Ballet Shoes and Engine Grease

by Tatiana March

  “Look, I know it is—”

  He cut her off. “No. You look.” He bent close to her once more. She could see fury snapping in the dark eyes beneath the level black brows. He spoke clearly and precisely, suppressing whatever emotions roiled inside him. “There is nothing you can do to tempt me to help you. I don’t care if you dance bare ass naked on the boardroom table. The answer is no. Now, will you please get out of my apartment and leave me alone.”

  Clip, clip, clip. High heels clattered in trough the open doorway at the far end of the room. Crimson watched Myrna Constantine walk up to his son. Embarrassment flooded her at the thought that the woman had been listening in on the conversation, hearing Nick’s justified anger and her inability to defuse the hostility of the situation.

  “Nicky, darling, it’s not that simple,” Myrna said.

  A shiver ran through Crimson as she saw Nick rake both hands through his tangled hair, the muscles on his arms knotting with the motion. She’d never realized how deep an impact her afternoon talks by Uncle Stephan’s sickbed had made in her. When she’d stayed at Longwood Hall, he’d taken her into his confidence. You’re the only one I can talk to about my son, he had told her. She’d been a fool to be such a captive audience, letting fascination for a stranger to take root in her mind, based on nothing but a pile of photographs and a dying man’s reminiscing.

  “Yes, mother darling,” came Nick’s mocking reply. “It is that simple. She’ll try to run the company. She’ll fail. The money goes to charity. You can get a job, you can live off me—on a budget, mind you—or you can find a new husband. Take your pick.”

  A flicker of resentment drifted across Myrna Constantine’s elegant features as she glared at her son. “And how do you think the charity that gets the company is going to go about converting Constantine Motors into cash?”

  “Sell it to the highest bidder, I guess.” Nick’s bare shoulders shifted in a small shrug that summed up his inability to do anything about the situation. “I don’t care.”

  “I think you will.” Myrna Constantine moved away from her son, as if anticipating an explosion. “It will be sold to Ballard Automotive. Your father set it up.”

  Nick froze. Beneath the tan, his face paled. A pulse jumped at his throat. From the way his chest stopped moving, Crimson could tell he wasn’t even breathing. She edged toward the archway, seeking safety from the surge of rage that she suspected might tear the room apart at any moment.

  The outburst never came. She watched, fascinated, as Nick struggled to bring himself under control. His chest began to rise and fall again. His lips moved, and a second later, he spoke in a quiet, even tone.

  “So, David Ballard gets the company. Well, well, well. Isn’t that winner takes all. I don’t think my father could have sent me a clearer message. He thought no more of me than he might have thought of a bug that he quashed under his foot. Rejecting me while he was alive was not enough. His resentment ran deep enough to reject me even in death.”

  “Nicky, please.”

  A wan smile tugged at his lips. “It’s all right, Mother. I’ll live. And so will you.” He turned to Crimson. “Now, ladies, if you please, run along and leave me alone. I have an appointment with a bottle of Scotch.” Averting his gaze, he eased past her, into the hallway, and vanished through an open doorway into what Crimson assumed was his bedroom.

  ****

  Forget him, ignore him, Crimson told herself as she fled the scene of the confrontation, leaving mother and son to fight it out. And yet, unwelcome emotions churned inside her, making her tremble. Her mind clung to the image of Nick Constantine, bare-chested, dangerously attractive even in his disheveled state.

  When he’d brushed past her, seeking the privacy of his bedroom, she’d seen the stony expression on his face, and now it ate at her conscience. Although he had tried to hide it, she had seen the glint of hurt in his eyes. To her dismay, she ached with the need to do everything in her power to make his pain go away.

  Those feelings were best forgotten.

  For they would only serve to break her heart.

  She reached the entrance to the stairwell, flung the door open and pounded down the two short flights to the next floor below. Her breath began to wheeze, and she slowed down as she raced along the carpeted corridor. She found the front door to Myrna Constantine’s apartment ajar and hurried inside. There was no sign of her mother.

  “Mom, where are you?” she called out.

  “In here, honey.”

  Crimson followed the voice, located her mother rifling through the racks of clothing in an octagonal, marble floored dressing room lined with full height mirrors.

  “It’s all beige,” Esmeralda said, her hands busily shunting the designer garments along the rail. “Or ivory, or gray, or black, or white. Not a single thing in red.” She gestured with her chin toward the built-in drawers on the opposite wall. “Not even underwear.”

  Crimson spoke in an angry whisper. “Mom, you can’t snoop like that.”

  “Oh, Myrna won’t mind.”

  “I’m sure she will.” Crimson seized her mother by the elbow and hauled her into the living room. Decorated in muted colors, furnished with dainty, bow legged sofas and side tables topped with silver framed photographs, it contrasted with the simple, uncluttered masculinity of Nick’s apartment.

  They were only just in time. With the clip of high heels, Myrna Constantine breezed in. “Crimson, I’m so glad to see you here,” she said, a steely smile curving her pink lips. “Nick sends his apologies. We surprised him at a bad time. He’ll help you run the business. Of course he will.”

  Crimson gritted her teeth. She knew with utter certainty that Nick had sent no apology. If he had his choice, he’d send her straight to hell. And there was no of course about him helping her to do anything at all, except perhaps jump off a tall building.

  A sense of despair washed over her. She hated it all. Hated being tangled up in a family feud. Hated being used as an instrument of hurt. Hated Uncle Stephan for his sinister plotting. Hated her mother for having married a rich man and catapulting them both into a world where they didn’t belong. Hated Myrna for just standing there, cool and composed, telling lies with a face as innocent as the Easter Bunny.

  All her life, Crimson had struggled to maintain dignity. She’d worn good manners like a suit of armor, attempting to overcome the stigma of a hard drinking father who couldn’t hold down a job and a chatterbox mother who dressed like a teenage cheerleader. Now, her carefully cultivated restraint fell away, just as it had fallen away at the lawyer’s office earlier in the day.

  “Don’t bullshit me, Myrna,” she snapped.

  Something flickered in the older woman’s cool blue eyes. Respect, it might have been. If possible, Myrna stood even straighter. “All right,” she admitted. “I was being polite. And perhaps a touch optimistic. But Nick will come around. You’ll see.” Her finely shaped brows drew into a frown. “He has to. There is no other way.”

  Crimson exhaled, letting her shoulders slump. “Yes, there is. I’m walking away from this mess. Let them spend hundred and fifty million teaching a bunch of women how to beat the crap out of each other. If girl power means entering the boxing ring, it’s fine with me.”

  Myrna’s chin rose. “You will not give up without trying, Crimson. I forbid you.”

  Her mother waved her arms like a pair of red flags. “Crimson, honey, I don’t know why Stephan did what he did but you can’t let him down by not giving it your best shot…”

  Crimson protested, but they wore away her resistance—Myrna with steely demands couched in polite words, Esmeralda with gushing, tearful pleas. They cajoled, they prodded and begged, until they had extracted from her a reluctant promise to co-operate.

  Then Myrna tracked down the lawyer at his home, and a telephone conversation set in motion the arrangements to install Crimson Mills as the new CEO of Constantine Motors.

  Back to Contents

  Chapter Three


  Crimson sat wedged between Myrna and Esmeralda in the limo that hummed along the rain-slicked highway toward Longwood. Last night, she had slept in one the twin beds in Myrna’s guestroom, with her mother sleeping in the other bed, separated from her only by a narrow gap with a nightstand. Short of chaining her to the radiator, those two could not have made it clearer that they were acting as her jailers.

  The limo exited the highway, ran through the center of the small, bustling town, and slowed down along a short road that ended in parking lot. Crimson ducked to look out of the window. Green lawns. A medium sized glass building, very modern, two stories, sparkling from the light summer shower that had just passed. Behind it, two industrial looking halls, with rows of cars parked outside. Here and there, she spotted a low vehicle with big wheel arches and a long, low hood, a bit like something out of a prohibition era movie.

  Myrna pointed at one. “That’s a Constantine Panther.”

  “I’ve seen one before,” Crimson replied.

  “Stephan’s car.” Esmeralda yawned. “It’s in the garage at Longwood Hall.”

  “That car is vintage. Insured for half a million dollars.” Myrna smiled at Crimson. “It’s a company asset. Yours to drive, if you like a manual shift with lots of power.”

  Crimson made a non-committal sound. There would be time later on to reveal that she didn’t know how to drive. “Thanks,” she muttered, and consulted her notes as the limo came to a halt. “I’ll be meeting with Peter Tomlinson. Head of finance and administration.” She checked her watch. “It’s almost eleven o’clock. I’d better hurry.”

  “Do you want us to come with you, honey?”

  Crimson turned to her mother, who was dressed in the same red outfit as yesterday. She’d been able to do marginally better herself, with a short black skirt, white blouse, cropped black jacket, and medium heeled leather pumps. Myrna had offered to lend her something more formal, but she’d turned down the opportunity to raid the beige wardrobe.

  Taking a deep breath, Crimson shoved the notes into her tote bag and told Myrna and Esmeralda that she’d prefer going in alone. She said goodbye, jumped out, took a moment to bend down at the driver’s window and thank the swarthy young man to whom she’d not spoken a single word up to now. Then she straightened and marched into battle.

  “Break a leg,” Esmeralda yelled after her.

  “Telephone when you need the limo to pick you up,” Myrna called out.

  Crimson forced her feet to move along the cement path up to the rain-dotted glass door, pushed it open and entered the building. A tall, lean man with neatly combed brown hair and a friendly smile hurried toward her, his footsteps thudding across the stone floor of the lobby. He wore a suit and tie, but she got the impression that his everyday work attire might be more casual.

  “Miss Mills?” he asked.

  “That’s me.” She paused, exhaled a sigh. “Sorry. I’m nervous. The last time I had an office job was handing out Christmas parcels at the Post Office when I was sixteen.”

  The man’s smile widened into a grin. “You’ll find this a breeze in comparison. Being the CEO is easy. You tell us what to do, and if it goes wrong, it’s our fault.”

  Her tension eased a notch. “I think I can handle that. Apart from telling you what to do. I haven’t got a clue of what goes on in here.”

  “We’ll work on it.” He lowered his voice. “Just to put you in the picture, Miss Mills, I know what your role in the company will be, but no one else does. I thought you might enjoy being incognito on your first visit. I’ve organized a staff meeting for Friday morning. That will give you tomorrow to prepare, but it will break the news to the employees before the weekend. As you can guess, gossip is rife, and your visit will start a flurry of speculation that must not be allowed to sap the morale.”

  “Very sensible,” Crimson replied, and wondered what would happen to the morale when the employees discovered that their new leader was a ballet dancer who knew nothing about business and couldn’t even drive a car.

  Peter Tomlinson gestured deeper into the building. “This way, Miss Mills. I thought you might like a tour first. Afterward, I’ll introduce you to Anna Symonds, your assistant. I’ll just tell her that you’re a visitor using the CEO’s office.”

  “Please. It’s Crimson.”

  “Thanks. I’m Peter. We’re all on first names here.”

  She followed him up the open tread staircase, then along a corridor with glass walls that gave a view into offices on either side. She saw a dozen people busy at computer screens, or talking on the telephone, or studying documents. Most were casually dressed, some in jeans, some in glamorous high fashion, one or two in faded green overalls.

  “Constantine Motors has one hundred and forty-seven employees...we produce around two hundred and fifty cars a year...computer assisted design...fuel injection...titanium alloy...” Peter Tomlinson’s words made no more sense to her than a foreign language might have done.

  By the time they finished their tour of the manufacturing plant, where she had seen cars at every stage of assembly—bare frames, engines fitted, doors missing, wheels removed, seats waiting to be installed, her brain was overflowing.

  “We have fourteen office staff in total, excluding design and production, who sit in the factory,” Peter went on as they returned to the glass building. “We have three meeting rooms, and a boardroom that seats twenty, although we currently only have seven board members.”

  Proudly, he flung the door open. Crimson’s gaze fell on the long table, an endless expanse of green marble. Nick Constantine’s words rattled through her mind. There is nothing you can do to tempt me to help you. I don’t care if you dance bare ass naked on the boardroom table.

  It had become painfully clear that she knew nothing about cars or business. Unless she had help, she could never in a thousand lifetimes hope to achieve what was expected of her. Tomorrow was Thursday. Her one day to prepare for the staff meeting. Instead of using the time to study the accounts, she’d make one more attempt to persuade Nick Constantine to help her. She had no idea how to win him over, but she would start by trying to appeal to his sense of humor.

  ****

  Nick steered his Constantine Panther through Longwood Main Street, past the filling station and the parade of shops. It surprised him how little the place had changed over the years. The butcher’s shop still sported a life sized plastic pig above the entrance, and a display of produce stood outside the fruit and vegetable store, even on a day when drizzling rain soaked the landscape and Nick had been forced to raise the top on the car.

  He left the town behind and parked outside Constantine Motors. His last visit had been seventeen years ago, when he was fifteen. He’d kept up with the news, though, had seen pictures of the new offices, two stories of glass and steel, and studied the blueprints for the factory expansion five years ago.

  All his life, he had believed that despite everything his father loved him. That one day he’d have a chance to step in and prove the old man his worth. Be a chip off the old block, the apple that didn’t fall far from the tree.

  But he’d been wrong.

  In six months, all this would all belong to David Ballard, his worst enemy…unless he agreed to help Crimson Mills, and they pulled off the feat of keeping the annual profit steady in the middle of a recession. Then Constantine Motors would belong to a stripper, and to his father’s two surviving spouses, Wife Number One and Wife Number Three.

  What a bloody joke.

  The security guard hurried to meet him at the door. “Nick. Good to see you.” A squat, dark haired man in his fifties, he was wearing a uniform in forest green and gold, the colors of Constantine Racing, a division of the company that had been defunct since the fifties.

  “Raymond.” Nick took the gnarled hand and gave it a firm shake. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again. And I hear there are a couple of old timers left on the factory floor.”

  “Matt Santini and Vinnie Holm. They know
you’re coming. If you have time, you might like to drop by the cafeteria at the end of the day.”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s a damn shame about your racing career. Boys used to get together at the Tortoise and Hare, listen to the commentary on the radio. We expected you’d be picked up by a Formula One team, and then we’d get to watch you on TV.”

  “Those days are long gone.” With a lazy wave, Nick set off, through the lobby and up the open staircase. Crimson Mills had left him a message, telling him that he was welcome to collect any personal mementoes from the offices, such as the portraits of his father and grandfather and great-grandfather, but he needed to come and pick up the items in person at three o’clock today.

  Eager to retain even a tiny portion of the family heritage, he’d driven out to collect the paintings, and anything else he might get. But, Nick admitted to himself, part of his reason for taking the trip out was curiosity. He wanted to see how Crimson Mills was settling into her new role as the head of Constantine Motors.

  He spoke to a pretty, dark haired secretary called Anna and got directions to the boardroom where Crimson was waiting for him. He knocked on the solid wood door. No reply. He tried the handle. Unlocked. He went inside. The blackout blinds were lowered. As the door pulled shut on its own weight, he fumbled for the light switch.

  Something must be wrong with the electrics, because only a faint glow came on, twin beams that collided over the huge marble-topped conference table. Music started playing and drifted around the room, something classical. Perhaps Mozart. He was no connoisseur.

  A white shadow flickered in the beams of light that pierced the darkness. What the hell? He could hardly believe his eyes. On the table sat a woman, knees drawn up to her chest, arms curled around her legs, head bent. She was dressed in something that looked like a pale silk slip. A waterfall of silvery hair flowed down her shoulders. Then she uncoiled, rising to her toes in what seemed a single unbroken motion.