Independently Wealthy: A Novel

by Lorraine Zago Rosenthal

  That was a welcome change. Alex had never let me handle things alone.

  I smiled as Wes slipped his hand around my waist. “Thank you again,” I said. “I’m not sure if I accomplished much, though.”

  “He didn’t say anything incriminating?” Wes asked as I burrowed into the crook of his arm and we walked away from the Mayflower. “I assume he just denied, denied, denied. That’s what his and any other attorney would advise.”

  “He proclaimed his innocence,” I said, listening to my heels tap against the sidewalk and cars speeding by. “But I think I might’ve annoyed him enough that he screwed up a little—especially when he said, You Stones never know when to quit. That sounds like Edward tried to do something about Amicus after all.”

  “Unfortunately,” Wes said, “it isn’t enough to get the NYPD to reopen the case.”

  I exhaled a weary sigh. “I know … but I can mention it to the PI that Ned hired to investigate Edward’s death. He’s working on it as we speak.”

  Wes nodded slowly. The wind had disheveled his hair, and tawny brown strands swept across his forehead. “That was smart thinking on Ned’s part. How is he, by the way? I haven’t seen him for ages … except on the cover of Biz.”

  “He’s…” I said, searching for the right word, “… perplexing. Do you know him well?”

  Wes shook his head. “Ned is six years older than I am, so we never spent much time together growing up. I used to see him at parties and things like that, though. He seems nice … and Caroline does, too.”

  We started walking again, and soon we were on the fourth floor of my hotel and standing outside my room. Wes touched my hair, gently skimming his fingertips against my scalp and down the curve of my neck, which made me warm and limp.

  “What time do you have to wake up tomorrow for your flight?” he asked.

  “Six thirty,” I said with a groan.

  He nodded and changed the subject. “I was proud of you tonight, Savannah.”

  I want to invite you in. But I’ve only known you for a week. I don’t do things like this.

  “Even though we’re going to see each other again soon,” he continued, “I’ll miss you when you’re gone.”

  Now I really want to invite you in. And why shouldn’t I? I never do things like this.

  I smiled, trailing my fingers over his shoulders. “Well,” I said, “I’m here now.”

  I pulled my room card out of my purse, slipped it into its slot, and pushed open the door. I’d left a lamp on, and it cast a golden hue over the room—the antique fireplace and the oak bureau and all the downy pillows the maid had lined up so neatly on my bed. She’d left the curtains open, and the White House glowed beyond the French doors.

  I locked us in the room. We took off our coats and tossed them onto a chair as we headed toward the windows, where Wes admired the view.

  “Beautiful,” he said when he turned toward me. His gaze glided from my face down to my feet and then back again.

  “Which one?” I asked. “The White House or the Washington Monument?”

  “Neither,” he said, draping his arms around my waist.

  It’s only been a month since Alex. This is so not me. But why can’t I be different?

  I reached for his tie, which I undid with one pull. I tossed it onto the bed, helped him out of his jacket, and slowly opened the buttons on his shirt. I spread the shirt open and found something on his chest, right above his heart—a tattoo of a blindfolded woman with cascading tresses. Her body was draped in cloth, and she held a sword in one hand and a scale in the other.

  “Justice?” I said, tracing the tattoo with my finger.

  He looked at me seriously. “That’s what I believe in.”

  “And it’s one of the reasons I think you’re amazing.”

  His mouth opened into a smile, and I kissed the peaks in his upper lip before I tugged off his shirt, tossed it away, and brought him over to the bed, where he stepped out of his shoes and I pushed him onto his back. I kicked off my heels and climbed onto the bed and leaned over him.

  I ran my fingers across his stomach and his chest and that tattoo drawn with black and gray ink. He pulled my face close to his, and my hair skimmed his forehead as we kissed and he massaged my thighs through my dress, sparking a slow burn underneath.

  He held my shoulders and shifted me down to the mattress, where my head sank into the pillows. I was beneath him now, and he easily unhooked my halter, which slackened around my neck but didn’t slip off. His hands went to the white fabric covering my chest, then to my hips and under my skirt and finally crept gently up the inside of my legs. I closed my eyes as he kissed me and his body pressed against mine, and everything felt so good, but I couldn’t relax. I kept hearing my voice saying I shouldn’t do this. It’s too soon. This just isn’t me.

  I felt Wes pull away. I opened my eyes and saw him looking down at me.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  I didn’t say anything, I just stayed quiet and sat up, and he stared at me for a moment like he was figuring it all out. Then he fastened my halter and reached for his shirt.

  “Your ex-boyfriend,” he said, “the one you mentioned at the wedding reception … how long has it been since you were with him?”

  I must have been absurdly easy to read. I looked at my shoes scattered across the carpet, remembering the last time I’d been with Alex—in my apartment, on Egyptian cotton sheets, beneath my dahlia comforter. Why couldn’t I forget that?

  “A month,” I said.

  Wes nodded and put on his shirt. “I had a feeling it hasn’t been long … which is why I stopped just now.” He took my hands in his as he sat beside me. “I don’t want you to wake up tomorrow and think you made a mistake … and that you hate me for letting you. I don’t want to treat this like an out-of-town-weekend thing … a casual hookup that leads to nothing.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t do casual hookups.”

  “And I’m not the kind of guy to take advantage of a girl who broke up with her boyfriend last month.”

  “You’re definitely not that kind of guy,” I said, “which is lucky for me.” I glanced at the bed and back at him, sitting there in his unbuttoned shirt. “Well … maybe not that lucky.”

  He laughed as he pushed my hair away from my face. “Tonight isn’t the end, Savannah. It’s only the beginning. There’ll be plenty of time for us to … get to know each other. But that doesn’t mean you have to spend your last night in D.C. alone. I’m sure the Hay-Adams will be happy to accommodate me with anything I need for an overnight stay. And this is big enough to share.” He ran his hand along the bedspread, touching it as enticingly as he’d touched me.

  “Well,” I said with a sleepy smile, “I am tired.”

  He moved to the middle of the mattress and I settled down beside him, pressing my back against his stomach. Our ankles entwined as he draped his arm over me and leaned his face against my bare neck. Then we spoke in whispers while we stared through the French doors at an endless expanse of city lights until we drifted to sleep in our formal attire.

  *

  I felt lips on my forehead.

  I opened my eyes and found Wes leaning over me, bringing me to consciousness with a kiss. The room was lit up by a lamp across the room, and when I turned my head toward the windows, I saw that D.C. was still dark.

  “I’m your wake-up call,” he said in a hushed voice. The wood-and-ginger scent of his cologne lingered on his skin, and he must have gotten a toothbrush from the hotel because his breath smelled like spearmint. “You wanted to get up at six thirty, right?”

  “I didn’t want to,” I said as I stretched my arms over my head. “Unfortunately, I have to.”

  He sat beside me on the bed and stroked my hair, which was strewn over a pillow. “I’m not happy you’re leaving … but it won’t be long before we see each other again. I’ll be in New York next weekend, so we can go to dinner on Saturday night … if that’s okay with you.”
r />   “It’s more than okay.”

  Wes reached for a pad and pen on the night table. “We should exchange our 411. Or aren’t the kids saying that these days?”

  I laughed. “Isn’t it a shock that we’re not kids anymore? When exactly did that happen?”

  “Quickly after we got our drivers’ licenses, I think. Time just sped by from there.”

  “Yeah,” I said wistfully as he scribbled down his info. I did the same, and then my e-mail and cell number and home address were folded inside the pocket of his black pants.

  “We both have to leave,” he said, glancing at the clock.

  I sat up and rested my face on his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around me and I felt his hands on my back, and we stayed that way until the sun began to peek over the horizon. I should have been gone by then, but it wasn’t easy to let go.

  Twenty

  I somehow made it to Reagan National on time, and I stared out the windows at the plane that was going to take me to LaGuardia.

  I’d had no time for makeup this morning. My face was bare and my hair was pulled into a ponytail, and I wore sneakers and jeans with a College of Charleston sweatshirt under my coat. I was surrounded by other passengers and the greasy smell of fast-food breakfasts in paper wrappers, and I heard ABN through a flat screen bolted to a wall. Then there was Charlie Beckford’s voice, and I watched a segment from his Friday-night show. He was dressed in a suit and was sitting behind a glass desk as he fiercely debated with the governor of New York.

  My phone rang inside my purse. I looked away from the TV and toward my Gucci bag, which was on the seat beside me, pulled out the cell, and saw Tony’s name on the caller ID.

  “Good morning,” I said cheerfully, holding the phone to my ear.

  “Not for me,” he said. “Marjorie came down with the flu and now my mother has it. Allison’s working at the hospital and Mom can’t babysit … so I won’t be able to drive you home from LaGuardia. I’m really sorry.”

  “Don’t you dare be sorry,” I said, making a mental note to order get-well gifts for his mother and Marjorie with a rush delivery. “You just take care of your family.”

  “I will. And you won’t need to take a cab … I called dispatch, and another driver will be waiting for you in a sedan outside the baggage claim.”

  I thanked him, he said he’d pick me up for work the next day, and then I put my phone away and watched Charlie Beckford grill the governor until it was time to board my flight.

  Soon my plane landed at LaGuardia and I was at the baggage claim, where I grabbed my luggage and walked through automatic doors into a cold and cloudy morning. I saw a line of cabs waiting for passengers and a heavyset, middle-aged man in a suit and coat heading toward me.

  “Are you Savannah Morgan?” he asked, and I nodded, assuming he was my driver. “The car service sent me at Tony Hughes’s request. The car is this way.”

  He took my suitcase and my garment bag and my carry-on, I followed him past the taxis, and he stopped at a black limousine with tinted windows. Then he hit a button on his keychain to pop the trunk.

  “I was expecting a sedan,” I said as he loaded my bags.

  He slammed the trunk. “Ned wanted a limo.”

  I lingered on the curb, totally confused. “Excuse me, but … what are you talking about?”

  He walked toward me, opened the back door, and leaned inside. “Here she is, Mr. Stone.”

  I looked into the car and saw Ned sitting opposite the door on a leather seat, dressed in a suit like this was a workday. An open briefcase was beside him and there was a thick document on his lap that he was marking with a pen, and he didn’t look up when he spoke.

  “Let’s go, Savannah,” he said. “You’re not the only problem on my schedule today. And I’m sure you have so much to tell me about the conference.”

  His pale-green eyes rose from the papers to my face as I felt my stomach cramping. I sighed, slid onto the seat across from him, and heard the door shut behind me with a bang.

  “How’d you know Tony wasn’t picking me up?” I asked.

  The driver was at the front of the car now. He got in, slammed the door, and raised a pane of glass that separated him from us. He started the engine as Ned leaned toward me.

  “I know everything,” he said ominously.

  The limo pulled away from the curb and headed to the Grand Central Parkway. I sat there and stared at Ned, wondering whether what he claimed was true or if he was just trying to intimidate me into telling him everything.

  “You’re looking … au naturel,” he went on.

  I shrugged off the insult. “It’s Sunday. I’m going casual since it’s the day of rest.”

  “There’s never any rest for some of us. I’m working today.”

  “Working on what?” I asked as he dropped his document into his briefcase.

  “Improving our ratings,” he said, twisting a cap onto his pen before he left it on top of the papers. “Aren’t you aware it’s been designated as my life’s mission? The flaw I’m trying to correct now is Zachary Parker. You know … our morning show’s lead anchor.”

  “I know who he is,” I said. “I hate to criticize, but … I think he’s rather unimpressive.”

  “That’s the problem. The audience agrees with you … and his popularity is sinking.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  Ned shrugged. “There are several reasons … but the main issue is he comes off as phony and caves on tough interviews. A few of my colleagues are meeting with a possible replacement we’ve flown in from California for the day, and I’m joining them.”

  “Oh,” I said, thinking about Charlie Beckford. He hadn’t caved one bit with the governor, and he definitely didn’t come off as phony. “Who is it?”

  “That’s confidential … and not the reason we’re here.” He reached into his jacket, pulled out his iPhone, and scrolled through it. “But this is.”

  He tossed the phone my way. I caught it in midair, and then I looked at a photo of me in my black-and-white dress inside the Grand Ballroom at the Mayflower Hotel. My chin was bent upward and Terrence Miller was glaring down at me.

  “As I recall,” Ned began, “you were forbidden to do this.”

  I threw the phone back at him. It hit his chest and dropped onto his thigh. “You don’t have the right to forbid me to do anything. I just wanted to figure out what your PI hasn’t. And where did you get that picture?”

  “From my PI, you idiot. He’s the one who found out that Tony had scheduled a different driver for you today. He also suspected Miller all along, and he was trailing him when he happened to see you raising a stink at that party. He recognized you and sent me the picture, and then I called Caroline. I figured you two were colluding, and she had no choice but to confess.” He hunched forward. “Do you know what I could do to you now? I could call Dad’s lawyer and say you’ve violated the terms of your inheritance by leaving New York without just cause.”

  “I did have just cause,” I said, curling my toes inside my Nikes.

  He shook his head. “You’re not the one who gets to determine that.”

  I was starting to sweat. I reached up to undo the buttons on my coat. “You’re really going to ruin everything for me because of this?”

  “I should,” he said, then leaned back in his seat. “But I won’t … on one condition.”

  I wriggled out of my coat and wiped my clammy palms on my jeans. “What’s that?”

  “Stop involving yourself in this investigation. As I’ve told you before, we’re dealing with dangerous people who could make sure you end up like Dad. I know you want to do the right thing by him, but you should consider what he’d want. He left you all that money to use for a lifetime … he didn’t want part of it to pay for your early funeral.”

  I sighed, ran my hands over my eyes, and thought for a moment. “Okay,” I said finally. “You’re right. I’ll back off—at least for a while.”

  “Forever,” Ned ins
isted.

  I ignored that. “Miller made a comment about Stones not knowing when to quit. I’m sure he was referring to Edward … and you should pass that information along to your PI.”

  Ned nodded. “I will.”

  “That’s good. And I’m sorry for misleading you … and for getting Caroline involved.” I yawned as he nodded again. “Now I hope you won’t mind if I lie down for the rest of the drive. I know you have work to do … and I’m absolutely exhausted.”

  I sprawled out and closed my eyes, feeling the limo hit a deep pothole. Then something crashed into my shoulder and landed on my seat. I opened my eyes and saw Ned’s iPhone, which he’d obviously decided to hurl at me once more.

  “What are you doing?” I asked peevishly. “I thought the showdown was over.”

  “Not yet,” he said, motioning toward the phone.

  I looked at another image of me. But this time I wasn’t inside the Mayflower, and I wasn’t with Terrence Miller. I was with Wes, and we were walking down Connecticut Avenue.

  “Was your guy following me?” I asked, scrolling to the next picture, which was of Wes coming out of the Hay-Adams at dawn. My eyes shot to Ned, who had cocked an eyebrow and folded his arms across his jacket.

  “The PI was concerned, Savannah. I am, too.”

  I sat up straight, clutching the phone. “Concerned about what? Wesley Caldwell?”

  “Exactly,” Ned answered. “Wesley Caldwell. No one in that family can be trusted.”

  This was such an absurd statement, I couldn’t even get angry. “Ned,” I began calmly, “Wes isn’t like his parents. Well, according to him, his parents aren’t guilty of anything, but—”

  “Of course,” he said with a caustic chuckle.

  “I’m not saying I agree with him about that. All I’m saying is that from what I’ve seen so far, he’s a great person … and I don’t judge people by their families. We spent a lot of time together last week, and I really like him.”

  Ned rolled his eyes. “I thought more than six months in New York would dilute your naïveté, but maybe not. Our father was banging Wes’s mother, Savannah … and Jonathan Caldwell is divorcing her as a result. Wes’s family is in shambles and he has every reason to hate Dad—and by association you—because of that.”