki didn’t ask for an explanation or hazard any guesses, and that alone made her different from almost everyone else Blake knew.
“My mother eventually remarried, after Dad was reported dead. It was my stepfather who got me started modeling, when I was still a little girl.” Memories tried to pry their way into Blake’s consciousness, remembrances of those terrifying first childhood excursions to New York to audition for modeling agencies. Disappointing her stepfather wasn’t an option.
A bodyguard doesn’t need to know about all that. Blake took in the view of Manhattan as she continued, “When I wanted to raise money to get into real estate investing, modeling was the only way I knew how to earn large sums of money fast. And that’s how I met Lang. Through modeling.”
Suddenly Blake felt totally drained of energy. She sat on the edge of her bed and watched the record spin round and round on the turntable. “Right here,” she whispered. “In Manhattan.”
Suki went to the door, out of Blake’s sight, then murmured a suggestion. “Get some rest, Boss. I think you’re going to need your strength.”
“Good idea.” Blake stretched out, fully clothed on top of the covers. She closed her eyes, and Satchmo’s crooning was like a lullaby as darkness enfolded her.
#
February 25
New York, New York
Blake arrived with Antonio at the law offices of Coleman, Mitchell, Gomez, & Park at half past noon, half an hour early for the Wishman Spears closing. She wasn’t surprised to discover the conference room empty when she checked in, because it was her habit to be first on the scene for every business transaction. Blake liked to scope out the site and position herself for maximum effect.
They’d barely chosen where to sit when they were joined by her friend and frequent investment partner, Thomas Mills, along with the two other real estate speculators helping Blake finance the Wishman Spears purchase. Before they sat down, Thomas hugged her and introduced her to the speculators, whom she’d heard of but never worked with before.
“Margot thanks you for asking me to be part of this,” Thomas said with a grin splitting his distinguished dark face as he settled in at the conference table.
Blake thought about that for a moment, but couldn’t guess the reason. “Why is that?”
“She’s been nagging me to take her on another vacation in New York for years. When I told her I’d be helping you buy the Wishman Spears, she immediately started packing.”
They were still sharing a laugh when Rich Kaufmunn, her Miami real estate attorney, arrived a few minutes later in the company of Susan Golden and Peter Britell, the attorneys from Venable LLP’s New York office assisting with her purchase of the Wishman Spears. “Afternoon, Blake,” Rich said as he seated himself to her right. “I hope your flight was more comfortable than mine. I swear airlines keep cramming seats closer together.”
“You don’t think it’s your expanding waistline?” she teased, prompting Golden and Britell to exchange glances.
“My wife would tell me if she had to start replacing all my pants with a larger size. She hates to shop.”
Two paralegals carried in a tray with a pitcher of ice water, pot of steaming coffee, cream, sugar, glasses, and mugs. “Can we get you anything else? We’ve got sodas, herbal teas, fruit juices. And if anyone is hungry we’ve got some cinnamon buns.”
Everyone said thanks and promised they were fine, just in time for the Wishman patriarch and his grandson to arrive and make it necessary for the pair of paralegals to repeat themselves. Blake wondered why they didn’t just post a double-sided sign in the center of the long table, listing the available refreshments. Too much like a restaurant menu, I suppose.
At precisely one o’clock in walked Ernesto Nunez and his anorexic-looking redhead paralegal, who were assisting senior partner Joe Mitchell in representing the Wishman family. Nunez greeted everyone while his slip of a paralegal handed out copies of the closing papers, so that they all could follow along.
“To review, the terms of this agreement are—” Nunez tried to begin, but Blake interrupted:
“We should wait for Mitchell.”
“I’m afraid Mr. Mitchell can’t be here.” Nunez squirmed in his seat as he continued, “But he looked everything over this morning, and he said—”
“Why can’t he be here?” Blake demanded, folding her hands together on the table and leaning toward the nervous associate.
“Something came up.” The redhead was fighting a noble battle to refrain from smirking, but it was a battle she quickly lost.
“I see.” Blake turned to Kaufmunn, Golden, and Britell. “Would someone on my legal team please get Mitchell on the phone for me?”
Kaufmunn fished his no-frills cell phone out of his jacket pocket, grinning. “You’re making this whole trip worthwhile for an old man, Blake.”
Golden and Britell swapped glances again, and the latter cleared his throat and murmured, “It’s your choice, Ms. Bertrand, but if Mitchell is satisfied that everything is in order, there shouldn’t be any jeopardy if we proceed without him.”
“True, it’s my choice. And I choose to leave no room for error.” Blake heard a woman’s voice answer Kaufmunn’s call, and he put his phone on speaker so that everyone could hear what was said.
“Good afternoon, ma’am. I’m Rich Kaufmunn, one of the attorneys representing Ms. Blake Bertrand in her acquisition of the Wishman Spears building. My client needs to speak with Joe Mitchell right away, please.”
After a moment’s hesitation, the woman’s voice replied, “Mr. Mitchell asked not to be disturbed this afternoon.”
“Has he forgotten I’m in the building?” Blake inquired. “Tell him he can get on the phone, or I can climb the damn stairs to his office, but either way he’s going to talk to me.”
“Please hold,” the woman squeaked, and put the call on hold for half a minute.
“Mitchell, here.” He sounded breathless.
“Get in here, fast, or you can explain to your clients how you cost them seven hundred million dollars today,” Blake snapped.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Bertrand, but I really—”
“You really what? Prefer to bang your paralegal instead of attending the closing?” Ignoring the gasps of Lawrence Wishman and Nunez and the snickerings of the grandson, the redhead, and Kaufmunn, Blake continued, “I’m not a fool, Mitchell. I’ve been around enough to know bedroom eyes when I see them, and that’s what you and your paralegal were giving each other the whole time I met with you yesterday. But you are lead counsel for the Wishmans. It’s your fucking job to be present for the closing, reviewing the terms and assuring your clients that they’re getting a fair deal from me. If you were my lead counsel, you’d be fired. As it is, I’ll give you ten minutes to drag your skanky ass into this conference room, or else you’re going to lose your clients a fortune. Understand?”
After a moment Mitchell blurted, “I’ll be there in a few minutes.” The dial tone rasped from Kaufmunn’s phone.
Ms. Golden was living up to her name, positively aglow with enjoyment. “Is doing business with you always this entertaining, Ms. Bertrand?”
“I hope not,” Blake answered. She reached for the coffeepot and filled a mug to half an inch below the rim, and as she added a dollop of cream, she said, “If I’m usually entertaining, I’m not being taken seriously. That’s what I expect first and foremost in business. Everyone else had better be serious about business, because I certainly am.”
“Even so,” Kaufmunn murmured to Golden, “people underestimate Ms. Bertrand just often enough to keep a real estate attorney from perishing of boredom.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.”
Six minutes after he hung up his office phone, Joe Mitchell dashed into the conference room. His hair was dripping wet and he reeked of soap. Blake scrutinized him from head to toe, shook her head, and faced Nunez.
“Now you can begin.”
Chapter Four
March 2
New York, New York
“I’m sorry, Ms. Bertrand, but I’m not accepting new clients right now.”
“Well, thank you for your time.” Blake thumbed the End Call button and put a strike through Brooklyn-based publicist Marsha Grayson’s name.
Prior to the Wishman Spears closing, Edith had compiled a list of the Northeast’s top-rated publicists and sent it to Blake via priority mail. Edith was out of town for a family emergency for the day, and it was up to Blake to get it done. Frankly, she didn’t mind, because she believed in first impressions, even over the phone. She could tell from the first few seconds of meeting most people if she’d like them, and this was no different. Blake had waited until after the weekend to start contacting them, letting business circles grow excited about her newest property and eager to learn her plans for it. She expected that, within a couple of hours of making phone calls on Monday morning, she’d have appointments with several candidates thrilled by the prospect of becoming her new publicist.
Instead, she’d now called every name and number on Edith’s list, and had made not a single appointment. Only one name was left—the one recommended by the fellow on the flight from Miami to New York. She understood that the woman was widely regarded as the best of the best, but what sort of person agrees to represent a drunken old lecher? Blake shook her head. No, Ms. Vickie Sharp, I won’t be contacting you unless I can’t find any alternative.
“But what the hell alternatives are out there?” She padded into the kitchen, thirsty after making nearly twenty phone calls in two hours.