by Kara Lennox
Suddenly he didn’t want to let her go. Why had she torn up the contract? It made no sense. Unless…
“Would you open the damn door?” she shouted through her open window.
He walked to the button and pushed it. The garage door roared open. The reporters had moved, but only as far as the street. They were still waiting for him like a pack of coyotes.
“Sydney, wait,” he called to her. “Maybe we need to talk.”
“You did enough talking for both of us,” she yelled out the window, backing out like a contender in the demolition derby. “You already have all the answers. Hope your self-righteousness keeps you warm at night.” Her window slid up and she hit the gas and flew down the driveway, gravel flying.
No, no, this wasn’t right. Was it some new game she was playing? Why had she torn up the contract? But he didn’t get the opportunity to find out, because she was heading down the driveway like a greased bullet. A couple of the media types tried to stop her, but they had to jump out of her way to avoid being run over because she wasn’t stopping for anything.
Russ was left standing in his garage with a ripped-up contract, staring after her, wondering who’d been driving the freight train that had just wrecked his life. He suspected it might be himself.
Chapter Fifteen
Sydney found her way to the main highway only by chance. She was so upset, so furious, she couldn’t think straight, couldn’t remember the twists and turns they’d taken last night to reach Russ’s house. And even if she’d remembered the way, her eyes were so full of tears she couldn’t read the street signs.
But instinct must have guided her, because she blundered onto Highway 350, which she knew would take her to Austin.
With one unfounded accusation, Russ had yanked off the wings she’d been soaring with, causing her to crash with a pain much worse than a sprained ankle. Had those days they spent together meant nothing to him? She’d have trusted him with her life and she had trusted him with feelings and secrets she’d never confessed to anyone.
Apparently he hadn’t felt the same about her, because he didn’t give it two seconds’ thought. He’d seen those cameras and immediately assumed the woman he’d held in his arms all night long was a greedy liar with no conscience.
She had no idea how the media had found out about the story, but it sure as hell hadn’t come from her.
She cried all the way to Austin, though she didn’t want to waste tears on someone who obviously thought so little of her, she couldn’t seem to stop. She’d been so happy. For the first time since her mother’s death she’d been hopeful about the future—her father’s and her own.
When she pulled into her aunt Carol’s covered parking space at her retirement villa, she used the visor mirror to try to repair the damage caused by her crying. But as soon as Aunt Carol opened the door to her apartment, she knew something was wrong.
“What in the world happened?” Carol said as she greeted Sydney with a warm hug that smelled of Cashmere Bouquet bath powder. The scent was comforting, almost maternal. Carol wore one of her signature silk pantsuits—she had them in every color under the sun—her makeup perfect, her bright red hair salon fresh.
“It’s a man, of course,” Sydney said. “What else?” Aunt Carol was twice divorced, so that was a sentiment she could relate to.
“Ooooh, men. It’s too bad we need them to procreate, otherwise I’d say let’s do away with the entire gender. Come in and tell me about it, sweetheart. I’ll fix you some hot tea and toast with marmalade.”
Sydney smiled. Carol had been offering her special brand of comfort for as long as Sydney could remember. Though they didn’t see each other more than once or twice a year, Aunt Carol, herself childless, had always made her only niece feel special.
“I really need to get to the airport,” Sydney said. “I’ve got a flight out at ten-thirty-something.”
“I’ll drive you,” Carol offered. “You can tell me about it on the way.”
Sydney didn’t really want to talk about this yet. It was too raw, like a freshly skinned knee. But Aunt Carol insisted, so she told the whole story, beginning to end.
“If you didn’t alert the media, who did?” Carol asked.
Sydney shook her head. “Unless some other investigator was following my tracks. You don’t suppose Dad…”
“No, I talked to him this morning. He doesn’t know anything.”
“He will—probably by the time I get back to New York he’ll have heard. And I’ll have to confess to him that I tore up the contract.”
Carol clicked her tongue. “You shouldn’t have done that. A million dollars could make up for a lot of heartbreak.” Carol would know, since both of her ex-husbands had left her pretty well-set.
“I couldn’t have Russ Klein believing I would sell him out like that!”
“Do you think your gesture did the job? Do you think he believes you didn’t sic the reporters on him?”
“I don’t know. And I don’t care. He could crawl back to me on hands and knees begging forgiveness, and I wouldn’t even consider it. Who wants a man who would jump to conclusions based on such flimsy evidence?”
“What else was he supposed to think?”
That stopped Sydney cold. “You’re taking his side?”
“Granted, he shouldn’t have accused you without giving you a chance to explain or plead your case, but—”
“I can’t believe you think he has a leg to stand on! He was horrid.”
“Men are horrid in general,” Carol agreed. “Anyone who claims women are the emotional ones have never seen a man jumping to conclusions and defending his reasons for doing so. But sooner or later he’s going to realize he made a mistake. Then you’ll know whether he has real character or not. If he can admit he was wrong, if he can apologize, if he can learn from his mistakes, he might be worth a second look.”
“Hmph,” Sydney sniffed. “Not in a million years. He had his chance. We had real potential and he blew it.”
“He’s only known you a few days. Mind-blowing sex is a great start, but it’s hard to trust someone you’ve known such a short time, especially in the face of damning evidence.”
“Forget it. It’s over. I’m going to confess everything to Dad, then we’re going to file for bankruptcy and I’ll pick up the pieces.” Somehow.
“I’ll say one more thing, than I’ll shut up.”
“Okay, what?”
“Don’t be too hasty.”
“I’m not the one who was hasty.”
RUSS HAD TO GO INTO THE STORE. Bert had been kind enough to cover for him the past couple of days, but today a party of six were coming in to get outfitted for a hunting trip. Russ didn’t sell guns, but he sold just about everything else and he needed to be there when his customers arrived.
Most of the reporters had gone away by nine o’clock, when Russ was ready to leave his house, but one enterprising young man remained. Russ stopped at the end of his driveway and rolled down the window, reassured by the fact that no cameras were visible.
“Mr. Klein? I’m Dewey Thompson from the Austin—”
“Just hold your horses,” Russ interrupted him. “I’m saying one thing and one thing only to the press, so get it right, okay?”
“Um, okay,” the reporter said uncertainly.
“I am not a millionaire and I have no intention of becoming one.”
“But…but, Mr. Klein—”
Russ rolled up his window and headed into town. He parked down the street from the general store, then turned the collar up on his jacket and pulled down his hat as he made his way down the alley to the store’s back door.
Bert met him almost before he got the door open. “What in tarnation is going on? I got reporters settin’ on the sidewalk out front just lickin’ their lips waiting for nine-thirty so I’ll open the doors. I told ’em you weren’t here, but they don’t care. Apparently they want to come in and take pictures of your store, with or without you. Is it true? Did you real
ly inherit ten million dollars?”
This was nuts. He wouldn’t have been surprised if one or two reporters had been interested in interviewing him. It’s not every day a long-lost heir finds out his estranged father left him ten million dollars and Sammy Oberlin had been a minor celebrity, at least in certain circles. But the media attention was way out of proportion, the type of frenzy reserved for rock stars, NFL quarterbacks and Tom Cruise.
“I could inherit the money,” Russ said as he closed and locked the back door behind him, “but I’m choosing not to. I don’t want to be rich.”
“Boy, are you touched in the head?”
“I got my reasons.”
“This has something to do with the city girl, I’ll bet. I knew she was trouble the minute I laid eyes on her.”
“Yeah, me, too.” Thinking about Sydney made his heart ache, and he couldn’t escape the suspicion that things weren’t exactly as they seemed.
What was he going to do? He couldn’t conduct business with reporters camped out on the sidewalk or prowling his store. Telling them they were mistaken would just fuel the fire. They could do their own research and verify he was Sammy Oberlin’s son. If he told them he wasn’t accepting the money, it would become an even bigger story.
And Winnie. Dear God, he had to talk to his mother before she saw all the cameras. Staying concealed in the back storage room, Russ took out his cell phone to call his mother. Maybe he could arrange to meet her someplace away from prying eyes, where he could break the news to her gently.
He already had three messages. He ran through them quickly, praying one would be from Sydney, but all three were from Winnie, wanting to know why he wouldn’t answer his phone. He started to call her back when he heard the front door open.
Winnie. It had to be. She was the only other person who had a key besides Bert and Russ himself.
“Russ? Yoo-hoo, sweetie, are you here? I saw your car parked down the street.”
Russ emerged from the storeroom and Winnie trotted across the wood floor in her high heels, her arms outstretched. “I can’t believe you kept this all a secret from me!”
Russ allowed himself to be swallowed by his mother’s exuberant hug. He hugged her back; this might be the last time she hugged him for a while. Winnie was generous with her affection, but she had a powerful temper and when she was mad at him she would sometimes refuse to talk to him for days.
“This just blows my mind,” Winnie said as she released him. “Sammy hardly ever even looked at you. He must have found a conscience in his old age, ’cause he sure as heck didn’t have one when I knew him.”
“Mom, we have to talk.”
“We will, honey, we will. But those reporters are the ones you ought to talk to right now. You’ve got to get used to being in the public eye, ’cause you’re going to be an important man.” She giggled like a schoolgirl. “My son, the multimillionaire.”
“No, Mom, you don’t have all the—”
“You’ll look handsome on TV.” She straightened his collar and then spit on her hand to smooth down his hair like she’d done when he was a little boy.
“I’m not talking to the reporters and that’s final. And you shouldn’t talk to them, either.”
“Why in heaven’s name not? They seem like nice enough fellas.” Winnie strolled to the coffeepot and poured herself a cup. As usual, when she had an idea in her head, she didn’t listen to anyone. “The first thing I’m going to buy is a new coat. I know it’s hardly ever cold enough down here to wear fur, but I sure could have used one these last few days. Which do you think is better, mink or chinchilla? Or maybe fox?”
“None of the above. Mom—”
“Oh, that’s right, you like all the furry little critters. And what do men know about fur coats, anyway? Oh, gosh, I’m just so excited I can’t hardly think straight. I don’t know how I’m going to fix people’s hair today without making everybody turn out like Ozzy Osbourne. Do you think I should keep working? I love the Cut ’n’ Curl, but it does tie me down and I’ve always wanted to travel. Where’s the first place we should go? Paris? Or maybe Rio.”
Russ was worn out just listening to her. He shook his head and got his own coffee. Maybe she’d wind down in a few minutes and let him get a word in edgewise. Until then, it was useless to try to interrupt.
“Where’s Sydney, anyway?” she asked abruptly.
He waited to see if Winnie would pause long enough to allow him to answer. She took a long sip of her coffee, frowning at him over the rim of her cup.
“She went back to New York,” he said, amazed Winnie had let him finish a sentence.
“I like her. I wasn’t sure if she would even be nice to me after you said she was a stalker. But when she came into the Cut ’n’ Curl dressed down in jeans and a flannel shirt—well, she looked like she belonged in Linhart and she was nice as pie.”
Russ turned away. He didn’t want to think about Sydney, dressed in his old clothes a mile too big for her and still looking sexy as hell.
“And she was so easy to talk to. I hope she lets me do her hair some time. She’s got gorgeous hair. Did you say she went back to New York?”
Russ nodded.
“But she’s coming back here, right? To settle everything. How long will it take, do you think, before they give you the money? I’m sure there are all kinds of legal requirements and, of course, Uncle Sam has to take his cut, but that still leaves an awful lot.”
“I’m not accepting the money.”
Winnie laughed. “Russ, don’t be silly. You do love to tease your mama.” She shook her head, still chuckling. “Not accepting the money, that’s a good one.”
“I’m not teasing,” he said. “I don’t want the money.”
But she didn’t seem to hear him. “I have to go open up the salon, I’ve got an appointment first thing with Eleanor Ivans. She’s the one, you know, who always wants to compare the size of her diamonds with other people’s. I can’t wait to buy something that’ll make her faint dead away! Oh, and Russ, think about talking to the reporters,” she said with a pout. “They’ll just keep pestering you until you give them what they want.”
She drained her coffee cup and set it down. “Thanks for the coffee, sweetie. I’ll see you later—we have to do something special to celebrate. Bert, you can come with us!”
Bert mumbled something about watching the Titanic sink and made his way to his rocking chair by the stove. Nero followed him, keeping a wary eye on Winnie, who was heading for the door, still talking. She exited with the same drama as she entered, in a cloud of perfume.
“Are you always this effective dealing with your mama?” Bert asked.
THE TRIP HOME was miserable. In her haze of despair, Sydney had forgotten to check her purse, and her tiny bottle of Vera Wang perfume got confiscated at security. No doubt that mean-faced witch of a security guard now smelled terrific.
The flight was delayed—it seemed the airline industry still hadn’t fully recovered from the erratic weather patterns that had brought airports all over the country to a standstill. The plane, once it finally got in the air, was full of screaming toddlers. Worse, the man sitting next to Sydney was some kind of germophobe who obviously thought her intermittent sniffling meant she had a terrible cold. He tried to crawl out the window every time she pulled a tissue from her purse.
The taxi line at LaGuardia was twenty people deep, so when Sydney finally, finally made it home to her apartment, she was so exhausted all she wanted to do was sleep for a week. Her ankle was throbbing again. Seemed she would be stuck with that little souvenir of her trip to Texas for a long time to come.
She couldn’t afford to hibernate. She had hundreds of e-mails to cull—and an anxious father to deal with. With dread weighing heavy on her, she called him at home. And when he didn’t answer, she tried the office, though at four in the afternoon she doubted he would be there.
He surprised her by answering, sounding far more upbeat than he had in weeks.
“Dad?”
“Sweetheart! How is my champion heir-finder?”
Uh-oh. “What have you heard?”
“Only that my smart and talented daughter located the Oberlin heir when no one else could, not even her smart and talented old man. Why didn’t you tell me you were onto this? I could have helped you out, not that you needed any help. I’m so proud, I’ve had to sew the buttons back on my shirt three times.”
This was going to be way harder than she’d thought. Because as proud as he was of her now, that was as disappointed as he was going to be when he found out she blew it. No million-dollar commission. With her luck, some other heir-finder would harass Russ until he signed a contract just to get rid of them.
“Dad, you don’t have the whole story,” she said quickly. “I think some of what you’ve heard might be premature. I’ll meet you at the office and we can talk about it there, okay?”
“Okay, but then we’re going out to dinner to celebrate. Someplace expensive—I’m tired of pinching pennies.”
Sydney didn’t worry about changing clothes for a fancy dinner. It would never happen, once she confessed everything to Lowell. She threw on a pair of jeans, a Mets sweatshirt and a ratty pair of running shoes. Her hair was a disaster, so she pulled it back into a ponytail. When she inspected herself in the mirror, she decided she looked ill.
Maybe Lowell would feel sorry for her.
Consistent with her recent spate of luck, she couldn’t get a cab, so despite the sore ankle she hoofed it to the office building that housed Baines & Baines. It was only a few blocks away.
The office building that housed Baines & Baines had retail space on the street level. One of the stores was a pet shop. Normally Sydney passed it without a second glance. But today, something in the window caught her attention.
It was Nero. Or rather, a puppy version of Nero. As she gazed in the window, the bloodhound puppy jumped to its big, clumsy feet and pressed its wet nose against the glass, wagging its long tail as if it had just spotted a long-lost friend.