Satisfaction

by Marianne Stillings

  “Uh, in the meantime, do you need anything?” Like money? Even though Ethan was worth millions, he tried to curtail his mother’s spending habits just for her own good. It was a hopeless endeavor.

  “No, no,” she trilled. “I just wanted to see my baby boy. You’re such a busy man these days. I, well, I miss seeing you.”

  He arched a brow and looked over at Nate. “You could always call your other baby boy.”

  Nate stopped chewing, lifted his head, and stabbed Ethan with a stare.

  Lydia giggled. “Nate called earlier asking where you were. Did he get in touch?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good,” she cooed. “I love that my boys are together again. All grown up into such handsome men! And Nate, married! Do you think Tabitha will get pregnant right away? I’ll be a grandmother and you’ll be an uncle! Oh, but Ethan, being a husband and father yourself would be so much more ful—”

  “Okay, knock it off, Mom.” He chuckled, trying to find a way to assuage her without thinking too hard on what she’d said. “We’ve already gone over this. Nate’s the one who’s going to provide you with grandkids, hopefully sooner rather than later.”

  Nate’s eyes widened, then narrowed. He pursed his lips, then picked up his wineglass and drained it.

  “I have to go now, Mom. I promise I’ll try to come by soon.”

  Ending the call, Ethan set the phone on the table, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes. A husband and father. Not him. Not if there was any justice in the world.

  Cathy. Yeah, he’d had his chance, and he’d literally blown it away. Let brother Nate do the husband-and-father thing. Let Andie find some guy, settle down, pop a few babies. He’d be Uncle Ethan and that would suit him just fine. Between his mother’s clinging, and losing Cathy, his destiny was clear, so why fight it?

  He chugged the last of his wine and set the glass down, licking his lips, recalling the taste of Georgie’s mouth under his. Better commit that little episode to memory, because it would never happen again.

  From across the table, Nate said, “You were a lot nicer to Mom than you are to me.”

  “That’s because you’re a dick.”

  “Damn, that slipped my mind for a minute,” Nate drawled. “Thanks so much for reminding me.”

  Ethan shrugged. “Happy to oblige.”

  “Listen, Ethan, I did have a reason for coming by. There is something I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Shoot.”

  His brother’s mouth tilted on one end. “You must have read my mind. I wanted to say thanks, you know, for—”

  “I told you to forget it,” Ethan said harshly, returning his attention to his plate. He probably shouldn’t blame Nate for the years of struggle catering to their mother’s every whim, the financial obligations, the emotional turmoil, but the fact was, he resented Nate for having taken the easier path. After two de cades of separation, the two brothers who had once been so close had grown into men divided by a gulf so deep, Ethan wasn’t sure it could ever be crossed.

  Slowly, Nate’s smile faded into a scowl. “Do you always have to play the prick, Ethan? Shit, you want to make an effort here, or do we just say screw it, lost cause, and forget the whole damn thing?”

  When Ethan made no reply, Nate doubled his fists and shoved himself to his feet. Yanking out his wallet, he extracted a couple of bills and tossed them on the table. With a sardonic laugh, he said, “Guess I was right about that twenty-year thing, huh? I’ll buy my own fucking birthday dinner. Brother.”

  Ethan watched as Nate strode through the busy restaurant and out the door, never once bothering to look back.

  Chapter Seven

  To create harmony with the one you love, position a Chinese Double Happiness symbol in the Marriage Area (the far right corner) of your bedroom. This beautiful and ancient symbol is usually painted gold on a red background, and represents unity and mutual happiness for you and your man.

  Georgiana Mundy’s Feng Shui for Lovers

  “What in the hell did you think you were doing, Paul? I told you to stay clear of that bitch and let me take care of everything. I got you out of it the first time, but there’s only so much I can do. Christ, you haven’t got the common sense God gave a goat—”

  “Cut it out, Dad!” Paul Corcoran watched as the veins in his father’s neck stood out in angry relief. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I just thought a couple of little pushes might get her going in the right direction, that’s all.”

  Vaughn never gave him any credit for having even a few brains. Okay, he may not be swimming in the deep end of the gene pool, but he wasn’t exactly stupid. With a casual shrug, he said, “I stood at the window and smiled. Hey, you know, it took a lot of math to figure out exactly which window was directly across from hers in another whole building. And how to find it, and then to slip in without anybody seeing me.” He gave a sharp nod, picked up an almond from the bowl held in his hand, tossed it into his mouth, and crunched down.

  “Sorry,” Vaughn sighed. “I forgot what a mental giant you are.”

  “Don’t insult me, Dad,” he said, tossing few more almonds into his mouth. “I’m all you got.”

  Vaughn sent him a look that said, And don’t I know it.

  At sixty, Vaughn Corcoran looked fit and sharp. His blue eyes missed nothing, and though he was soft-spoken and deliberate, Paul figured it was a safe bet his employees were all afraid of him. Like the way swimmers are with sharks; you didn’t know you were doomed until it was too late to get the hell out of the water.

  “And you called her,” Vaughn accused.

  Paul smiled at the memory. “Yeah. From her own phone at the studio. That shook her up. Didn’t touch anything besides the phone, then I wiped it. No evidence. See? I’m not so stupid.”

  Behind his massive desk, Paul’s father eased back in his office chair, making the soft leather squeak. “It still escapes me why you got involved with Georgiana Mundy in the first place. For Christ’s sake, you went to school with some of the most beautiful women in the world. Women who came from families of wealth and status nearly equal to my own. Why didn’t you screw around with one of them?”

  Paul settled into the plush sofa in his father’s San Francisco office and put his feet up on the coffee table. “She was cute, she was a TV star, and I thought she’d be a good fuck.”

  “Was she?”

  “Never found out.” The image of Raine What’s Her Name flitted behind his eyes. “Her friend was hot, too, but I knew neither of them would go for a three-way, so I—”

  “Which brings us to where we stand this very day!” Vaughn picked up a pen, twirled it between his fingers, then slammed it down on his desk. “Your predilections—that means idiotic tendencies—”

  “I know what it means!” Paul snapped. “The cops didn’t prove anything. No charges were brought.”

  “Only because I called in every favor I was owed in the entire state and put out a shitload of money, Paul. Stay away from her, do you hear me? Jesus, if the tabloids ever got ahold of this, it’ll be Gary Hart all over again.”

  “Who?”

  “Exactly my point!” Swiveling in his chair, Vaughn turned his back on Paul to gaze out over the city. “I’m taking care of everything, so just sit tight. I’ll let you know when it’s time for you to get involved. Right now things are still in the investigative stage. I’ll have more information in a few days.”

  Paul leaned forward, dusting bits of salt from his raw silk tie. Setting the nut bowl down on the coffee table, he said, “So which one do you think it is—Georgie or her friend?”

  Vaughn blew out an exasperated breath, then swiveled back to face Paul. “Which one do I think what is?”

  Paul shrugged. “You know, like, which one of them is blackmailing you?”

  “I didn’t work my derriere off at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris, Detective, then hone my skills for a decade in the finest restaurants in France, Italy, and New York, just to have some nouveau twit wit
h more cleavage than brains grab the spotlight from me simply because she has perky knockers!”

  It was Tuesday morning, and across the conference room table from Ethan, Ignacio Quincy’s dark eyes snapped. His puffy face gleamed with a sheen of perspiration, and his thick lips turned down in a sea-bass scowl. In his mid-forties, he was dressed in the traditional white double-breasted culinary jacket, and wore his chef’s hat straight up on his head, like a brilliant atomic mushroom cloud just after impact.

  While Ethan couldn’t argue with the perky knockers part of the chef’s assessment, he’d have to disagree; as beautiful as Georgie was, her brain just might be her best feature.

  “So you hold Ms. Mundy personally responsible for your dip in the ratings and the schedule changes?”

  Quincy grumbled under his breath, then shrugged. “I hold the station’s management responsible. Idiots in suits. Not only does one have to be good at what one does—delight and entertain one’s audience—one also has to be—dare I say it, can I utter the term aloud? Sexy!” He raised an indignant brow. “Why, if I were a hundred and seventeen pounds thinner, twenty-three years younger, and good-looking, this never would have happened!” He gestured wildly with his hand. “Take away her big brown eyes, tight little tush, the aforementioned rack, her long, silky hair, alluring smile, and all she’d have left is her pitiful tofu and bean sprout soufflé!”

  Tofu and bean sprout soufflé? Ethan fought to suppress his gag reflex.

  “I have to tell you, Mr. Quincy,” he said. “I’m getting some real mixed messages from you about your feelings toward Ms. Mundy.”

  The man set his jaw and averted his eyes. “Nevertheless, if she hadn’t come along, I’d still be number one.”

  Ethan let the pen in his fingers drop to the open file in front of him—Ignacio Quincy’s file. The TV chef was everything he claimed to be, from his humble beginnings as the son of a male nurse in a suburb of Davenport, Iowa, to his culinary studies in Europe, to his top-rated cooking shows.

  “Did you put the oil of rosemary in Ms. Mundy’s ice cubes?”

  Quincy scowled again, then snorted. “Such an act is far beneath me, my man. If one wanted to discover whom it is behind all this mayhem, one needn’t look very far.”

  “One wouldn’t?”

  The chef’s ample mouth twisted. “One would be well advised to have a chat with Hildy Nelson.”

  “Hildy’s Haute Chocolate?”

  “Hildy’s Haute Temper, if you ask me. She was boiling mad the day Ozzie shuffled her time slot.”

  “Mad enough to make trouble for Ms. Mundy?”

  “Madder,” Quincy snarled, lifting his bushy brows to the rim of his toque blanche. “Methinks, mad enough to kill.”

  About fifteen minutes later, Ethan put that question to the lady herself. Tiny, bespectacled, and prim, Hildy Nelson apparently tried to offset her petite stature by overteasing her silver white hair. Instead of the elegant coif she’d undoubtedly gone for, she looked more like a Q-tip that had been used to light a barbeque.

  Aside from that, she was an attractive older woman whose smile could have melted the hardest chocolate heart.

  “You suspect me?” she tittered, rapidly blinking her blue eyes. “Me, make trouble for that adorable creature? I’m sorry, Detective. You’re not only barking up the wrong tree, you’re in the wrong forest altogether.” She squared her shoulders and brushed an invisible piece of lint from the lapel of her red jacket. “Do you know how old I am, Detective?” She smiled at him once more, lifting her chin to elongate her somewhat creped neck.

  “Your file says you’re sixty-two.”

  “A damn lie!” she snapped, then recovered herself and smiled demurely. “What I meant to say was, I’m barely fifty. My agent was supposed to, ehm, take care of that, you see. It’s an unfortunate typo.” She licked her lips and lowered her eyes.

  Ethan watched as her shoulders slumped just a little. Gently, he said, “I thought it must be a mistake. Anyone looking at you would realize the error immediately, Ms. Nelson.”

  She sucked in her bottom lip and raised her eyes to meet his gaze.

  “Thank you, Detective,” she whispered. “My point is, I am a mature woman who’s worked in this business a long time. I’ve seen them come and I’ve seen them go. I have no reason to resent Georgie, and I’m certainly not hassling her.” She met Ethan’s gaze. “Georgie is young and hip and now, but trends always fade, and when this one does, I’ll still be here.”

  “What makes you say that, ma’am?”

  She blinked at him as though he’d just asked her weight. “Feng shui is transient, Detective,” she stated with emphasis. “Chocolate is forever.”

  Since he could hardly disagree with that, he said, “Ms. Mundy’s success may not bother you, but can you think of anyone who might have taken issue with it? Maybe even had the means and opportunity to cause a little trouble?”

  Her gaze shifted up and to the left, the way people’s eyes do when they were trying to recall something. “Iggy wasn’t too pleased. He wanted to get to know her.” She wiggled her thinly plucked brows meaningfully.

  “Get to know her?”

  “In the biblical sense,” she said, leaning forward as if to impart a state secret. “Fancies himself God’s gift. Thinks his fame can replace youth and good looks.” She eased back in her chair and lowered her head again. “It can’t. Silly man should know that.”

  Ethan picked up his pen and tapped it on the stack of files in front of him. “He asked her out, and she rejected him?”

  Hildy nodded. “Yes, but in all fairness, she rejects everybody. Iggy took it personal, though. Pinhead.”

  “Anyone else take her rejections personally?”

  “Maybe. Hard to say.” Checking the watch on her delicate wrist, she said, “I’m sorry. I have to prepare for a taping.”

  When she stood, Ethan rose and shook her hand. “Thank you, ma’am. You’ve been very gracious.”

  “And you,” she replied softly, “so very gentlemanly.”

  As she raised her face to smile up into his eyes, Ethan could see the beauty in her bones and realized she must certainly have broken her own fair share of hearts along the way.

  Iona Jameson probably hadn’t broken as many hearts as she had jaws, Ethan thought as the woman entered the conference room, kicking the door shut behind her with one booted foot.

  According to her file, she was twenty-seven and had worked for the station since she’d graduated from USF with a BA in graphic arts. Tall and broad-shouldered, she was dressed in black leather pants and what appeared to be a black rain slicker. Her too-black hair shot out from her scalp in pointy spikes, while her lobes, lips, brows, nose, tongue, and God knew what else had been pierced with small gold hoops. Eyeing him like a Goth pugilist taking her corner, she dropped her body into the chair, spread her knees, and crossed her arms over her chest.

  Mary Poppins she was not, and a far a cry from what he’d pictured a wardrobe mistress might look like.

  “I’m, like, not a lesbian, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she stated, her voice oddly high-pitched and feminine for her looks, sort of like a squirrel on helium.

  “Your lifestyle is none of my concern, Ms. Jameson,” he said, “unless it involves criminal activity. Can you think of why anybody would want to cause trouble for Ms. Mundy?”

  She sneered, showing straight white teeth. Apparently trashing her looks stopped at dental care. With a casual shrug, she settled down into her seat and uncrossed her arms.

  “Georgie was, like, cool to me when I did her duds for her. She’s good-lookin’, ya know? Has good bones, elegant lines. Has a good bod, too, and I dressed her that way, kind of classy-like. But the Suits wanted more T&A, and I wouldn’t go there, so they, like, replaced me. Wasn’t Georgie’s fault; in fact, I heard she went to the mat for me.”

  “She fought to keep you?”

  “Yeah, for all the good it did. But she’s, like, turned into this real stuck-up
bitch now, so maybe somebody thinks it would be fun to rattle her cage a little.”

  Ethan twirled the pen in his fingers. “She wasn’t always stuck up?”

  “Naw, like, only for the last couple of years. We used to do stuff, you know? Girl stuff.” She laughed, and he was caught off guard by the pleasant, musical sound of it. “Yeah, I know. We made a pair, all right, her all pretty, and me all Gothed up. But Georgie, she, like, sees past that and shit. She’s cool. Or was. We’d go out for drinks or a laugh or, like, to meet some guys.”

  Her deeply purple lips flattened. “Course, most all the guys wanted Georgie, but that’s okay. Sometimes they wanted me.” She shifted in her chair. “We’ve got different styles, so the guys she liked, I didn’t want, and vice versa. But now that she’s, like, this big star, you ask her to do something, and it’s always too busy, or, gotta work, or maybe next time, except she never does the next-time thing. I finally stopped askin’. It’s been like that ever since she first met Paul, but more since she dumped the bastard.”

  Ethan felt his heart miss a beat. Straightening in his chair, he said, “You met Paul Corcoran?”

  She shifted again, looked at him, looked away. “Tall Paul? Yeah. He was hot. Even I thought so. A little eyeliner and a leather jock, and I’d’ve been the goner, not Georgie. She was crazy about him, though. At first anyway. But, man, like, what an asshole.” She scratched her nose, then sniffed. “I don’t know all what happened, like, but one day they’re all cozy, and the next day she’s got the law on him. I’m surprised they didn’t fire her.”

  Ethan’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t hear about any scandal. Why would the station fire her?”

  Iona blinked her eyes at him and scratched her nose again. “Well, because of Paul, of course. The Suits.”

  “What about them?”

  She looked a little puzzled by his question, then shrugged. “Guess you don’t know the whole enchilada, then, huh? Some private dick you are.”

  “Why don’t you fill me in?”