Storm Damages

by Magda Alexander

  “Not yet.”

  “You might want to dial her next. She’s pretty upset. She thinks it’s the argument with your mother that caused your father’s stroke.”

  “What were they fighting about?”

  “Brianna’s engagement. Your mother does not approve.”

  Neither do I. But while I question the fidelity of Bri’s fiancée, our mother’s objection stems from a difference in social classes. Bri’s a Lady and a member of the upper crust. He’s a working class bloke, born with a tin spoon in his mouth. In our mother’s opinion, Bri shouldn’t know the man, much less be engaged to him. “I’ll call her in a minute.”

  Signing off, I rest my head back against the seat. Pressure bands across my brow, the onset of incipient pain. Funny, I didn’t experience it once in the last two days and yet here it is again, my old familiar ache. Reaching for my migraine meds, I come across Elizabeth’s bright red undies. After taking the medicine, I breathe in her scent. The image of the delectable Ms. Watson moaning with pleasure pops into my head, and I harden in an instant.

  But I can’t satisfy my need, not now when duty calls. Clutching my phone, I click Bri’s number, and when she answers, weeping and blubbering, talk her off the ledge.

  Hours later, the plane lands in London in the middle of the night. After a quick check in with Customs at the private hangar reserved for our corporate jet, Samuel and I head out to the silver S-Class Mercedes Benz where Jake awaits us dressed in his usual unrelenting black. Not much gets past him. He can weigh and measure a man in less than five seconds. Which is one of the reasons I hired him.

  Samuel takes over the driving duties, as Jake climbs into the rear seat to fill me in on my father’s condition. “He’s out of the emergency room, but the St. Andrews Hospital staff is monitoring him closely to act quickly if he suffers another stroke.”

  “Another one?”

  “It happens, Storm.”

  Bloody hell. I rub a hand across my brow. “How good is this hospital?”

  “One of the best. Your father was lucky in one respect. Because the stroke happened while he was in London, we were able to get him to a hospital with a specialized stroke care wing and world class doctors on staff.”

  “Well, thank fuck for that at least.” Beyond fatigued, I scrub my face. Fearing I’ll fall asleep on the way into town, I grab a water bottle from the custom-made mini-fridge and chug it down.

  “I have to warn you, though.” Jake continues. “His speech is slurred and he’s having problems with his right side.”

  That does not bode well. He’s right-hand dominant. “How are his mental faculties?”

  He hesitates before speaking. “Hard to say.”

  My gaze darts to him. “Hard to say or won’t say?”

  Jake rubs the back of his neck. “Look, I’m not a doctor, so I don’t think—“

  I cut him off. “I’m asking for your opinion, your judgment, damn it. I trust you. Don’t let me down.”

  Jake lets out a gusty breath. “He’s doesn’t know where he is, who he is.”

  Fuck. I need my father sound enough to make business decisions. Otherwise, the Countess will use his disability to grab his voting shares and stop cold the negotiations with SouthWind. “Did you shut down the Countess?”

  “Yes. She’s at home, too upset to talk to the press.”

  I snort. “No one’s going to believe that for a second.” My parents can’t stand one another. They’ve been at each other’s throat since I can remember.

  “I assigned a female operative to watch your mother and keep her away from the phone. Needless to say, she’s not happy and wants to see you as soon as possible.”

  I rest my head against the seat and gaze out the window at the passing scenery, not many cars on the motorway, not at this hour. “I’ll visit her after I see my father and assess his condition, but for now take me home.” I’m not up to dealing with her. Not just yet.

  Forty minutes later we arrive at The Brighton, the structure an ancestor built in the heart of Mayfair during the 1930s and the family owned since. Originally a hotel, I redesigned the building eight years ago, turning most of the space into co-ops. But I reserved the penthouse with its private lift for myself and the two floors directly beneath for Brianna and my brother, Royce. The Brighton is home to us, as much as any place can be. None of us is ever long enough in London to enjoy them much.

  “When does the hospital open for visitors?” I ask Jake while Samuel fetches my luggage from the boot.

  “Ten.”

  “Pick me up at nine.” That will give me a chance to grab a couple of hours’ sleep.

  I take the lift to the penthouse, where my valet, butler and all-around-houseman, Parker, waits patiently for me. A paragon of a servant, he pines for days of old when men needed to be turned out three or more times a day. As soon as I disembark, he disappears with my suitcases, no doubt to spend what remains of the night lamenting the state of my rumpled wardrobe.

  Almost blind from exhaustion, I stagger to my bedroom and ditch my clothes. He’ll tsk tsk me in the morning for dropping the high price threads on the floor, but right now I’m in desperate need of sleep. And one more thing. I dig in my pockets for Elizabeth’s thong and carry it to bed with me where I finally satisfy my need.

  What seems like minutes later, I wake up to someone pounding on my bedroom door. “Gabe. Wake up!”

  Fuck. Brianna. I squint at the vintage airplane clock on the night table. Eight a.m. I’ve gotten maybe three hours of shut eye. It will have to do. After rummaging in the closet for a robe, I throw open the door. “What are you doing here, Bri?”

  “You’re such a grumpy bear in the morning.” She strolls in and pushes a cup of something or other at me. “I come bearing gifts.”

  “Cut me some slack. I’ve barely slept.” The sinfully rich scent of coffee perks up my senses. I sit on the bed, take a sip. Somehow that one gulp’s enough to make me halfway human again.

  She drops next to me, crosses one knee over the other and ruffles my hair. “My poor darling.” Having inherited the fair coloring and blue eyes from our father’s side of the family, Bri’s jaw-droppingly beautiful. She’s also emotional, brilliant, headstrong, and fiercely loyal to those she loves which includes Royce, our father, and me. But she can also hate with virulent intensity.

  This morning she’s dressed in her signature white gloves and a white sleeveless sheath, probably her latest venture into haute couture. “Valentino?” I gesture at her dress.

  “Chanel.”

  In London, she always dresses like a fashion plate. I suppose it makes up for the grungy messiness she’s reduced to when she’s out in the field, digging through dirt, climbing up poles. My sister, Brianna, is an environmental engineer and geologist, one of the few individuals on the planet who can design and construct an environmentally-friendly project and make it work. That’s not brotherly pride talking, but the honest truth. Many people can design a project; many others can build it, but few can do both. And none can do it as well as she can.

  She links a hand through my free arm. “I’m tagging along with you to the hospital. If you don’t mind.”

  “Of course I don’t mind.”

  “Good. I don’t know if I’m brave enough to see daddy by myself.” For a second, her face crumbles.

  I can’t give her hope, not until I talk to the medical staff, but I offer what comfort I can. “I’m sure the doctors are doing everything they can.” I drop a kiss on her head and give her a quick hug. Hoping a discussion of her fiancé will buck her up, I mention his name. “How are things with Anton?”

  “Fine, I guess.” Gazing down, she picks at her fire-engine red fingernail polish, a nervous habit of hers.

  Trouble in paradise? I can only hope. “Only fine?”

  “He’s pressuring me to set the wedding date.” Her fiancé snagged her during a weak moment after a photo of a semi-clothed Bri and an equally undressed viscount was splattered all over the gossip
rags and the viscount’s wife labeled Bri a home wrecker. Never mind the wife had a lover of her own and the marriage had ended several weeks before.

  I squeeze Bri to me. “And you don’t want that?”

  One corner of her lips hitches up and she sighs. “I don’t want to do the married thing just yet.”

  “Why not?”

  She stands and paces up and down the geometric design rug that covers the parquet wood floor in my room. “I want to have some fun before I settle down.”

  Since I suspect her fiancé is more interested in her money than her, I strongly oppose this engagement of hers. But I don’t want to raise her hackles. “Maybe he’s not the one, Bri.”

  She stops pacing and glares at me. “Oh, please don’t take Mummy’s side.”

  “I’m not. I want you to be happy.” With her penchant for outrageous behavior, Bri needs a man who will love her and won’t be afraid to call her out when she gets a wild hair up her arse. Not someone like Anton who encourages her hijinks, no matter how immoral or illegal they may be.

  She resumes pacing while fiddling with the heirloom pearl necklace she inherited from our great grandmother, the one who commissioned the Brighton. “It’s not like I’m ever going to fall in love. I don’t think I have it in me. So what does it matter who I marry?” With that mercurial mood shift she’s famous for, she turns and flashes me a brilliant smile. “You have to admit, we’ll make beautiful children.”

  Her fiancé models with one of the top London agencies, mostly men’s underwear. As far as I can tell, his physique and smoldering good looks are the only things Anton has going for him. He certainly missed out in the brains department. But there’s no talking her out of this engagement, not now after our mother got her so riled up, Bri’s dug in her heels for good. I’ll need to come at it from another angle. “If you say so. Now, if you’ll step out so I can dress.”

  “Will do.” She lays a hand on my cheek. “Don’t know what I’d do without you, Gabe.”

  I cover her hand with my own. “You’ll never have to, love. I’ll always be there for you.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yes.”

  She sniffs as moisture pools in her eyes.

  Tears this early in the morning? Hell’s bells. I need to do something to stop the waterworks, and I know just the thing. “Is Jake out there?”

  Hr tears dry up, her lips curl. “Jake, the tyrant? Yes, he’s waiting outside for you.”

  From the start, they’ve been at each other’s throat. I suspect it’s an attraction neither will admit or give in to. And now that Brianna’s engaged, Jake Cooper will never cross that line. “Why can’t you get along with him? You know how important he is to Storm Industries.”

  She pouts. “Because he doesn’t let me have any fun.”

  “If by fun, you mean stopping you from dropping your knickers in the middle of Piccadilly and mooning the Mayor of London while pissed drunk, then yes, I agree with you. He’s no fun.”

  She stamps her stiletto-shod foot. “That was two years ago. Are you never going to let me live that down?”

  I cross my arms against my chest and calmly stare her down. “I will, once I see signs of maturity.”

  She goes back to pacing and flaps a hand. “I need to let off steam when I come home. I work hard enough in Brazil. God. The bugs, the heat, the lack of privacy. You have no idea.” She stops and swivels back to me. “Don’t I get any credit for that?”

  “Yes, you do. Now leave so I can bathe.”

  She lets out a noisy breath, but treks to the open door. But before she leaves she fires a final salvo. “Don’t know why you’re being such a prude. It’s not like I’ve never seen your naked bum before.”

  “We were kids at the time, not grown adults.” I fire back, happy to see her in a jollier mood.

  After I shower and shave, I put on the dark grey suit Parker chose for me. One suitably somber for the occasion of visiting my father at hospital, but not so dark it appears funereal. On my way out, I grab Elizabeth’s thong and bury it deep in my pockets. I’m not ready to part with her panties just yet.

  Chapter 12

  ______________

  EN ROUTE TO HOSPITAL, Brianna fills me in on her progress in Brazil where she’s worked on the wind energy project for the last six months. As wild as she’s in town, she’s the total opposite in the field—hard working, dedicated to making a project succeed.

  A large part of the credit for the SouthWind acquisition goes to her. Well, her and Royce. Early on during their work in South America, they heard rumors that SouthWind’s owner, deeming the project too expensive and needing ready cash, was eager to sell his interest in the project. As soon as they called with the news, I put my financial experts to work and we came up with an attractive financial package, heavy on cash, low on equity, which we believed the SouthWind owner would accept. And he has.

  Unfortunately, because of the short turnaround, we didn’t have enough time to divest some of our assets for cash since most of our funds are committed to existing projects. Which means we needed to borrow heavily to make this deal happen. But it will be worth it in the end. The purchase will cement our standing as a world class player in the renewable energy field, not only because of the wind farm, but because of the valuable patents attached to it.

  My father’s stroke, unfortunately, can put an end to the negotiations. The Countess voted against the deal when the Storm Industries’ board of directors discussed the acquisition, deeming it too expensive to undertake. If my father’s not lucid, she will invoke the disability clause; and, as his wife, his board voting shares will transfer to her. She would then employ her majority shareholder status to call an emergency board of directors’ meeting and delay the SouthWind purchase long enough for the negotiations to fall through. Such a move would spell disaster. If we don’t close on the deal by September 30, we’ll incur a heavy penalty. One which we can’t afford, not as extended as we are. Much like a house of cards, Storm Industries would collapse.

  The visit with our father does not reassure me. His color is not good, and although he’s talking, he’s not making much sense. Plus he’s hooked up to medical equipment to regulate his breathing and monitor his heart.

  “Daddy, it’s Bri.” Tears stream down my sister’s face.

  Father makes a sound, tries to lift his right hand, but fails miserably at it.

  “Oh, Daddy.” She cuddles his hand against her wet cheeks.

  I can’t stand seeing the misery in her eyes, so I step out in search of any doctor who can fill me in on father’s condition. I find him in Dr. Wilkinson, the head of the hospital’s stroke care unit.

  After he welcomes me into his office, he offers me a seat. But I remain standing, too wired to do anything else. “Tell me about my father’s prognosis.”

  “He’s doing as well as can be expected, Mr. Storm. We administered medicine to dissolve the clot. It will take a while, but I’m hopeful he will regain most of his faculties.” He flashes a reassuring smile, one he’s probably showered on thousands of distraught families, and totally wasted on me.

  “I don’t see any sign of that right now.”

  “His brain’s working through the trauma. In a day or two he will become more lucid, gain more control over his bodily functions, especially when he starts therapy.”

  Christ on the cross. “How much will he need?”

  “The occupational therapist will need to determine that, but my guess would be two to three hours a day, five to six days a week.”

  Good lord. That much? “And he’ll recover? Enough to make conscious decisions?”

  Leaning his elbows on the desk, the good doctor steeples his hands. “I can’t guarantee such an event, Mr. Storm, but I am hopeful.”

  In other words, he can’t promise shite. My phone rings. The Countess.

  “Thank you, doctor. Excuse me. I need to take this.”

  He rises and, still offering that dazzling smile, shakes my hand. “Of course.
”

  I step back into the corridor to take the call.

  “Ainsley.” Her name for me. My courtesy title as the oldest son of an earl. “How’s your father?”

  My hand twitches around the mobile. “He’ll be up and dancing a jig in no time.”

  “Doubt it.” She scoffs. “I need to talk to you.” As always, her voice drips pure ice.

  “We’ll make you our first stop after the hospital.”

  “We?”

  “Brianna and I.”

  “Don’t bring her. Our conversation will need to be private. And make it three. I’m tied up until then.”

  Doubt Bri will be offended by the snub. She and the Countess have never gotten along. Mainly because father doted on his little princess, while he couldn’t stand to be in the same room as his wife. “Of course.” I click off and head down the corridor to find Bri.

  When we leave the hospital, we’re mobbed by the media. Knowing they will hound us until we supply details, I brief them on our father’s condition while I cope with a visibly upset Bri. Yes, he’s suffered a stroke. We’ll know the extent of the damage in a few days. For now, he’s doing as well as can be expected. When asked about Storm Industries, I remind them I’m its COO, and my father’s health will not impact the business. On the way to The Brighton, I call my marketing director and ask her to draft a more formal statement to release before three.

  I drop off Bri back at her place where her fiancé waits for her. No doubt to offer his own special kind of comfort. As soon as Bri walks through the door, that beautiful Chanel dress will more than likely hit the floor. My sister’s never been shy about shedding her clothes.

  With time to kill before the meeting with my mother, I invite Jake to lunch at one of my favorite places to eat in London, Le Rêve.

  I call ahead and snag a reservation, so by the time we arrive, they’re expecting us.

  As soon as we walk in, Jake stops cold. His gaze bounces around, seemingly taking in every nook and cranny.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “They renovated the place.”