by Mia Caldwell
“Look,” Marina said, “if you’re going to open your front door again, you should brush your hair or something. Maybe change out of your pajamas. Not that you don’t look good; you do, kind of, but, I mean, I’m just saying ...”
Jada glanced down at herself. She was wearing her favorite sleeping shirt and leggings, which were actually an ancient pair of long johns, thermal underwear, top and bottom. The waffled cotton fabric had once been printed with cute blue flowers, but those had long since faded into vague blurs which, now that she was examining them, alarmingly resembled food stains. The knees and elbows were threadbare and had small holes. Plus, she wasn’t wearing a bra.
Well, wasn’t that just great? She touched her hair. She didn’t need a mirror to tell her, it was a rat’s nest.
This day just kept getting better.
“So,” Jada said, “I was just on television looking like a crazy cat lady. That’s what you’re telling me, isn’t it?”
“It wasn’t that bad. But, you really might think about cleaning up before—”
“I’m not going back out there!” Now, who was sounding shrill? Jada glanced around the room, leaned over and tried to see under the bed. Mentioning a cat lady made her think of ... “Ms. Kitty. I don’t see her. You don’t think she got out when I opened the front door, do you?”
Marina snorted. “She’s hiding somewhere. No way she’d go out with all those people.”
“You’re right. Thank God she’s so anti-social. Ms. Kitty! Here, Ms. Kitty! It’s okay, girl. You can come out.”
“She’s fine,” Marina insisted. “Anyway, you’ve got other, bigger things going on.”
“I know I do. It’s just that none of that stuff makes any sense. A missing cat makes sense. I think I’ll stick to finding Ms. Kitty, if you don’t mind.” She slipped off the mattress and looked under the bed.
“Oh, Jada. I’m so, so sorry. This is terrible. You’ve obviously lost your mind and we’ll have to put you in a home for—”
“That’s not funny.” Jada stood up, took a deep breath and forced herself to watch TV.
Text scrolled along the bottom of the screen and there were insets that changed every minute or so. She tried to read and listen to the broadcaster at once, but she was so rattled she could only focus on one thing at a time.
The female broadcaster rambled. “The woman presumed to be Jada Howarth has yet to reappear. The front door remains locked and no can hear anything inside the house. Wait. I’m getting new information. Uh-huh. Mm-hmm. Official sources are now saying that the frazzled-looking woman we saw moments ago couldn’t possibly be Jada Howarth. Jada would most definitely not be in the little house. She’d be on her honeymoon, of course. Yeah. That makes sense. Whew! I don’t know about you, but I was a little worried there for a minute. I don’t mean anything against the lady inside there but Ian’s really hot and—”
Jada frowned and muted the TV. She read the screen, expecting to see, “Jada Howarth much less attractive, more frowsy than anticipated.” What she read instead, was far more disconcerting:
“Billionaire Ian Buckley and mystery woman wed in secret ceremony.”
“Marriage license names bride as Jada Howarth of Springer’s Glen.”
“Family and friends of Buckley claim no knowledge of marriage or Jada Howarth.”
“Unnamed sources say Sasha threatened to jump off bridge when given news of Ian’s nuptials.”
“No statements from Ian Buckley or his people.”
Jada gawped at the screen. So THAT was why there were so many people outside. They thought she’d married superman billionaire Ian Buckley. It made perfect sense.
“Okay, Marina,” she said. “Someone’s pranking me. Is it you? If it’s you, I’m going to kill you.”
“It’s not a prank. It’s for real. You’re trending on Twitter and are all over Google and YouTube. Don’t go to YouTube, by the way. The video of you at your front door is going viral as we speak.”
“This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. How in the world would anyone think I’d married Ian Buckley? Or that he would marry me? Someone’s made a huge mistake and—wait a minute. Phone’s buzzing. I’ve got another call coming in.” She glanced at the screen and didn’t recognize the number. “I’m putting you on hold, Marina.”
“Okay, but—”
Jada cut her off and accepted the other call. “Hello?”
“Hello.” It was a pleasant-sounding female voice. “Am I speaking to Jada Howarth?”
“You are.”
“My name is Cathy Johnson. I’m one of Ian Buckley’s executive assistants. He asked me to call you to arrange a meeting.”
“Oh, you all are a laugh riot today, aren’t you? Are you with CGTV? How’d you get my number? Isn’t it enough that you’re outside crushing my grass?”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Howarth. I’m sure you aren’t accustomed to this kind of attention. I assure you I am who I say I am. And none of us in Mr. Buckley’s employ are in your yard at this moment.”
“Prove it.”
“Please, Ms. Howarth. That’s impossible.”
“Maybe.”
“I’m calling to set up a meeting between you and Mr. Buckley, ma’am. Can you be ready to leave for the city in say, ten minutes?”
Jada barked a laugh. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No. We sent a car to pick you up already and it’s nearly there now. How about fifteen minutes? Can you leave in fifteen?”
“Hold on. I’ll be back.”
“But I—”
Jada cut her off and put Marina back on the line. “You’ll never guess who I’m talking to.”
“If you say Ian Buckley I’m going to pee my pants.”
“Gross. No. It’s Ian Buckley’s assistant. She says they’re sending a car for me, that Ian wants to meet with me.”
Marina squealed, again. There were far too many squeals going on of late. It was like they’d reverted to tween-hood.
“Oh my God, Jada. This is so ... so ...”
“Ridiculous? Stupid?”
“I was thinking more like miraculous and predestined.”
“Listen,” Jada said, “I need to know what you think. If a car actually shows up, should I go? How do I know it’s really Buckley’s assistant I’m talking to?”
“Of course it’s really her. It makes perfect sense that he’d want to meet you. How else will you make sense of everything? Oh my God. You’re going to go, aren’t you? If you don’t want to go, I will. I can’t promise you not to try for Ian, though. I mean, I know he’s your husband, but if you aren’t going to nail down your man, you can’t blame me for giving it a try.”
“The entire world has gone crazy, and you’re the whacko leader, Marina. Fine. I’ll go. Hold on again.”
She switched back to Cathy. “Okay. I’ll go. But I’ll need at least forty-five minutes. I’ve got to shower and do my hair and stuff.”
“Can you make it thirty? I wouldn’t ask, but Mr. Buckley is anxious to speak with you and it’s almost an hour’s drive from there into the city. You could really help me out if you hurried.”
Jada didn’t know why she should care about helping someone she’d just met. Nonetheless, she found herself agreeing to hurry.
“Thank you so much, Ms. Howarth,” Cathy said in her perkiest voice yet. “And don’t worry about those reporters outside your house. You’ll be escorted safely to the car, okay?”
That was the first bit of good news Jada had heard all morning. “Okay.”
“The driver will call in thirty minutes. Wait inside for him and the others. He’ll tell you what you need to do.”
“Er, all right, I guess. Others?”
“That’s right. Thanks again, Ms. Howarth. Mr. Buckley will be pleased that you’re on your way. See you soon.”
She hung up before Jada could say anything else. She flipped back to Marina.
“I told her I’d go,” Jada said.
“I can’t believe this is happening. It’s
like a dream.”
“More like a nightmare. Who knows what that man thinks is going on here? I sure don’t know what to think about it.”
“Well, I don’t know, either.”
“Of course you don’t. How could you?”
“Exactly.”
“Listen,” Jada said, “I’ve got to go. I’ve only got thirty minutes to pull myself together. I’ll call you when I’m in the car.”
“I love you, Jada.”
“I love you, too. Why did you say that? Am I dying?”
“Shut up and take a shower.”
Jada smiled and ended the call. Movement in the corner of the room caught her eye. Ms. Kitty poked her fuzzy, tabby head out from under the big wardrobe. Well, at least Jada didn’t have to worry about that anymore.
It would have been impossible to be a crazy cat lady without a cat. Jada headed off to the bathroom.
Chapter Three
IAN BUCKLEY STOOD BEFORE THE wall of floor-to-ceiling windows and gazed out over the city. Here, on the top floor of the Buckley tower, he had an unbroken view of the city’s eastern vista stretching as far as the hazy smog layering the horizon. Thousands of buildings, commercial, residential, industrial, both jumbled and orderly style, lined the crisscrossed narrow streets and wide avenues.
He sighed. It wasn’t long ago that this view filled him with energy, flexed his ambition muscles, reminding him of what he’d conquered and of what remained to be seized. Of late, inspiration had waned.
Ian missed that sensation of surety, the burst of purpose that suffused him when faced with a seemingly impossible task. It was the challenge that drove him, pushed him toward certain victory.
He’d been wondering these days, in moments that shook him and made him doubt his direction: was this it? A simple question. Was this everything? Meaning, was there nothing more to be done? And then it was followed by an even more disconcerting question: why did Ian suddenly need there to be more?
On this particular day, Ian stood in front of his billion-dollar view and was glad, in a strange way, that he’d been knocked back with the news that he was supposedly married to a woman he’d never met. It was as if the universe had gone haywire and Ian welcomed the cosmic distraction from the personal issues that had been plaguing him.
And boy, was this situation distracting. Sullivan Collins, Ian’s lead counsel and friend, had burst into Ian’s office earlier than usual for a Saturday and demanded to know if Ian had gotten married without telling anyone. Ian had laughed, accused Sullivan of drinking his breakfast. By the time Ian knew the whole story behind Sullivan’s question, he wasn’t laughing anymore. He was still amused, though.
Speaking of amused, his thoughts returned to the video of his so-called wife standing in the doorway of her charming little house, the tiny lawn swarming with rabid press. He smiled at the memory.
“Oh, what the hell. Why not watch it again?” he mumbled, and turned away from the windows and toward the bank of televisions on the other wall. He pulled a remote control from his pocket and cued up the recorded video on the largest flat screen.
Ian sank down into one of the soft leather chairs, eyes glued to the TV and pressed play. A crowd of reporters churned around the doorstep of a small house. He could almost hear their collective intake of breath, their greedy anticipation when the front door opened.
And there she stood. Jada Howarth. Or would that be Jada Buckley now? His wife, they said. He couldn’t stop looking at her.
She had obviously just woken up, undoubtedly roused by the reporters pounding on her house. On the ultra-high-def screen, even from a distance, he could see a slight imprint on her cheek, undoubtedly from pressing against her pillow. She slept on her side, he was certain.
Jada had beautiful eyes. Big and wide, dark almost to the point of blackness, with a lively glimmer even though she’d just woken. Smart eyes. There was something in the way she stared at the crowd, even though she was clearly surprised, he could almost see her mind working, her intelligence on display. And there was a gentleness there, too, a softness that beckoned to him as much as her beauty and brains.
He shook his head. It was absurd, making so much of a single view of a single pair of fine eyes.
Someone briefly rapped on his office door. Not waiting for an answer, Sullivan strolled inside, waving a folder in the air.
“We’ve got some info on our little digger now,” Sullivan said, coming over to the seating area and plopping down on the tufted couch. He eyed the television. “You watching that again? Don’t worry about it. She’s clearly a mess, but we’ll get this settled. It’s not like you’re actually married to her.”
“Aren’t I?” Ian asked. He paused the video on a close-up of Jada’s face.
“Of course not. We still haven’t gotten a copy of the license, but when we do, we’ll be able to prove your signature’s a forgery. This will be yesterday’s news before tomorrow.”
“Hmm.” Ian studied Jada, noted how even makeup-free she was a strikingly lovely woman, with high cheekbones and full lips, an oval face, delicate jawline. “I don’t think she’s part of this scam, Sullivan.”
Sullivan leaned back on the couch and studied the frozen screen. “Well, I’m sure she doesn’t think she’s going to stay married to you, but you know how people are about fame. They don’t care how they get it, as long as they do get it. And look at all the attention she’s garnered for herself.”
Ian scoffed. “Look at her. If I’m a scheming celebrity-seeker who wants a shot of fame, when I do get it, do I answer the door looking like I just rolled out of bed?” Part of him physically responded to the idea of Jada, warm and soft, just rolling out of bed. He imagined reaching for her, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her back against him, nuzzling her neck.
“Yeah, she does look pretty rough,” Sullivan said. “That hair. Good God. And those clothes. Do you think she might be hard-up, financially? The information I have here says she has a good job with decent pay, but who knows. Maybe she’s a gambler, or has a secret addiction to buying jewelry or dog toys.”
“You should have been a writer instead of becoming a lawyer. The stories you make up, seriously. And I don’t think she looks rough. She looks ... sleepy, and ... overwhelmed. Which is exactly how someone would look if they had no part in pulling off a marriage scam.”
A light knock sounded on the open door. Cathy stuck her head inside.
“Can I come in?” she asked.
Ian waved her inside and over to one of the chairs. Cathy, an efficient, attractive young woman in her early-thirties, closed the door behind herself, quick-footed it to the seat and sat down. She eyed Ian through thick spectacles.
Her tone was ominous. “She’s here.”
Oddly, Ian’s heart thudded once, hard, in his chest. “What’s she like?”
“Well,” Cathy said, “at first, I thought maybe they’d picked up the wrong woman. She looks super different than she did on television. Shows you what a shower and some makeup can do for a woman. That sounded bad, didn’t it? I didn’t mean any offense. She’s your wife, and I wouldn’t ever say anything against ...”
Ian managed to keep a straight face as Cathy’s voice trailed off. “It’s fine. Other than her improved grooming, did you take away any impressions?”
“No. She seemed just as nice and polite as she did over the phone. She’s suspicious, still, but you can’t blame her for that. Depending on what she’s up to, I mean. She’s waiting in outer reception.”
Sullivan stood and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” Ian called out. “We need to go over her info before I meet with her.”
“The folder’s right there. I’ve got to take a peek. Be right back.”
Ian turned to his assistant. “Thanks, Cathy. I’ll buzz you when I’m ready to see Ms. Howarth.”
She nodded and hurried after Sullivan.
Ian turned off the tv, wiping away Jada’s image. He picked up the folder and sc
anned the pages. The information he read supported his earlier suppositions regarding her character.
Both of her parents were still alive, still married and already retired. She had one younger sister, no other siblings. Had never been married. She’d been employed by a well-respected accounting firm in her home town since graduating college. She’d had several promotions and was likely making a good living, especially for a young, single woman like herself.
She had no criminal record, not even any dings as a teenager. There were no restraining orders against former boyfriends. She didn’t even appear to have gotten so much as a speeding ticket. Talk about squeaky clean. She had a spiffier past than Ian himself did.
Online searches revealed nothing unsavory in connection with her name. No naughty selfies, no pics of flashing herself at drunken college parties, certainly no sex tapes. She had a minor presence on social media, with only cursory, private accounts that appeared tied only to close friends and family.
They didn’t have much on her school history, not yet anyway. Before the day was up, Ian would have it, though. In fact, by the time lunch was over, he bet he’d know more about Jada Howarth than her own parents did.
After this brief glance at her history, Ian was certain the woman had no skeletons in her closet. He was looking at a genuine, no-fooling, good girl.
He realized he was smiling stupidly. He replaced the smile with a glower, annoyed at himself for his reaction. What had come over him today? Perhaps he’d temporarily lost his grip after discovering he was married. That sort of news would shake any man.
His phone, the private one in his jacket pocket, vibrated. He sighed and pulled it out. Great. It was another text from Sasha’s publicist, Agatha Brimgore.
“This was not deal. Fix now!!!!! Sasha not happy!!!!! Look bad!!!!”
It had to be the twentieth message he’d gotten from the annoying woman that morning. She’d grown increasingly aggressive, and had clearly forgotten who she was speaking to. He wished someone would explain to her the less-is-more approach to exclamation point usage.
He thumbed in his response. “My apologies to Sasha. Please send future questions on this matter to my head counsel, Sullivan Collins. I am unable and unwilling to communicate with you further.”