Kidnapped / I Got You Babe

by Jacqueline Diamond

  She wished she could turn back the clock to the summer she’d been eighteen. Only she knew there wasn’t really any point in trying to fix something she couldn’t.

  Yet, she had to wonder how different her life would have been right now if she had taken that European vacation six years ago, instead of staying home in Sugar Land and working for her father.

  So many of her friends had invaded Europe the summer before they went to college. Looking back, she knew she probably should have gone, too. She should have been in Italy, sightseeing, admiring the centuries-old marble statues of cherubs with wings and naked men with little penises that squirted long arches of water into big fountains. She should have been standing in front of those fountains, tossing in her coins and making three wishes.

  The thing was, she would’ve only had one wish—to be home in Sugar Land. That’s where Nick Logan was, and where Nick was, Diana wanted to be. She wanted to be able to see him and hope that he’d notice her. And maybe, one day, he’d speak to her, even if it was only to say, hi.

  A “hi” from Nick. She’d faint, that’s what she’d do. Just plop right down then and there and pass out. After they’d revived her, she’d remember that “hi” and cherish that single word forever and ever.

  Diana settled herself more comfortably in seat 2B. The first-class seats were cushy and big. They were perfectly suited for someone like her who wanted to lie back and do nothing but dream. Diana pressed the little button, the seat tilted back, and she closed her eyes.

  Dreams. Daydreams. Night dreams. Okay, so she had come to terms with the fact that some girls dreamed about movie stars. Others dreamed about rock stars. Why, she even had a friend, Annie, who was absolutely in love with Teddy Helms, the town’s softball coach. Annie was the worst ballplayer. She hated softball. In fact, Diana wasn’t even sure Annie knew which end of the bat to hold. Yet, every year, for the past eight, she’d been out there slugging away, and missing. Granted, she had tried to hit the ball. But it was hard for Annie to swing a bat when she was too busy drooling. And drooling was what Annie did, every single year, over Coach Helms.

  So, given the mess Annie was, Diana felt that the horrible crush she had on Nick Logan was pretty tame. In fact, it shouldn’t have been any big deal. And normally, it wouldn’t have been. Except that Nick was Charlie Logan’s youngest son, and the Logans and Smiths were sworn enemies. She wasn’t allowed to talk to Nick. And she never had. Except twice.

  Those were two moments she’d never forget.

  Nick Logan was to her what Coach Helms was to Annie. The kind of true love a girl could never have. The stuff Shakespearean tragedies were made from. Diana was Juliet and Nick her Romeo.

  She had met him at the Sugar Land Public Awareness Association dinner. That evening, despite the fact that her father, Harry Smith, owner of Smith Construction, and Charlie Logan, owner of Logan Construction, hated each other’s guts, the association honored them at an awards ceremony as the two men most responsible for Sugar Land’s growth into the twenty-first century.

  Of course, what the association didn’t realize, and would never know, was that it was Harry’s and Charlie’s fierce competitive-combative natures, and their extreme hatred for each other, that caused the rapid growth of the little town as each man tried to outdo the other to win contracts to build the biggest and the best buildings. The town’s growth had nothing to do with either man’s devotion to any civic cause.

  At the awards dinner, Charlie and Harry sat at opposite ends of the long head table where they glared at each other like two scarred-up roosters getting ready for a cockfight

  Nick, his older brothers, younger sister and his mother, were seated with Diana at one of the fifty round tables on the floor.

  Mrs. Logan, and Nick’s brothers, ignored her. His little sister stared at her, and Nick, who sat next to her, talked to her throughout the meal, despite the sharp looks thrown at him by his mother.

  Diana knew, even at the vulnerable age of sweet sixteen, that her life had changed forever.

  She talked to Nick all evening. She even danced with him once, a slow dance, where they were almost, but not quite, touching. She had fallen in love with him and there would never be anyone else for her because no one could possibly compare to Nick Logan. No one.

  So for the next two years she had reminisced about his deep voice, and how it washed over her. She thought how his skin, all muscled and tan from working for his father that summer, would feel touching her. She replayed their one dance over and over again in her mind. She’d imagine conversations they’d have. She’d imagine scenarios where he would one day spot her in a group of people and point her out and say, “Oh, Diana, my love, I’ve been dreaming about you forever. Where have you been, my darling?”

  Of course, she knew it wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t happen. But dreams never hurt anyone.

  Then came the White Envelope Incident.

  Diana had worked for her father the summer before college, the same summer she didn’t go to Europe. He had been building an apartment complex on Elm Street.

  Nick had been working for his dad that summer building a shopping center right across the street from her dad’s project.

  Diana always waved to him in the morning and at night when she went home. But she absolutely couldn’t talk to him.

  Diana knew she had the best possible job. She was great at answering the phones, typing envelopes, paying the utility bills. For a bonus she got to watch Nick work on the construction crew across the street Nick had a way with a hammer, and what he did with a tool belt was almost obscene.

  When Nick shucked off his shirt in the summer heat, his skin glistening in the hot, humid air, she about died of heat exposure herself.

  His jeans rode low on his slender hips. She wanted more than anything to be able to touch him, to span the warm flesh and hard muscle with her own hands. Her fingers itched with longing to scrape her nails along the sides of his chest, down to his hips, and sink her fingers below. To feel his warm flesh against her skin, to follow the trail her fingers made with her lips, to taste him, to lavish her tongue and lips along his skin, yearning to discover if his skin was soft or hard, salty or sweet

  She even liked when he wore his yellow hard hat over his dark wavy hair. But when he pulled the hat off, and ran his fingers through his hair, she moaned with longing, wishing it were her he was running those fingers over.

  Her friends could keep Europe. As far as Diana was concerned, watching Nick Logan was all the sightseeing she needed.

  And everything was going so fine, too, until the White Envelope Incident. Her father and Nick’s father, along with several other builders, had submitted sealed bids on the Stratford-upon-the-Brazos condominium project.

  It had been her job to put the Smith Construction bid in the envelope and take the sealed envelope to the courthouse where it would be held until the day all the bids were opened.

  Logan Construction won the contract. That wasn’t any big deal, normally. Both companies regularly beat each other out, so she didn’t think too much about it.

  Until, weeks later, she’d seen the developer, Mr. Stratford at the annual charity fund-raiser benefiting the saving of the Brazos River alligator. He pulled her aside and told her he had opened the sealed white envelope and found a check for six hundred ninety-two dollars and fifty-nine cents made out to the electric company.

  Now, Mr. Stratford, being the brilliant man he was, realized immediately that the check wasn’t a bribe. The amount was way too small for bribery. Not to mention the fact that the check was made out to the electric company. So Mr. Stratford, one of the most powerful men in the real estate business, forwarded the check Diana had mistakenly put in the bid envelope on to the proper place, and never said a word to anyone about it, until he’d seen Diana at the fund-raiser.

  Mr. Stratford understood her total humiliation and embarrassment, and he swore he’d keep her horrible mistake a secret for life, which meant he’d never tell her father�
��as long as Diana promised never to apply for a job with any company he owned. He even handed her a list, one he’d typed himself so his secretary wouldn’t know, of his companies, and asked her to memorize it. Throughout the next six years he’d sent her updates of new acquisitions and told her which businesses she could delete from the list. That man was serious.

  So Diana had never told her father about the White Envelope Incident. How could she? How do you say, “Gee, I’m sorry. I was so distracted when I was ogling Nick’s butt, I shoved the electric bill in the Stratford condominium-bid envelope, and the bid in the electric-bill envelope. Then I sealed all the envelopes. You understand, Dad, don’t you? It wasn’t just a plain, ordinary-looking butt, Nick’s was a magnificent butt. So if you were ever angry about not getting the contract to build the Stratford condos, don’t be. You were never in the running.”

  From the moment Mr. Stratford told her about the White Envelope Incident, her life had been nothing but one “Incident” after another. And the saddest part of all was that she had never seen Nick again. Except, that is, in her dreams.

  1

  IF DIANA had been asked, she could have told the president of Yale that as far as explosions went, the Yale University Lab Incident was insignificant. It hadn’t been as bad as the Brown University Incident, nor as damaging as the Oxford Incident. The worst so far had certainly been the Princeton Incident. So Diana couldn’t figure out why everybody was getting so riled up.

  But riled was exactly the president’s state of mind when he had ordered her to remove herself from the university.

  Coming home had been nice in a way. Over the last six years she had been to eight universities, and while she was away she’d lost the sense of belonging anywhere. She needed to have a connection to someone, someplace, and the only person who had ever provided her with that connection was her father.

  So, on her first morning back home, she woke up feeling on top of the world, glad to be alive, and ready to get on with what was sure to be the next “Incident” in her life.

  Diana headed down the hallway toward the kitchen, and wasn’t surprised when she ran into her father as he headed the same way. “Good morning, Daddy. Boy, I missed you.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek and a big hug. “I’m so glad to be back home.”

  “I paid Professor Masters up there at Yale to watch out for you, Diana. To make sure you didn’t blow anything up again. I forked over good, hard-earned cash.”

  So much for a good morning, nice to see you. “I know you did. But maybe you didn’t pay him enough,” she suggested. “Sometimes when you offer to build a wing—”

  “You don’t think ten thousand, on top of tuition is enough? Any more would be extortion.” Harry looked as if he’d explode himself.

  “You’re right,” Diana said, wanting to calm him down. Her father didn’t realize these incidents were totally out of her control, and had been since the first one, the White Envelope Incident. “When I leave for Duke, you might want to consider hiring a watchdog to watch over the watchdog that’s watching over me.”

  He stared at her, his mouth slack.

  “Bad idea?”

  “Come with me, Diana.” He turned in the opposite direction, and headed back down the hallway toward the living room. “You and I have to have a long talk.”

  “Now? I thought we’d get some coffee, and I wanted to see Alicia.” Alicia had been their housekeeper since before Harry had made his first million. Diana’s mother had still been alive back then. Her mom died when Diana was eight, and Alicia had stayed to take care of her. She was receiving a salary, but she was still part of the family.

  “Right now,” her father said. “I want to talk about your future. I want to get it over with.”

  “My future after I get my degree? You want to talk about this now, even though it might not be for another two or three years?” In theory, she only had one year left until she could get her bachelor of science degree. Only, with her, one year could stretch into many.

  “No. Your future as of right now. Tomorrow.”

  The lines on his face seemed more pronounced than they’d been six months ago just before she had left for Yale. She hoped she hadn’t put them there. “I’m sorry I worried you, Daddy. That was never my intention.”

  “Diana.” Harry held out his hand.

  She grabbed on to his familiar callused fingers the same way she had as a child. Like a chain-link fence. Sturdy. Dependable. Held to the ground with steel. He had always been her rock. The man who could fix anything, take care of all her little foibles. Her father. Her lifeline.

  “You’re so creative,” he said. “You can do so many things. Did you ever stop and think that chemistry might not be where your talents lie?” he asked.

  “Absolutely not.” She let go of his hand and stepped back. “I’ve had more successes than failures. It’s only that when I have a failure, my failures are so…so…combustible.”

  “You always did lean toward the overdramatic.” He sighed.

  “Overdramatic? Me?” Realistic, yes. Overdramatic, hardly.

  He looked grim. “Maybe I’ve been blinded by my faith in you, and what I always thought you could do. Maybe you hoodwinked me.”

  “Me?” Her voice rose two octaves. “Hoodwink you? No way.” Oh, God, she thought Had he somehow found out about the White Envelope Incident?

  “Sheila says you’ve been pulling the wool over my eyes for years.”

  “A-a-a-h.” She was still safe. He didn’t know. “Now I see where this is going. Sheila.” The name of his new wife said it all. Sheila had made it plain at their wedding six months ago that she considered Diana a liability. A tie with Harry’s past that would best be gotten rid of. Well, Diana wouldn’t let her get away with it She reminded her father, “I’m your daughter.”

  “She’s my wife.”

  “Wife number five,” Diana scornfully pointed out Wives were an expendable commodity to her father.

  “Now, now, Diana.” He sounded conciliatory. “She’s only trying to help. Be a nice girl.”

  “Girl? I’m not a girl anymore, Dad. I’m a woman. Twenty-four. And as far as being nice, well, Nice is my middle name.”

  “To some you might be, but Sheila thinks you could be a little nicer.”

  “Okay, I’ll be nicer.” Diana didn’t have a clue what Sheila was talking about, but there was no point discussing this with her dad. She had long ago learned that arguing about any of his current wives was like a failed experiment Both seemed to blow up in her face. Her father stayed in love and had complete loyalty to every one of his wives, right up until the divorce.

  The only wife who had never divorced him was her mother. Harry had been so in love with Elizabeth, he’d been trying to find another wife just like her. With no success.

  He gazed at her in pity. “I only hope I’m not too late. We should have talked after that disaster in Boston.”

  “You mean the Harvard Incident. I thought you understood that Christine was a good friend.”

  “You have to understand,” he said, “that you never take it upon yourself to redesign the chancellor’s daughter. I wish your mother were here. I wasn’t equipped to teach you social skills.”

  “Daddy, I was helping Christine. She wanted to try for the blond look. That’s all. So I took out my permanent hairdye formula and mixed up the ingredients. Everything worked fine until she went outside to smoke a cigarette. Everyone knows smoking is bad for you.”

  “You set her on fire.”

  “I did not I was in the house. She set her hair on fire, and I was quick enough to get the fire extinguisher and put the flames out I should have been hailed a hero.”

  “You were thrown out of Harvard.”

  “Ingrates,” she mumbled. “I explained to her family that her hair would grow back. In time. How could I know that they were going to meet Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip the next day? That’s the problem, Dad, Americans have an obsession with British royalty.”


  “They were meeting the queen of England. They had reason to be upset.”

  “I’ve lived in England, so I can say it’s no big deal.” That had been before the Oxford Incident. The chemistry professor at Oxford had been asking her out for weeks, and she had been turning him down. One day she was working in the lab when he stood next to her and whispered, “Douse the flame.” Diana thought he had told her to arouse his flame. There was no way she was going to arouse anything about that man, especially not his flame. When she pushed him aside, he knocked into the burner, which tipped and set the chemicals on fire. He had blamed her, of course.

  But the way she looked at it, she couldn’t really be held responsible for someone else’s accent problem. “Christine looked fine,” Diana told her dad. “Even if having a shaved head wasn’t the look she was after.” So the Harvard Incident became history, and she had gone on to Brown University.

  “That’s exactly my point Your attitude. It’s as if you expect to be thrown out of school, as if you expect failure. I should have talked to you earlier, only I didn’t think about it. Not until Sheila pointed out my own failure as a father.”

  “I won’t have you talking like that.” Now she was getting angry. “First of all, you’re not a failure. Failure is not an option. That’s the motto you and I both live by. Remember?”

  “There comes a time when you have to admit defeat and move on.”

  “I’m not ready.”

  “Sheila says—”

  “Sheila’s all wrong no matter what she says.” Diana had her hands on her hips, and they stood facing each other in the hallway, neither moving. Neither giving in.

  “Sheila said I don’t have control over the situation.”

  “You have control. You’ve always been in control. You and I are in this together. You know that if I’m going to discover something that would make the world a better place to live in, then accidents are a risk. I will make you proud of me.”

  Diana’s ideas had always been sound, her intent sincere. It wasn’t her fault that some of her experiments—well, a lot of her experiments—went up in flames.