by Various
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.”
I nod to the maître d’, who knows me by sight, before turning back to Jake. “Yes, they redesigned it, added a piano, more tables.”
He shakes his head. “You knew and didn’t tell me?”
“I fail to see why this is a problem.” Over the muted conversations in the room, the melody of a Cole Porter classic drifts to us. How can he possibly object to such beauty?
“I need to check out the new staff, the dynamics of the place.”
Jake’s obsession with security has kept us safe for many years, but this time he’s going too far. “You think the piano player’s hiding an AK-47? Or one of the waiters has slipped a gat down his pants?” I tap his back. “Come on, Jake. You’re seeing threats where none exist.”
“Even a fancy cafeteria may harbor criminals.”
The headwaiter stiffens, and he sniffs in disapproval. “We do not hire criminals. Sir! And this ‘cafeteria’”—another sniff—“is a three-star Michelin restaurant.”
Jake narrows his eyes at the outraged man who squints his in return.
His assistant shows up in time to prevent bloodshed. “This way, gentlemen.”
Fighting back a grin, I toss back at Jake. “You’re never eating in this restaurant again, not if the maître d’ can help it.”
“A tragedy I can live without, I assure you.” As we walk past each table, he scrutinizes each person we pass.
When we take our seats, he angles his chair to face most of the diners.
I smooth down my tie. “Relax, Jake. No one here’s likely to commit murder. They’re too busy seeing and being seen.” The restaurant is a favorite place for celebrity spotting. Sadly, I qualify as one.
“If you say so.”
Soon the diners closest to us are fidgeting from his thousand-yard stare.
Enough’s enough. “You’re making people uncomfortable. Give it a rest.” I snap my napkin to the side, lay it on my lap.
“Fine.” He follows suit, but as he does, he ends up snapping the derriere of a matron walking by, and the situation descends into a comedy of errors.
The matron turns and fixes him with an indignant glare. “I. Beg. Your. Pardon!”
I double over with laughter, while he stands and tries his best to apologize. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t see.”
“Maybe you should be more observant, young man.”
More observant. The ultimate insult to a man like Jake.
She huffs and continues her dignified walk to the table where several of her cronies sit shooting outraged glances at Jake.
The formerly cowed patrons now display varying emotions. Some are laughing outright. Others, mostly younger women, stare at him with avid interest.
Red-faced, he sits, carefully arranging the snowy cloth over his lap.
“I’m sure that‘s not the first time that’s happened.” Actually, I’m almost certain no one has committed such a monumental faux pas, not in this restaurant, but I’m not sharing my opinion with him.
Hoping to give Jake time to regain his composure, I wave over our white-gloved waiter and ask about appetizers.
I haven’t eaten anything in the last day and a half, so when a plate of French choux cheese biscuits arrives at our table, I fall on it like a starving pilgrim.
After my feeding frenzy’s satisfied, the waiter takes our order. Since both of us have places to go this afternoon, we opt for the three-course meal—Dorset crab soup, a starter of poached lobster with homemade pasta and chicken quenelle, and a main entrée of venison with caramelized vegetables. And coffee, lots of coffee. I’ll need a gallon to keep me awake today.
While we wait for our food, I grill Jake about my sister’s fiancé, whom I’ve asked Jake to investigate. I suspect he hasn’t stopped shagging other women just because he’s engaged to Bri. “Anything to report on Anton?”
Jake shakes his head. “No. He remains at home most of the time and the only places he visits are the gym and work.”
I pause with my coffee cup halfway to my mouth. “Displaying your manly bits in boxer briefs is work?”
He chuckles. “You may not think much of his chosen profession, Storm, but it does qualify as employment.”
“If you say so.” The waiter approaches with another plate. As soon as he lays it down, I snag a slice of the piping hot yeasty bread, slather butter on it, and wolf it down.
Jake kicks back in his chair, a grin riding his face. “Didn’t they feed you in the states?”
“Yes. Continental breakfasts and coffee. Lots of coffee.” And a plate of jambalaya shared with a green-eyed witch.
“They starved you then.”
“Very funny.” I wipe my hands on my napkin and sip water before I turn back to him. “And he’s had no outside visitors at my sister’s place?”
“Only his agent and personal trainer, and they’re both men.” Anton’s sexual interest runs only to women.
I rub a thumb against my bottom lip. My gut tells me we missed something, although I don’t know what. “I can’t believe he stopped sleeping around. Not when he shagged half the female population in London.”
Jake temples his fingers above his plate and looks into the distance. “Maybe he has. Brianna’s worth it, Storm.”
That�
�s exactly my problem with Anton. Brianna’s trust fund is worth millions, never mind her share of Storm Industries. “I know she is, but is he marrying Bri for her money or her?”
“I suspect it’s a little of both. She is a beautiful woman.” He pauses and clears his throat before continuing. “And it’s human nature to be attracted to wealth.”
Even though his tone is detached, that pause gives him away. And so does his body. His shoulders tense, his jaw tightens. He has feelings for Bri, but is trying his level best to hide them. And who am I to out him? I’ve got feelings of my own to deal with about a black-haired temptress I left behind. “Fine. But I want you to keep an eye on him.”
“Will do.”
“I have another task for you. One I wish you to keep confidential and not delegate to anyone else.”
A slight arch of his brow is his only reaction. “All right.”
“I want you to investigate Elizabeth Watson.”
“Who is she?”
“Thomas Carrey’s assistant. She lives in Alexandria, Virginia. Works for Smith Cannon. Obviously. Attends law school in Washington, D.C.”
Now that we’re off the touchy subject of Brianna, he attacks the venison with gusto, slicing and spearing a slice of the succulent meat. “Anything special I should be looking for?”
“Her family. I want to know who they are, where she came from. Find out who her friends are. I already know of one—Casey Jackson, her flatmate.”
“Do you want me to look into her as well?”
“Him, actually, and yes.”
For a moment, he stills all movement before diving back into the venison. “Will do. Fairly easy job, I imagine. Should have something for you within a day.”
At the end of the meal, we’re presented with Le Rêve’s signature desserts—macaroons, chocolate-covered almonds, nougat and truffles—along with the restaurant’s illustrious drink.
Jake snubs his nose at the hot beverage. “What the blazes is that?”
“Mint tea.”
“Mint? In hot tea?”
“Oh, just drink it. It’s good for your digestion.” I pick up the coffee cup and sip.
“How you can drink that stuff is beyond me.”
I laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“You’re the second person who’s made the same comment in the last two days.”
“Let me guess, Ms. Watson.”
I didn’t hire him because he was stupid. “What?” I ask, irked by his probing stare.
“You return from the states, in a better frame of mind than I’ve seen you in . . . forever, and first thing you do after you see your father is ask me to look into this girl.”
“Woman, she’s twenty-two.”
“Oh, so she’s all grown up then.” The son of a bitch smirks. “Good to know.”
The delicate china cup lands on the table with more force than I intend, and tea spills into the saucer. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“She’s a little, no a lot, younger than your usual women.”
I bolt up from the table. “She’s not one of ‘my women.’ Just do your damn job and stop meddling in my private affairs.” Contrary behavior, I know, since I’ve just asked him to perform a private task for me.
After a final sip of the tea, he steals the last macaroon from the serving plate. “Yes, your lordship.”
“Oh, shut the bloody hell up.” He knows how much I hate being addressed in such a manner.
I sign the check and stride from the dining room to outside the hotel where Samuel awaits with the Benz. “You need a ride?” I ask Jake.
His glance searches the area around us before it settles on me. “Depends. Are you headed to the ranch?”
The ranch’s our code word for Storm Tower, the high-rise headquarters of Storm Industries. Something Jake came up with when he first started working for us.
“Sorry, no. I have an audience with the Countess.”
His dark brows climb. “Lucky you.”
Chapter 13
MY MOTHER WAITS FOR ME in the drawing room of my parents’ town mansion. Still slim at fifty two, she sits ramrod straight, her back never touching the back of the Louis XVI chair on which she’s perched, wearing one of her signature tweed suits and a demi-parure set of pearl earrings, bracelet and brooch. Her hair sweeps off her face in raven waves, ensnared in a tight chignon low on the back of her neck. Eyes dark as hell, lips the color of blood, and skin as pale as a tomb, her coloring is dramatic to say the least.
A silver teapot, sugar and creamer rest on the pillar and claw tripod table next to her, along with scones, fruit tarts, and a plate of tiny cucumber, smoked salmon and savory ham sandwiches—her usual afternoon tea fare.
I ease into the opposite chair to keep her in my line of sight.
When I cross my legs, she frowns. No surprise. According to her code of conduct, such a pose implies a breach of etiquette.
“Would you like tea, Ainsley?” She’s spent the bulk of her life in England, but her accent retains a modicum of her American roots, something she hates and tries very hard to disguise.
“No, thank you. I just ate.”
“Oh?” Her black-winged brows rise a bare millimeter. A proper lady should barely hint at her emotions, not trumpet them about. “Where did you go?””
“Le Rêve. I had lunch with Jake.”
Her nostrils flare. “That barbarian. He kept me a prisoner in my own house. He even forbade me access to the telephone.” As she speaks, her voice rises to the point she’s practically yelling. So much for her rules of etiquette.
“He was following my orders which I’ve rescinded. You’re now free to come and go and talk to whomever you wish.”
Her gaze slides toward a house telephone that sits on the far side of the room, and her mouth purses with pleasure. “Glad to hear it.”
“Just so you know, I’ve talked to the media and issued a press release.” On the way to the town house, my marketing director called to discuss the announcement. A few changes later, I authorized her to publish the notice.
The Countess’s mouth pinches in disapproval. “One would think you would have wanted my input.”
“Didn’t want to bother you, upset as you are about your husband’s health.”
She glares at me. “Why should I be upset about that randy old goat? He’s made my life miserable with his drinking and whoring.”
I’ve heard her tale of woe so many times I’ve become inured to it. “What did you wish to talk about?”
“Your father. How is he?”
“The randy old goat?”
She curls her upper lip. “Stop mocking me.”
I brush nonexistent lint from my trousers. “Your words, Mother.”
“Ainsley.” Her voice’s close to a growl.
Knowing she can, and will, retaliate if I continue baiting her, I give her the answer she seeks. “The doctor expects him to recover, but he wouldn’t venture to guess how many of his functions father will regain or when.”
“So he’s disabled.” She lazily stirs her tea while her mouth parts in a bloodless smile.
My fingers twitch on my thigh. “Your assessment, not mine.”
“Oh, I think it can be proven quite easily, and since he’s unable to make rational judgments, his voting shares transfer to me. That would make me the majority member of the board of directors, and I can call an emergency meeting.”
As I suspected, she intends to strike, just like a poisonous snake. “And why would you do that?”
“Because I suspect foul play.” Her eyes shine with a strange kind of excitement. She’s in her element, my mother.
I fight to control my feelings, my breathing, my mannerisms. Worst thing I can do is reveal how much her declaration affects me. “You need a reasonable basis for your suspicion.” I remind her.
“Oh.” She smirks. “I have more than a reasonable basis. I have evidence.”
Bloody hell. What could she possibly have di
scovered? “Of what?”
“Bribery. Your brother, Royce, bribed a Brazilian government official to award us the offshore wind development rights. Shocking, I know.” Her voice drips truth and honesty, but she’s a master at deception. “Wouldn’t that qualify as wrongdoing?”
If even a whisper of such a thing were to leak out, our financial standing would plummet and our ability to do business would suffer a mortal blow. I need to do everything in my power to keep her contained while I investigate her allegation. But first, I must determine her ultimate goal. The Countess never threatens anything without wanting something in return. “The company’s profits support your lavish style of living, so why would you act to destroy that?”
“Why, darling, because I can.” Neatly and with an economy of measure, she eats one of the cucumber sandwiches, before reaching for one of the savory hams. She’s enjoying this cat-and-mouse game she plays. Nothing new. Power is everything to my mother.
But I’m not without weapons of my own—reason and logic and a hard-earned knowledge of how to play her game. “I don’t believe you mean to go through with this threat.”
“Knowing me, can you take that chance?”
Knowing her. Yes, she is capable of anything as I have good reason to know.
“There’s a way out, you know.” She accompanies her statement with an exultant smile.
Of course, there is. From the moment she called, I knew she’d hatched some scheme and that I will have to pay the price. It’s what I’ve done my whole life. “What do you want?”
“A grandchild. You owe me one. You owe me.” Her lips tremble, and for the first time in a long while, I see the pain which drives her obsession, a pain that stems from the tragic death of my brother, Edward. A pain we both share.
“Mother, a grandchild will not bring Edward back,” I say as softly as I can.
“I know that. Don’t you think I know that?” She hisses at me before she jumps up, tipping the cup on her lap and its contents unto the priceless Aubusson rug.
I have to stop her before she becomes more frantic. When she’s like this, not knowing what she will do. “You’re upset. Maybe I should fetch Tilly.”
She flings her hand and swivels back to me. “That useless excuse of a maid? Please.”