by Terry Odell
She took the card and gave him a generous tip. “The project Blake and I were working on is kind of hush-hush. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything about my being here. Could ruin the deal, you know.”
“I gotcha. All the bigshots trying to get something before the other one does.” He winked. She wondered if he’d bought it.
She went through the security rituals and arrived at the gate as the plane was boarding. When she got to O’Hare, she looked at the departures board with a newfound respect for Ike’s elbow. Weather had delayed her flight to Spokane. She approached the counter where an attendant with a smile molded to her face explained they couldn’t give a departure time. But they’d be sure to keep everyone updated.
Settled into a seat, she fingered the card Ike had given her. Super Shuttle Service, Isaac Sinclair, Prop. She stared at it, trying to figure out why something was buzzing in the back of her mind. She’d never met the man before today, that was for sure. No way would anyone forget Ike.
As long as she had to wait, she might as well look at what Justin had sent. The fraternity list sat on top of the stack and on a whim, she scanned it for a Sinclair. Maybe that was why the name seemed familiar. And although it wasn’t there, the memory slithered back. Trying not to elbow the overweight woman in the seat beside her, Kelli pulled out page after page until she found what she was looking for.
“Double shit on a stick.”
The woman glared at her and sniffed in disgust.
Kelli stuffed everything back in her bag, and with a murmured apology to the woman, bolted for the exit.
* * * * *
Blake stood on the porch, his hand gripping the smooth wooden pillar until his fingers ached. Almost as much as the ache around his heart. Only when the Aerostar disappeared from sight did he feel the chill of the morning breeze on his damp skin. He clutched the note Kelli had left in his hand.
Clean breaks are best. No matter how it seems at the time, some things aren’t meant to be. Get back to your life. K.C.
His life. He crumpled the paper in his hand and threw it into the wind. Transfixed, he watched it flutter to the porch where the breeze sent it skittering along the boards until it caught against the leg of one of the Adirondack chairs. He trudged over and lowered himself into the wooden seat, leaning down to retrieve the note. Eventually the cold penetrated, sending him into the house.
He’d pissed off Brian—nothing new there—and now Kelli was gone. Brian had told him to get back to the city, spitting out the word like an epithet. Kelli said to get on with his life. He wandered aimlessly through the house, feeling nothing. One by one, he picked up the drop cloths, and piece by piece, he covered the furniture.
Two hours later he was sitting on his couch in Chicago clicking the television remote. He’d pushed the old truck to its limit. Probably a good thing his ‘Vette was still in Washington, or he’d have been busted for speeding at least three times. He promised the truck a tune-up as soon as he had time.
The family house held too many memories, but he was finding no peace here, either. No doubt he’d insulted Lamonte, barely looking at the doorman when he’d tried to tell Blake all about the mysterious stranger in the laundry room. He’d rushed straight upstairs, not even picking up his mail.
Ghosts of Kelli floated through his once comfortable surroundings. He got up and stomped over to the window. The glare of the midafternoon sun reflecting off neighboring buildings made his eyes burn. Or so he told himself.
Fists clenched, he stared at his briefcase with the Whittaker files. Ignoring it, he changed into workout clothes and went down to the fitness center on the fifth floor. There wouldn’t be any ghosts there.
An hour later, sucking air, dripping sweat, drained to the point of queasiness, Blake unlocked his door. He’d pushed himself to his limit and beyond, but the upside was he felt too exhausted to think about anything. He grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator, turned on the stereo and switched the speakers to the bedroom and bath. With Queen shouting about wanting it all now, he lingered in a steamy shower until he felt purged of ghosts and ready to go to work.
He selected his Bernini pinstripe suit and a charcoal gray silk shirt. Blake the handyman was gone. No more Bill Cranford, field biologist, either. He adjusted his tie and checked the mirror. His reflection was definitely corporate executive. Sitting on the bed, he pulled on socks and stepped into his shoes. When he turned down the volume on the stereo, he stopped short.
Holy crap. He had to be imagining things, but he could swear he heard the all-too-familiar sounds of a keyboard clicking. His neck prickled and his heart thudded against his chest. He thought he was over that. He rounded the corner and stood still, not a hundred percent sure he wasn’t projecting what he wanted to see, Kelli sitting at his desk, working at her laptop.
“Kelli?”
She didn’t turn. But then, she rarely heard him when she was working. He stepped closer until he was sure she wasn’t an illusion caused by wishful thinking and an overdone workout. Five paces away, he could smell her. His throat tightened. Had she come back to him? Fighting the urge to race over and embrace her, he stood his ground.
He found his voice. “What are you doing here? And how the hell did you get in?”
This time, she did turn. With a finger to her lips, she picked up the mouse and clicked something. Without speaking, she crossed the room and switched the speakers back to the living space. When she spoke, her voice was low and he had to step closer to hear her over the music. Was his place really bugged? Was someone listening? He nodded in understanding.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Lamonte let me in—I told him I’d left something vital in the apartment. Don’t be mad at him—I laid it on kind of thick.” A corner of her mouth twitched. “I think he liked the idea of me surprising you.”
Lamonte’s idea of payback for not taking a moment to chat? No matter. Kelli was in his apartment and maybe she’d changed her mind. Maybe Lamonte had done him a favor. “I thought you were on your way back to EnviroCon.”
She got up from the chair and paced the room. “I was. But at O’Hare, there was one of those, ‘we don’t know how long we’ll be delayed’ things and I was looking at Ike’s card and all of a sudden, something clicked and I needed to work and couldn’t wait and I can’t exactly do what I need to do from an internet café and this was the only place I knew and I didn’t think you’d be back and I called Jack—”
“Whoa!” He ached to stop her mid-stride and put his arms around her, but he couldn’t bear the hurt of a rejection. She’d told him to get back to his life and that’s what he was doing. “Slow down and take it from the top.” He bit off the Sweetheart.
She ran her fingers through her hair, steepled her fingers over her nose and took a deep breath before speaking. “I had Jack download and email me some of the files I’d kept from my CompSecure jobs. Remember how we couldn’t find anything that connected Hollingsworth or Thornton to me?”
He nodded. “You found one?”
“I think so. I remembered when I saw Ike’s card. From the shuttle service. Isaac Sinclair.”
“You’re not telling me Ike has anything to do with this?”
“No, no, of course not. But his name rang the bell. Ever heard of Berlyno Manufacturing? Offices in Philadelphia, plants in five states?”
He thought for a moment. “No. Does Hollingsworth own it?”
“No, it doesn’t show on any of his holdings.” She moved back to the computer and hit a few keys. “But Dwight Hollingsworth worked there once, and the CEO was Stephen Sinclair.”
“You’re losing me.”
“I need a little more time to see if my hunch was right.”
For the first time, it seemed she’d actually seen him when she looked his way. Her gaze moved up and down his body and she blinked. “Oh—I guess you’re going to work.”
He tried without success to keep the sarcasm from his voice. “It seems someone told me to get on with my
life. I thought I’d give it a shot.” A flicker of pain darkened her gray eyes to storm clouds, but he refused to acknowledge the tightness in his chest. “You can stay here as long as you need to. There’s a spare key in the kitchen—second drawer. Lock up when you go and leave the key with Lamonte. Or Floyd if it’s his shift—they both know you’ve stayed here.”
“Blake … “ Her jaw clenched and he could see her stop whatever she was going to say. “Thank you.”
“No problem. I’ll be at the office.”
He went back into the bedroom for his wallet and keys, wishing he could get out of the apartment without having to walk past her. But when he did, she was already lost in her computer.
At his office, the buzz of his intercom provided momentary respite from the spreadsheets strewn over Blake’s desk. Kelli had opened the door to doubts that his initial approach to the Whittaker account was the right one. But it was sure the easier one.
He pressed the button to see why the department secretary was interrupting him when he’d asked to be left alone. No interruptions. Hollingsworth wasn’t in the building, so he had settled down to work. He’d spent the last few hours deep in concentration. That is, when he wasn’t thinking about Kelli back at his apartment.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Windsor. Mr. Hollingsworth is on two.”
He picked up the phone, scrambling through the papers on his desk to find his outline of his draft proposal. “Yes, sir?”
Dwight’s voice was clipped. “I want you to talk to Vance Griffith. Hear him out. Then make your own decision. He’ll meet you at Madeleine’s at five.” There was a click and the line went dead.
He stared at the receiver for a moment before hanging up. What the hell. Drinks, even with Vance, trumped spreadsheets hands down. He’d pretend to listen, say, “No, thanks,” and be done with it. He glanced at his watch to find that time had gotten away from him and it was almost five. Gathering his papers into some semblance of order, he stacked them neatly on his desk and gazed out the window. Below, people huddled in coats, heads ducked as they scurried down the sidewalk. Wind whipped flags and awnings on nearby buildings. It was early for a cold snap, but not unheard of. He shrugged into the topcoat he left hanging in his office and headed for the elevator.
* * * * *
Kelli hadn’t allowed Blake to see the tears in her eyes when he’d walked through the room, keys jingling in his hands. She’d been in a cab from the airport before she’d realized what she was doing, but there wasn’t anyplace else that would give her the kind of computer access she needed. She wouldn’t risk using Blake’s, in case someone had remote access, but she could borrow his internet connection for her laptop and use his for off-line work. With luck, she’d be finished and out of here before he got back. She told herself he’d be working late to make up for the missed morning hours.
He hadn’t touched her. Hadn’t even come close enough. Thank goodness, because she wasn’t sure she’d have been able to resist collapsing into his arms. Even from where he’d stood, she could smell his scent. His executive scent—the one that had enveloped them the first time they’d made love.
Clean break. She’d blown that one. Time to see if her hunch played out so she could start figuring out how to get past it and go home. Wherever that was. Through watery eyes, she stared at the spreadsheet on the screen.
Two hours later, she picked up her cell phone and punched in Blake’s cell number. An answering ring came from the bedroom. Following the sound, she cursed when she saw his cell on the floor by his bed.
Moments later, she stood in the elevator, jabbing at the button for the ground floor, willing the car to move faster.
At the door, a gust of wind smelling of car exhaust blew through her slacks. The cab she’d asked Lamonte to call waited at the curb. Uttering a brisk thanks over her shoulder, she yanked open the cab’s door and slid into the seat. “Hollingsworth Industries, please.” She rubbed her hands together. While she’d worked, oblivious to the outside world, a cold wind had blown through, and she regretted not bringing a jacket. She tapped her foot while the cab worked its way through the downtown Chicago streets.
“Sixteen twenty-seven,” the cabbie said when it pulled up to a skyscraper.
She handed him a twenty and dashed into the wind for the lobby. Glancing at the directory, she saw Hollingsworth Industries occupied six floors. Shit, where was Blake’s office? She scanned the listings. Only departments, not individuals. No listing for Cutthroat Takeovers. She got into the elevator, punched the button for Reception.
When the doors swooshed open on fifty-five, she stepped out into an expanse of marble flooring, chairs and sofas upholstered in a tiny geometric print in shades of black and grays and a large, curved desk with a woman sitting behind it, talking into a telephone headset and working a plastic cover over her computer monitor. She peered up at Kelli’s approach and gave a friendly, inquisitive smile.
Plump, with a well-padded bosom, the gray-haired woman looked more like someone’s grandmother than a receptionist for a multimillionaire’s company. Blue eyes twinkled behind thick lenses. She raised a finger in a “just a minute” gesture and finished her call.
“What can I help you with?” the woman asked. Even her voice sounded grandmotherly. Like she’d be offering milk and cookies next.
“I have an appointment with Blake Windsor.” Kelli gave a sheepish grin. “I’m a little late, I’m afraid and I didn’t write down his office number. Some days I swear I’m lucky my shoes match.”
The woman raised her eyebrows, but clicked some buttons on her phone and asked if Mr. Windsor was in. She listened, then nodded and gave Kelli an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. You just missed him. He left about ten minutes ago.”
Kelli made no attempt to hide her disappointment. “Would you know where he might be going? It’s important I speak to him about the —she searched her brain— “the Whittaker account. My boss is convinced I’m a total flake, and I have to show him I can do this.”
She could almost hear the woman going tsk, tsk while she removed the headset from her ear and slipped it into a drawer.
“Please?” The pleading in her voice was real, although she tried to get some of the “total flake” into her expression. Maybe a little lost puppy, too. “If I lose this job, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
The woman shook her head and sighed. “You might try the bistro on the corner. I believe his secretary heard him mention it before he left. Madeleine’s.”
“Thank you, thank you so much.” She pivoted and strode back to the elevator. When the doors opened, the car was full, and she squeezed in amid what appeared to be clerical staff. Men and women, professionally dressed, but with a slightly bored air about them. None carried briefcases or anything that looked like they’d be taking work home. Out at the stroke of five, most likely. As she watched the numbers count down the floors, she thought she got a faint whiff of a familiar aftershave.
No, Blake had already left, the receptionist had said. It’s not like he was the only man on the planet who wore it. She was too sensitized. Wishful thinking, too. Yet when the doors opened on the ground floor, she stepped out and lingered to one side as the car disgorged its passengers.
A hand gripped her biceps. “Well, well, well. Look who saved me a trip.”
Chapter Thirty
At Madeline’s, Blake took a table near the door. Every time it opened another blast of frigid air chilled the room. He traced the red and white checks on the tablecloth with a forefinger while he nursed a Scotch. After he told Vance to forget about him as a part of Hollingsworth’s campaign team, he’d go back to work, but in the meantime, his boss had practically ordered him to have drinks with the man.
The after-work crowd trickled in, murmuring things about wind chill and a new record low, and he nodded to familiar faces. One or two women smiled, paused, as though waiting for an invitation to join him. Little as he wanted to deal with Vance Griffith, the thought of a woman other than Kelli left h
im feeling hollow—like in the old days, right after his birthday, when everything went back to business as usual. He kept his face closed and they walked by.
He saw her at the door. His heart jumped to his throat and his groin tightened. Then he looked again and he saw the fear on Kelli’s face. A man, overcoat slung over his arm, a scarf wrapped over the lower half of his face, wearing sunglasses and a brimmed hat pulled low on his head stood close beside her. Too close.
Even before the man nodded him out the door, Blake was on his feet, grabbing his wallet and dumping several bills on the table without a thought to their denominations. He’d settle any differences next time.
Saucer-wide, Kelli’s eyes pleaded for him to stay back. He saw the man’s hand, draped with his coat, pressed against Kelli’s back. He covered the distance to them in three strides, recognition sending a trickle of sweat down his spine.
“Let’s go,” the man said. “Keep it natural. And no talking.” He started walking toward a row of cabs. The three of them squeezed into the backseat of the first one, the man in the middle, his gun still pointed at Kelli. He barked an address to the cabbie and they merged into traffic.
Mouth dry, heart pounding, Blake tried to keep his voice pleasant. “Sorry I didn’t return your call about dinner, Vance, but don’t you think this is overkill? If you want to discuss Dwight’s campaign, we can talk.”
“Shut up,” Griffith said. “I get nervous when people talk. Twitchy, even.”
He weighed the odds. Not likely that Griffith would shoot either of them in the cab, but he wouldn’t risk endangering Kelli. He’d play this one out.
Fifteen minutes later Griffith said, “This is fine,” to the cabbie and the car stopped. Griffith fumbled in his pocket with his left hand and pulled out some bills, which he handed over the seat.