by Lynn LaFleur
“Oh, pul-leeze, sweet cakes, we all do. Even your aunt.”
“No way. Not practical Rose Granger.”
His expression softened. “What a shame you never took time to see Rose in action.”
Hadn’t Brett said something similar to her?
“She must be quite a woman.”
“Ditzy, charming, funny, and tough as a longshoreman. Characteristics I admire, even in women.”
“From the stack of orders I’ve taken this week, the shop does far better than I expected.”
“All of Rose’s businesses are successful. But you ought to know that.”
She didn’t know her aunt owned other businesses. “Why would I?”
Ronn rolled his eyes again. “As heir apparent, I thought you’d know about all of it.”
“All of what?”
He rested his hand on his hip. “You’ll never catch Ronn telling tales out of school.”
Yeah right.
“Let’s just say your aunt has her fingers in dozens of pots, one you ought to know very well.”
Abby shook her head. It was too early to play one of Ronn’s prissy little mind games.
She took the clipboard from him.
“Follow the directions carefully,” he said, “and keep the pages in order. Otherwise, we might have to call in the Marines.”
*
Abby had no trouble following the maps. She loved working outdoors on such a gorgeous day, and no matter how many times she handed over an arrangement or bouquet, she never tired of the excitement in the young and not-so-young women’s eyes and bright smiles. Made her wonder if there was another fleet of vans delivering brightly wrapped boxes of Viagra to men all over town.
A little after ten, and only a few blocks from the shop, Abby stopped to refuel. She’d made nearly $100.00 in tips, something she hadn’t expected nor intended to keep. The design staff did all the work. That money belonged to them.
While gasoline poured into her thirsty tank, she pulled her cell phone out of her breast pocket. Her heart sank. No missed calls. Brett had asked her to call him. If he really wanted to talk to her, wouldn’t he call her? She snapped the phone shut.
After she topped off the tank and climbed back inside the van, she opened her phone again. She thumbed to his cell number and hit send. Straight to voice mail.
Next she tried his private line. Straight to voice mail.
She closed the phone and tucked it back in her pocket.
By late afternoon, Abby had checked her cell a dozen times to make sure it still worked. No calls, no texts, no voice mail messages, except from Ronn or Judy. The spring had left her step, and the squeals and oohs and aahs had definitely lost their charm. Now they annoyed her.
Throughout the afternoon, the temperature rose. By the time she pulled into the parking lot at Kincade Associates, her cotton pullover clung to her. In the heat and humidity, her hair frizzed. To keep it off her neck, she’d piled it high and fastened it with two clips. Escaped tendrils now brushed the sides of her face. Her reflection in the visor’s mirror showed a woman who looked tired and hot.
Kincade Associates occupied a two-story brick and stone building in the most upscale commercial area of town, alongside other “old money” firms—attorneys, accountants, private jewelers, and some of Kincade’s financial competitors.
Meticulously mown lawns and blossoming flower beds, winding tree-lined streets with little traffic. No pickup trucks spewing exhaust, no pounding bass pouring out of the windows of cars and vans stopped at the signal, and few vehicles that left the dealerships for under eighty thousand. Where the Kincades pitched their tent, money was old, quiet and plentiful.
Abby checked her cell before loading the flatbed dolly Ronn had given her for this delivery. Still no messages, so she tried Brett’s private line one last time. Like before, straight to voice mail. She took a deep breath and started unloading.
Inside the building, Abby stepped into a foyer of white marble floors, two clusters of guest chairs and bronze tables resting atop plush oriental rugs. The wheels of her dolly crunched across the lobby to softly played chamber music.
The nameplate at the reception desk read Shari-Lynn Walton. Instead of Shari-Lynn sat a young man dressed in a crisp long-sleeved shirt and tie, a $500.00 haircut and gold wire-rimmed glasses. He dragged his eyes away from the spreadsheet on his laptop long enough to smile and look over the oval marble enclosure to check out what made the noise.
“They’re on the second floor waiting for you.” He pointed a finger at the ceiling. “Elevator’s to the left and no, I’m not Shari-Lynn.”
“Which way on two?”
“Follow the giggling.”
The elevator doors opened onto a great room where the decorator had carried out the lobby’s theme. More marble, more oriental rugs, more opulence. At the far end, a wall of glass offered a view of more beautifully maintained lawns, a mix of flowering trees and several stately old weeping willows. In the distance, she caught a glimpse of the ocean.
On each side of the window, mahogany pillars and panels stood like sentries in front of two closed office doors. Each bore a bronze nameplate. Brett W. Kincade, Sr. was inscribed on one. Brett W. Kincade, Jr., on the other. She wondered what the W stood for? She’d touched and tasted every inch of him last night, but didn’t know his middle name.
Directly across from the reception desk, Abby saw another office, door open and with the nameplate Jordan Ito, Brett’s assistant.
A marble corridor, with a runner of forest green carpet, ran in both directions. To her left Abby heard muted laughter. She followed the sound.
Inside a break room, seven of the most beautiful women Abby had seen outside a runway or a movie set, gathered around a table, laughing and chattering.
Three bottles of champagne, two open, rested in a large pewter ice container. Instantly, Abby’s thoughts flew back to The Castle and the pewter dishes and goblets she and Brett had used last night.
Two heart-shaped candy boxes sat alongside the ice bucket. Only a few chocolates remained from what must have been enough to fuel a moon shoot.
She knocked on the open door and called, “Excuse me. I’m looking for Jordan Ito.”
Conversation abruptly stopped. The women turned, and two of the three who had been seated, rose from their chairs. The third remained seated with her back to Abby. When she slowly turned, her beauty took Abby’s breath away. She’d never seen a more stunning woman. Shiny black hair, chopped and layered in a style that might look ridiculous on anyone else, but only added to her exotic appearance. Delicate Eurasian features, slim legs, tiny feet, and about an eleven-inch waist. Abby felt like a giant—a tall, frizzy-haired, sweating giant.
“I’m Jordon Ito.” Although she smiled, Abby saw no warmth in her smile. Nor in the critical way her gaze swept over Abby from head to toe. “I presume you’re from Love In Bloom.”
Abby looked down at her shirt, at the whimsical logo, and a few spots of brown and green she’d picked up along the way. What gave you your first clue? “The arrangements are out here. I’ll be glad to drop them at the right desks.”
“Is each properly tagged?”
For one so tiny, Ms. Ito had a commanding presence. Abby nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
Jordan turned to the others and looked at her watch. “Beau and Brett are probably back by now. I know they’ll personally want to see your flowers and wish you a good weekend.” She nodded toward the door and like the Stepford wives, they walked in single-file past Abby to fetch their “properly tagged” floral arrangements from her cart.
None of them even peeked into the largest bouquet. She wondered why they weren’t curious to see what Judy had designed for Jordan. Or maybe they knew better than to look.
Jordan swept past Abby without showing any interest in the remaining arrangement. Abby stood beside her cart and waited to see what Jordan did next.
At the lobby’s entrance, she beckoned to Abby. “Please come with me.”
; Abby left her cart at the elevator and lifted the vase with Jordan’s two dozen perfectly matched roses. She recalled how much they cost and while carrying them, felt every cent in their weight.
Jordan stopped outside her office door. “Please put them on the corner of my desk. I’ve cleared a space.”
Over Jordan’s instructions, Abby heard voices coming from the elder Kincade’s office. She saw his door now stood open. She also recognized Brett’s laugh. Her heart thudded more from the sound than the weight of the roses.
She hurried into Jordan’s office, set the roses in place, and turned to leave. That’s when she saw Jordan standing with a twenty dollar bill clasped between her index and middle fingers.
“Thank you for delivering at exactly the time I requested.” She walked toward Abby, holding out the bill. “The Kincades wanted them delivered this morning. I convinced them how foolish that would be. These girls would have gotten nothing done today if they’d started that early.” She stopped far enough from Abby to make sure neither was in the other’s space. “I was afraid that as one of the new people at Love In Bloom, you wouldn’t have followed the directions as precisely as I stated them.”
Jordan Ito, a.k.a. Valentine’s Grinch.
Abby glanced at the twenty dollar bill Jordan offered her. If she knew Abby was the new kid at Love In Bloom, then she knew she was Rose’s niece. “I’m sorry, Ms. Ito, I can’t accept that. Rose Granger is my aunt.”
“I know who you are, Ms. Horton.” As she passed Abby, she pressed the bill into her hand. “We’re done here. Or did I need to sign something to confirm delivery?”
Abby balled her fist around the bill and sucked in her breath. She’d like nothing better than to send it flying at Jordan’s back. The woman might have been stunning on the outside, but inside, she was one-hundred-percent pure bitch.
“Nothing to sign, but I believe I heard Brett’s voice a moment ago. Think I’ll toddle on over and say hello.”
Jordan folded her arms across her chest and tilted her head. “I think that would be very unwise.”
Abby folded her arms too. “Why is that?”
Without answering, Jordan walked to her office door and closed it. She nodded toward the guest chairs in front of her desk. “Sit down…please.”
Abby stood her ground. “If you have something to say, say it.”
Jordan sat primly on the edge of her desk chair, rested her elbows on her desk top and clasped her hands together. Abby saw she wore a ring with a sapphire as big as a football on her right hand, and a circle of diamonds set in gold on her left thumb.
“I’ve worked for Kincade Associates for ten years,” she began, “but I’ve known Brett most of my life. He’s a wonderful man, kind, generous, thoughtful.”
“But?”
“Look around you, Ms. Horton. The interior design, the furniture, the paintings, the staff. The Kincade men love beauty. They surround themselves with it.”
“Meaning?”
Jordan didn’t have to say a word. Her glance said it all. She’d let her eyes travel from the clips losing the war against Abby’s red curls, past her soiled shirt, her jeans and down to her sneakers.
“I’m sure you’re a lovely woman, Abby, but do you honestly believe that with the pick of women Brett’s had all of his life, you’d rise to the top simply because he respects your aunt?”
“What does my aunt have to do with anything?”
“Only that Brett considers her a good friend. He knew you’d be here for a few days, that you didn’t know anyone. It’s difficult to adjust to a new city. Loneliness sets in quickly.”
“And so he did what?”
“Are you sure you want to know the truth?”
“The truth about what?”
Jordan stood and came round to the front of her desk. She perched on the edge.
“Brett Kincade is the master of the one-night stand. Do you think you’re the first woman he’s taken to Whispers? The first one to wear one of Madame’s designs? The first to visit The Castle?”
Abby shivered. Her body turned cold and a lump began forming in her stomach. If she’d had more than yogurt today, she might have thrown up. Whispers and the clothes aside, how did Jordan know about The Castle? Standing Operating Procedure for Brett Kincade, the greatest playmaker of them all?
No, I don’t believe it. He wouldn’t. Not with what they’d shared last night. Not with the things they’d said to each other. “I don’t believe you.”
Jordan slowly and sadly shook her head, as if Abby were the most pathetic person she’d ever met. She pushed off the edge of the desk and walked back to her chair. Once seated she said, “Let me buzz Brett and tell him you’re here, that you’d like to say hello. You’ll hear it for yourself—if you dare.”
Abby folded her arms again to still their trembling. “Call him.”
“You’re sure.”
Abby nodded.
Jordan pressed the speaker button on the phone, and then two digits. “Brett?”
“Yo, what’s up?”
“Ms. Horton’s in the building delivering flowers. She wondered if you had time to see her?”
He answered quickly. “When?”
“She ought to be back in a few minutes.”
“Oh god no, Jordan. Tell her I’m in conference, tell her anything. I can’t see her now.”
“Will do.” Jordan pressed the button that closed the line then leaned back in her chair. “He’s a seductive man, Abby. You’re not the first, and you won’t be his last.”
Tears stung the back of Abby’s eyes. Please don’t let me cry, please!
“I thought… I thought he was different.”
“He’ll never change. But you can still walk away with your pride intact. Don’t be one of the many women who’ve made fools of themselves before you.”
Abby tried to clear her thoughts. “Call me,” Brett said last night. Too bad he hadn’t added, “I won’t take your call, but don’t let that stop you.”
“Can I get you anything? Water, coffee?”
For a moment, she’d forgotten Jordan. Abby drew a deep breath. She’d had other disappointments in her life. She’d thought she’d been given a chance to trust again. Brett had played her even harder than Pierce.
Without thinking, she tucked the tendrils that tickled her cheeks behind her ears. What if she stepped out of Jordan’s office and Brett stood at the reception desk? There’d be no way to avoid him. Her throat felt so dry she had difficulty saying the words. “Would you do me a favor?”
“Anything.”
“I don’t want to bump into him. I left my cart near the elevators. Could you make sure he stays in his office until I’m out of the building?”
Jordan’s face was awash with sympathy. Abby didn’t buy a blink of it. “Of course,” Jordan said. “Give me a minute or two, then duck out.”
“Thank you.”
Jordan touched Abby’s arm as she walked past. “If I were in your place, I’d hope someone would do the same for me.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Where do you think you’re going?” Judy’s voice rang out, catching Abby a moment before she slipped out the back door. Of the crew, only she and Judy remained once the clock struck midnight.
“Home…to die.”
Judy had shucked off her vinyl apron and smock. Unlike the rest who’d dragged themselves to their cars, she still looked fresh and brimming with energy. Abby couldn’t remember a time she’d been more exhausted.
“Naw, you’re not going to die.” Judy walked to the refrigerator and took out two cans of soda. “Come join me. A shot of caffeine will be good for you.”
“I really want to go…”
“I don’t care what you want, you’re not leaving this shop until you tell me what’s going on.”
Abby looked longingly at the door. She’d managed to duck home after delivering the flowers to Kincade Associates, zoom in and out of the shower, and change into a T-shirt and fresh jeans. Now
she was an even bigger mess of thorn pricks, soil, plant and cut-flower stains. She’d done most of the grunt work—taping floral foam into dishes, baskets and vases, digging around for anything the designers needed, whether it was a pair of shears or ten more bags of sheet moss. She’d lifted, strained and grunted her way through the most grueling six hours she’d lived through in years.
Judy handed Abby one of the sodas and pointed to the chairs at the end of one of the design tables. “What’s going on?” Her tone sounded almost maternal. “I know something’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Okay, let’s try this again. You spent last evening at Whispers. You were walking on clouds this morning. At five o’clock, a different Abby walked through that door and it had nothing to do with making deliveries all day.”
“I’m tired, Judy. Can’t we leave it at that?”
Judy chased beads of moisture down the side of the soda can. She shook her head. “We could, but I’m not going to. What happened at Kincade Associates?”
Abby started to rise. Judy clamped her hand on her wrist. “What happened at Kincade?”
Abby’s throat burned, and the headache she’d been fighting all evening cut loose. She didn’t want to cry and hated that a tear rolled down her cheek. If she didn’t try to wipe it away, maybe Judy wouldn’t notice it.
“You’re not leaving ‘til you tell me.”
“Nothing…really…”
Judy grabbed a box of tissues off one of the shelves under the table. “Really? You’re crying because nothing happened?”
Abby tried to swallow a sip of the soda. It wouldn’t go down. Her chin trembled against the cold, wet can. Finally, she slammed the can down. She saw Judy wince when metal struck metal. Soda spilled on her hand.
“Let it fly, girl,” Judy said. “You can cry, scream or swear. There’s no one here but us kittens.”
Angrier than she’d realized, Abby looked straight at Judy. “I’ll tell you what happened—Brett played me. I didn’t expect him to tell me he loved me, but I didn’t expect him to treat me like a whore.”
Abby saw surprise and alarm replace Judy’s maternal smile. She grabbed the edge of the table with both hands and whooped, “Whoa! How did he treat you like a whore?”