Storm Damages

by Magda Alexander

  More than likely her allegations are false, but I’ll need to discuss them with Royce to determine the truth. Unfortunately. he’s off doing prep work on our next project in a place where electronic communications are spotty at best. So I’ll speak to the next best thing. Bri. As soon as I reach the Brighton, I dial her.

  “Gabe.” She’s out of breath. No doubt in my mind what she’s up to. ““What’s wrong? It’s not daddy, is it?” Her voice trembles.

  I hurry to assure her. “No. It’s not him. I’m in the penthouse. Can you come up?”

  She moans as a man grunts in the background. “Now? I’m sort of busy, darling.”

  Clearly. “Yes. Now.” She can fuck Anton after our discussion.

  “All right. Be up in fifteen.”

  My hand is still trembling when I pour more of the Hennessy into a snifter and toss back the brandy. Why do I allow the Countess to affect me so? I’m a grown man of thirty two, not a helpless child under her control. Hoping to steer my mood from the darkness, I scroll through my phone messages and find one from Elizabeth. “Hope your dad is doing well. Sending healing prayers his way.” The tightness in my chest eases. Just the thought of her calms me down.

  Bri arrives wearing a turquoise blouse, pink slacks and matching stiletto heels at least five inches high. Her spiked, short hair gleams wet. Hopefully, from a shower and gel.

  When she leans in to kiss both cheeks, her Clive Christian perfume envelops me, reminding me of the luscious, gardenia-scented Elizabeth. For a moment, I revel in the memory of the cat-eyed temptress who refused to accept my dinner offer. I would have talked her into it. Of that I have no doubt. After dinner, I would have caressed her velvety skin, tasted her luscious lips. Made love to her. But now, after my mother’s dictate, she seems unreachable. Every cell in my body revels against such a thought.

  Picking up on my distress, Bri curls a hand around my cheek. “Darling, what’s wrong?”

  Her unfortunate choice of words disrupts my hard-gained peace. I jerk away from her healing touch, and pour more brandy. “Bri, do me a favor. Stop calling me darling.”

  The corners of her lips turn down as she sits next to me. “What did mummy dearest say to get you so worked up?” She’s never experienced the full wrath of our mother. Our father made sure of that. But still the Countess managed to inflict sufficient damage on Bri’s psyche for her to lash out in self destructive ways. Her promiscuity and exhibitionism punch the one two card. The third is this insane engagement of hers.

  I swirl the cognac in the snifter while I carefully choose my words. “She said something about Royce.”

  Her eyes widen. “Royce? What about him?”

  “She told me he bribed a government official to vote our way on the Brazilian auction.”

  Her body stiffens. Outrage pours out of her every pore. “That’s not true.”

  “How do you know?”

  Her right arm flails in a wide sweep. “He wouldn’t do such a thing. He knows how important this deal is to us.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek to keep my frustration in check. “Maybe he thought to help things along. She mentioned money was exchanged.”

  “With whom?”

  “A Pedro Cinqhero.”

  “Oh.” A manicured fingernail lands in her mouth and she proceeds to chew the hell out of its tip. Not good, not good at all.

  A muscle ticks in my jaw. “Did money exchange hands, Bri?”

  Her shoulders slump. She focuses on the carpet, before meeting my eyes once more. “Well, yes, but not as a bribe.”

  I scrub my face. On three hours’ sleep, I’m on my last nerve. “What happened?”

  “You know Royce. He was doing his level best to hump every unattached female in the region.”

  Carrying on the family tradition, my brother. “And?”

  “Well, one of the women was the daughter of a local government official.”

  “Pedro Cinqhero.” I let out a resigned sigh.

  “Yes. Carmen got pregnant and she named Royce as the father, even though I know for a fact she was sleeping with someone else.” Her voice’s gone high and tight.

  “Of course she picked Royce. He’s probably richer than whoever else she was fucking.”

  “By a league, dar-. Yes, pretty much. Her other lover was a sugar cane worker. Her father demanded money from Royce to cover the cost of the baby and his daughter’s pain and suffering.”

  “How much?”

  “Errr.” Usually I applaud her sense of loyalty, but not today.

  I lean into her. “How much, Bri?”

  “10,000 pounds.”

  Fuck. “Tell me he paid in cash.”

  “Sorry, love. He had no way of getting that much that quick so he wrote a cheque.”

  Bollocks! I toss back the last of the brandy.

  “If it’s any consolation, I’m pretty sure the baby’s not his. She married the sugar cane worker and they built a house.”

  “With Royce’s money?”

  “Yes. Turns out that’s all she really wanted. A house of her own.” She touches my arm, a soothing gesture of sorts. “So what’s mummy threatening?”

  “To bring the sorry story to life, claiming the money was a bribe for the government vote to turn our way.”

  She gasps. “Why would she do that? It will destroy Storm Industries.”

  I let out a mirthless laugh. “Because she can.”

  “She’s insane. You do know that, Gabe. She hasn’t been right since Edward’s death. You”—she gulps hard— “We need to do something about her.”

  Our mother hadn’t been right since before then, but her mental faculties deteriorated further after my brother was killed. Much as I’d like to agree with Bri, not to the level of insanity. And even if she were, I could never take the necessary steps to commit her. She might be evil, but she’s still our mother. “Her mental health’s been compromised, but she’s not insane. At least not certifiably so. If only Edward had lived, if only things turned out differently, if only ...” I lift a shaking hand to my brow as my head pounds with the old familiar pain.

  “Edward’s death was not your fault.”

  “But it was, Bri. If it weren’t for me, he would still be alive.”

  After Bri leaves, I debate what to do. It will take time to declare my father unfit, but while the process makes its way through the courts, the whole thing would play out in the papers. And that would have an impact on the negotiations. I can’t take a chance on that happening, so I must devise a plan to spike her guns.

  I call Jake, ask him to locate Royce and bring him to London so I can explain my strategy. Afterward, we’ll fly him to Brazil to get a sworn account of the truth from Mr. Cinqhero and his daughter.

  We’ll also need to speed up the negotiations. But with my father’s precarious health, I can’t leave England. If he has another stroke, a fatal one, the Countess will make her move. No. I’ll have to remain in London. So the discussions will have to come to us.

  Having made that decision, I dial Carrey.

  “Thomas Carrey’s office.” Elizabeth.

  Her voice soothes and excites me, and I’m transported back to two days ago when I held her in my arms. “Hello, love.”

  “Mr. Storm! How’s your father?”

  “As well as can be expected. I miss you.”

  “I’m so glad to hear that.” Her tone is all business, but the tremble in her voice gives her away.

  Does she know how much I’m able to tell what she’s feeling by that little hitch in her voice?

  “Would you like to talk to Mr. Carrey? He’s standing right here in front of me.”

  “I’m hard and aching for you.”

  “He’s going into his office. He’ll pick up any second.” Her tone rises. Alarm tinges her voice.

  “I’ll call you tonight.” A click later and Carrey’s on the line.

  “How’s your father?”

  I provide the same answer I gave Elizabeth.

 
“Good to hear.”

  “Given my father’s condition, I’m unable to leave England, but I don’t want the negotiations to drag. I’m sure you don’t either. Would you be up to traveling to London with your team? At our expense, of course.” The outlay would be no different than the cost to fly our group to Washington, D.C.

  “I understand. Let me look at our calendars, coordinate with my people, and I’ll get back to you by tomorrow morning.”

  “Thank you, Thomas. I appreciate your cooperation.”

  Carrey’s no fool. He knows how eager we are to conclude this deal. But then so is he. Neither of us wants his client to get second thoughts about selling such lucrative assets.

  No sooner do I hang up with him than my phone rings. Nicole. The actress I escorted to a premiere a couple of weeks ago.

  “Hello, ducks. Heard you were back in town.”

  Probably from the press conference I gave at the hospital. “You heard right.”

  “I’m so sorry about your father. Hope it’s not too serious.”

  Not serious at all. He may drool out of the right side of his mouth and pee into a catheter for the rest of his life, but other than that, he’s fine. I give her my pat answer. “He’s doing as well as can be expected.”

  “That’s good. Listen, I’m having a small party at my place tonight and was wondering if you’d like to come.”

  “A small party?”

  “Really small. Just me and you.” Her sultry voice promises all kinds of delights.

  “Umm, that is small. But I’m afraid I can’t make it. Busy.”

  “Well, how about tomorrow night?”

  “No, I’ll be busy tomorrow too. As a matter of fact, I’ll be busy for a while.”

  “You’re brushing me off?” Her tone rises a couple of decibels and her accent descends to her cockney roots.

  “If it walks like a duck, and talks like a duck.”

  “You’re a bastard, you know that?”

  “Wish I were, ducks, wish I were.” I hang up while she’s still screeching into the phone. Before this week, I would have taken her up on the offer, gone to her flat and shagged her properly. But I can’t, not anymore. I can’t settle for anything but the best. And the best is Elizabeth.

  Loosening my tie, I head for a shower to get the stink from my mother’s place off my skin. After which I’ll eat a nice meal and wait for the time to pass until I can call Elizabeth and talk dirty to her.

  Chapter 15

  ______________

  Elizabeth

  IT’S BEEN TWO WEEKS AND SOME CHANGE after Storm left. And every night he’s called to talk dirty to me. Oh, that’s not all we do. We discuss other things as well—his sister and brother, music, art, food. He doesn’t say much about his father or mother which tells me more about his relationship with them than he would like me to know.

  When he first called, I declined to say more than a “How’s your father?” and hanging up after getting a “He’s progressing nicely” in return. But one night he hooked me with a funny story about a dog he had growing up. How he knew I love dogs is beyond me. After that, I waited breathlessly by the phone every day at midnight. If I had an early start in the morning or was exhausted after a long day, he respected that and talked for only fifteen minutes or so. But on the weekends we went on for hours.

  And that’s not all, he’s sent me gifts, often funny, sometimes expensive. One day I’d get an e-card with a joke. The next, a box of gardenia-scented bath products, the same brand I use, which proves he pays attention to the things a woman loves.

  Even though he promises to show me London, take me on out on the town, we both know that’s not going to happen. Nothing has changed. I’m still employed by Smith Cannon. He’s still on the other side of the deal. It’s a huge conflict of interest to be with him, no matter how much I hunger for his kiss and crave his touch.

  Restless and antsy and with nothing more to pack, I decide a beer and burger at Joe’s Bar & Grill across the street might be just the thing. The place is crazy busy. No surprise. The Nats have a road game tonight and TVs blare with the game. Six of them in the packed dining area alone. Rather than wait in line for a table, I opt for the bar which has three sets of its own.

  Joe himself is behind the counter, and he greets me with a handshake and a kiss on the cheek. Casey and I have been friends with him since we moved in a couple of years ago. The food arrives piping hot, the fries crispy, the burger nice and juicy, just the way I like them. I dig in hoping that tomorrow I don’t pay for all the grease.

  A half hour later, finally sleepy after eating such heavy food, I bid goodnight to Joe. Just as I’m signing the credit card slip, a woman approaches me.

  “Hi.” She’s swaying on her feet. Drunk much?

  Rather than brush her off, I’m polite. “Hi.”

  “You look very familiar.” She points her bottle of beer at me.

  “Do I?”

  For a second she squints and then her eyes widen. “I know. You’re ‘my girl.’”

  “Beg your pardon?” I’ve never been another woman’s girl.

  “Not mine, silly.” She weaves side to side. Just how many beers has this chick had? “Tall, blond, Brit. Fuckin’ gorgeous.”

  Storm? But wait. When did she talk to him?

  “He paid for our drinks.” She gestures behind her, toward a table where two women sit staring bug-eyed at us.

  What!!! “He did?”

  “Yep. And then he asked us to do him a favor.” She winks at me.

  “A favor?”

  “Yeah.”

  Her beer belch almost knocks me off my feet, but totally invested in what she’s saying, I ignore it. “What favor?” It better not be what I’m thinking it is.

  “He said, he said.” Her brow wrinkles as if she’s trying hard to remember. “He said he’d done something stupid and you were mad at him and he wanted to apologize, but you wouldn’t let him in the house.” A triumphant smile lights up her face, like she’s proud she remembered.

  “Oh?”

  “So he asked us to follow him outside.” Swaying some more, she points to the door.

  Oh, for Pete’s sake. I know where the damn door is. “So what else did he say?”

  “That he would yell into his phone and we were to stare and talk to each other. Me and my friends.” She points to them again and waves. They wave back.

  “And?” I fold my arms across my chest and stab my foot into the floor.

  “He said you hated nota—nota—notoriety and you’d haul him inside in a heartbeat. And you did!”

  Yes, I certainly had. That son of a bitch. “Thanks for telling me.”

  “Any time.” She turns around and yells at her friends. “Hey, guys.” She points to me. “My girl.”

  I haul ass out of the bar before they come over because, seriously, if I have to talk to them, I may hurl.

  Chapter 16

  ______________

  THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON finds me on a British Airways flight to London’s Heathrow Airport. Unfortunately, as soon as the plane takes off, my stomach revolts. I chalk it up to the burger and fries and the upset that caused me a sleepless night. Somehow I manage to beat back the nausea until the plane reaches cruising altitude. But as soon as the seat belt light comes off, I race to the lavatory and barf. Thankfully, nobody from work notices my wild dash up the aisle. The four attorneys have first class seats, and, although she’s flying coach same as me, CeCe’s two rows down.

  Not eager to chance another go round with the toilet-bowl-in-the-sky, I turn down the dinner service. The in-flight movie fails to hold my interest, so I dig out my e-reader. But when I read the same screen three times, I know that’s a no-go as well. So is sleep. No matter how hard I try to clear my mind, it churns with dark thoughts over Storm’s treachery.

  At Heathrow, we’re greeted at the baggage reclaim area by the two limo drivers Storm Industries arranged to pick us up. Soon, they’re whisking the six of us to our hotel in Mayf
air where the negotiations are scheduled to take place.

  Beyond exhausted from the lack of sleep on the plane and the tossing and turning the night before, I go through check in at the hotel on automatic pilot. As soon as I get to my room, I intend to take a nap.

  But that goal changes when the bellhop escorts me to the Park Suite. I’m beyond surprised at my accommodations. A basket filled to the brim with fruit and cheese rests on the dining table along with two bottles of cider. A welcome gift from the hotel, the bellhop’s quick to point out. Fair enough. But that doesn’t explain the rest of the space. The darn thing’s bigger than a studio apartment I once lived in, and boasts a wood-paneled sitting room, dining area, and a white marble bathroom, as well as a bedroom fit for a king.

  This doesn’t make sense. The confirmation email I received from the hotel described a Queen bedroom with a bathroom and not much else, certainly nothing resembling this elegant space with a balcony and breathtaking view of Hyde Park.

  Something’s seriously wrong.

  I pick up the room phone to call the front desk, but my shoes choose that moment to pinch, reminding me I’ve worn the same clothes over twelve hours. Grungy from the trip, I reassess my priorities. Screw it. I’m taking a bath and then I’ll figure things out. On the way to the bathroom, I snag a strawberry from the fruit basket and bite into it. Just as I’m about to slip into the tub, a knock sounds on the door. Who the hell could it be? Nobody knows I’m here.

  I throw on the soft terry robe, stroll across the space and open the door. And just like that the air whooshes from my lungs.

  Storm, more beautiful than ever, in a gorgeous two-piece midnight blue suit, button down silk shirt, silver tie. A jewel in his tie clip winks aquamarine, the exact color of his eyes. I’m supposed to be mad, but for a moment I’m lost in the glory, the splendor, the sheer virility of him.

  “Elizabeth.” His nostrils flare when he says my name.

  “Storm.” Somehow, I manage to breathe.