Summer at Castle Stone

by Lynn Marie Hulsman

  “From what I hear, she couldn’t be trusted.” I willed myself to shut up, but I just couldn’t. I knew I was picking at a wound, but couldn’t stop myself.

  “You are right,” he said, standing up. “Tabitha could not be trusted. Anyway I think I’ve had enough to drink. I prefer to keep my wits about me. We’ve 20 minutes before we need to be downstairs. I’m just going to go freshen up. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll meet you at the lift.”

  “Tom, wait.”

  “I want to thank you again. I know this is a big favor to ask. Trust me, I’ll find a way to repay you.” He walked into his bedroom and closed the door behind himself.

  I slumped over on the sofa, and drained my wine glass. In the dark tunnels of my heart, the secret of what I was looking for when I goaded Tom beyond his comfort zone lay curled in a ball. I wanted to be picked. I wanted Tom to say, “You’re better than my self-catering cottage slut, you’re better than Tabitha, you’re better than Catherine at the front desk and any other woman I’ve ever met.” And because I couldn’t leave well enough alone, here I sat with my answer. Not only was I not better than all those women, he couldn’t even force himself to have a drink alone with me.

  I took a deep breath and wobbled in to brush my teeth and reapply my lipstick. Maybe Tom’s important contact, Mr. Burton, would have a different opinion.

  Chapter Nineteen

  If you lie down with dogs, you’ll rise with fleas.

  Dinner started with a round of cocktails. On the spot, I panic-ordered my old standby, vodka and soda with a lemon. Tom ordered a screwdriver, otherwise known as vodka and orange juice. Or so it seemed. I wasn’t the daughter of a journalist for nothing. I’d seen him pop over to the bar for a private word with the barmen. I put two and two together and surmised that he’d put in a standing request with the barman to hold the booze, but serve the mixer in a cocktail glass with the appropriate garnish. That was a trick I’d learned from a friend at Sarah Lawrence who worked as a stripper to pay her way through grad school. I wished I’d thought have my booze held tonight. On top of the nervous drinking I’d done up in the suite, I was tipsier than I wanted to be. On the plus side, the liquid courage fueled my sweeping assertions about all things organic and sustainable. Anyone would believe that I farmed right alongside Tom’s rapeseed oil producers.

  The waiter had cleared out starters and just opened a second bottle of wine for our table when Mr. Burton (call me Chris) leaned over and put his hand on my knee.

  “Isn’t she a gem, Percy?” he demanded of his junior colleague. It was no surprise to anyone that Percy agreed.

  “I realize this is inappropriate, Miss Doyle, but I shoot from the hip. Are the two of you an item?” He pointed from me to Tom to me to Tom, with a sly grin on his face.

  Before I could answer, Tom jumped in. “Sheila works for Castle Stone and our subsidiary brands. She’s Chief Cultural Liaison and Marketing Director for North America.”

  “I love that!” I enthused to Tom. Catching myself, I turned to Chris Burton and amended, “He’s correct. I am…those things.”

  “Good. I’ll need a friendly contact in order to do business with Castle Stone. It’s no secret that Tom and I don’t always see eye to eye, right Tom? I’ll need a liaison.”

  “Sheila’s a bright and capable woman, but business is where our relationship ends,” Tom said. I felt my smile evaporate. “We’re strictly colleagues.” He looked me in the eye. “Romance with a co-worker is a game for fools.”

  “In that case,” Chris said, topping up my wine glass, “I’m tempted to shut this deal down before it leaves the ground.” Percy laughed a little too loudly. “You haven’t told me, Sheila, where do you hail from?”

  “New York.”

  “Ah, yes, the Big Apple. You may not know this Percy, but when I was at Harvard, I took the train down there for dirty weekends on more than one occasion. Percy’s only ever been to Cleveland, right Perse?” Percy shrugged an apology. “Whereabouts in New York.”

  “Well, I grew up on the Upper West Side but after college I moved to Hell’s Kitchen.”

  “Upper West Side.” He nodded knowledgeably. “Posh. What business was your father in?”

  “He’s a journalist and a novelist.”

  “Sounds glamorous.”

  “Eh, eating dinner four nights a week at Elaine’s and getting dragged to Michael’s to hear jazz when you just want to get your homework done gets old fast.”

  “Is your father anyone I’ve heard of?”

  “Yes, Sheila, anyone we’ve heard of?” Tom asked. I panicked. What had I said? Between the liquor and the role-playing I’d clean forgotten that I wasn’t Shayla de Winter trying to best some hotshot asshole at his own game. I took a deep breath and tried to remember who I was supposed to be in this hall of mirrors.

  I smiled what I hoped was a mysterious, seductive smile. “Let’s just say yes, but I’m not going to tell you who he is.” The more I drank, the sassier I got, and this masochist was eating it up with his dessert spoon.

  “I’ll get it out of you. I have my ways. Say, let’s order another bottle. Percy, when you see a waiter…”

  “Chris,” Percy said, “We’ve only this evening and we haven’t heard much from Tom regarding global appeal and plans for consumer education.”

  “Quite right,” Tom replied. “Admittedly our research team is small, but we’ve data to show that home-spun Irish products hold huge appeal for Irish-Americans ranging from your ex-pats to third-and fourth-generation folk. We’ve pinned down major markets such as Chicago and Philadelphia, and of course Queens in New York with high concentrations of Irish-identified shoppers.”

  “Ah, Queens,” Chris said, putting his hand over mine on the table. “I spent a wild night in Astoria I’ll have to tell you about some other time.”

  “And in my reports to Percy here,” Tom cut in, “we demonstrated that keeping an Irish slant will drive sales through both nostalgia and the desire to be ‘in the know’ around Irish exports. For example, we wouldn’t change the name of rapeseed oil even though Canada has branded it as Canola oil and there’s familiarity with the term.”

  “People can be trained to view bottled rapeseed oil as a regional specialty, with small-batch, artisanal cache, the way the world sees Italy’s wines,” I piped in. I found myself wishing we’d done more prep work for this meeting. The few facts I had at my fingertips would only stretch so far.

  “Same with fraughans or wild bilberries,” Tom went on. “Rather than call the jam blueberry, we maintain Ireland’s unique signature.”

  “Sheila, as an American, do you find it difficult to deal with the Irish guardedness? After all the time I spent in the States, I’ve come to prefer people who just tell it like it is.” He winked at me.

  “I’ll tell you how it is, Mr. Burton…” Tom began.

  “It’s a sound idea, Chris,” Percy cut in. “Thanks for sharing those facts, Tom. In fact, I hope I’m not speaking out of turn,” he glanced nervously at Chris, who had just used his own knife and fork to sample the rack of lamb from my plate, “when I say that our company is keenly interested and would like to discuss signing a letter of intent.”

  “Mmm, God, that’s delicious!” Chris said, leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed. He smacked the table with his open palm. “It’s official.”

  Tom sat up in his chair, looking expectant.

  “Sheila ordered best!” Chris pronounced.

  Tom slumped backward, his brow knit and his full lips pressed into a tight line. “How about a bottle of port to go with our pudding?”

  As the plates were cleared and dessert orders taken, I tried to signal to Tom that I had this covered. He wouldn’t look at me. Instead, he kept hammering on about dry business details. I had Chris in the palm of my hand. Tom needed to stand down. By the time coffee arrived, we were practically shouting over one another in an attempt to steer the conversation. For every one of my “Chris, you might as well be American, you
know so much about it” there were two “Blah blah business blah’s” from Tom.

  Finally, Chris overrode us. “Right then, everyone. I’ve heard everything I need to hear in order to make a decision.” He stood up, making no attempt to reach for the bill. Percy shot to his feet, brushing crumbs off of his lapel. “Night then, Tom.” He extended a hand to Tom, who stood up to shake it. Clapping Percy on the shoulder, Chris said, “Lobby at 8:30 sharp, right mate?” Percy looked momentarily confused, then gathered his wits.

  “8:30 it is, Chris. Goodnight.” He shook Tom’s hand, then mine and walked out of Toddy’s.

  “Thanks for your time tonight, Chris,” Tom said, taking a few steps toward the door. He turned back and looked at me. “Coming, Sheila?”

  “Actually,” Chris broke in, “Sheila promised me a nightcap.”

  “Did she?” Tom glowered. “I never heard her say that.”

  “Sure she did, mate. You were ordering coffee. She promised to reminisce about New York with me. Isn’t that so, Sheila?”

  I raised my eyebrows at Tom, indicating that he should go on and that I would take one for the team and fill him in later. Perhaps that was too much information to convey with one gesture. He shook his head at me and shot me a look that could only be characterized as judgmental. Turning his back on us, he strode out of the restaurant.

  The next half hour at the bar found me engaged in an athletic dance of slapping hands away from my rear and ducking out from under arms draped across my shoulders in such a way as not to express my lack of interest with full-on indignation. Chris ordered me a vodka and soda and told the barman to make it a double. I looked around for a houseplant into which I could dump it but found none. I limited myself to tiny sips, but I was fighting a constant barrage of “drink ups” from Chris.

  “How about we head to my room for a nightcap?”

  “We’re drinking our nightcap.”

  “Fair enough. Then how about coming up to look over that letter of intent? I could meet Tom at 8 a.m. and we could have the whole deal sorted before the start of the business day.”

  I bit my lip. Going to his room posed a risk. He’d had a lot to drink and I doubted Chris was often told “no” about anything. Under different circumstances, I could argue with myself that it might be an adventure or at the very least, a romp. He was good-looking enough. And I’ll bet opening with the fact that he was a lawyer garnered him the attention of interns and admin assistants at his firm. He could hold his own during flirtatious banter, and I usually enjoyed competing in that arena.

  “You!” I said to stall. “You should finish that drink. Waste not, want not.” He laughed a throaty laugh and held his glass up in a toast.

  It surprised me to realize that playing games with Chris held no appeal for me. Here I was in a historic, romantic city in a luxury hotel. I wanted someone to peel this expensive dress off of me, and to lay me back in high-thread-count sheets. While it’s true that I was never promiscuous, it’s also true that I love a good story. The story of getting ravaged at The Gresham would be a good one to tell at book club when I’m 60.

  “All done,” Chris said, holding up his empty glass to prove it. “Don’t good boys deserve rewards?” He put his hand on my bare knee and I put mine on top to discourage his from creeping up my thigh.

  Was the answer that I’d gotten my need for pure release out of my system with Des? There was more to it, though. Usually having lots of sex makes one want lots of sex. I did want lots of sex. I just wanted it with Tom.

  I shot to my feet, flicking Chris’s hand off of me as I stood. My heart was racing. Chris smiled and stood up, too, thinking it was a signal that we were bound for his room. It wasn’t. I was in full fight-or-flight response mode. I wanted Tom O’Grady. Now that the floodgates had been flung opened, I couldn’t stop the barrage of related thoughts. I wanted to go up to the suite, barge into his bedroom and climb on top of him. I wanted to pull him into my luxury shower and soap up every inch of his muscular body. I wanted to make him moan so loud that the guests in the room below us would have to ring the front desk and complain. I had to get rid of Chris Burton without blowing this deal.

  “Wait! Chris! Before we go, let’s each do a shot.”

  “I like your thinking,” he said. “Like my college days back in Boston. Barman, two shots of Jägermeister.”

  “No! Let’s make it vodka. You know what they say, ‘Never mix, never worry.’”

  “Vodka it is.”

  We picked up our glasses and toasted. Using the fine art of misdirection, I made a big show of looking excited, and then turned my body slightly so Chris wouldn’t see me throw the alcohol past my cheek and onto my shoulder and the floor. The barman, who was polishing a glass, scowled at me and shook his head. I hated ruining my dress, but at least vodka did less collateral damage than Jäger.

  “Off we go,” I said, taking Chris by the arm. “Let’s go to yours and have a drink from the mini-bar.” I steered him into the elevator. “Which floor?” He pushed the button for the floor our suite was on. When we stepped off, I glanced down the hall in the direction of my room. I couldn’t be sure, but I could almost swear I saw Tom’s face in the shadows, then the door closing.

  I got Chris inside, lay my bag on the dining table, and parked him firmly in one of the chairs. I didn’t want him heading for the bed.

  “What’s your poison?” I asked, swinging open the door to the mini-fridge.

  “Whatever the lady’s having,” he shrugged out of his jacket, and loosened his tie.

  I glugged an airplane-sized bottle of vodka into a glass for him, and some still water into another for me. I set them on the table, and he pulled me into his lap, burying his head in my neck. As I struggled to pull myself up to standing, Chris used his palms to survey all of my most private parts. It galled me that I was feeling turned on, but I kept my eye on the prize.

  “You know what I’d like to see?” I flirted.

  “I’m hoping the answer to that is ‘your clothes in a pile at the foot of the bed,’” Chris answered.

  I had to hand it to him. That was smooth. Focus, Shayla.

  “Silly!” I laughed. “While we relax and have our drinks, I’d like to see that letter of intent.”

  “Fine,” he said grinning. “But you’ll have to get it yourself.”

  “Great. Where is it?”

  He lay back in his chair, and spread his legs wider. “In my pocket.”

  I spied a leather briefcase on the chair. “Is it in here?”

  “Could be,” he said, “But my you’ll need a pen. Guess where my pen is.”

  “Clever, Chris,” I said, bending over the chair and rooting through his case. Success. I found it in the first folder I opened. By the time I turned around, Chris was sitting on the chair wearing nothing but his boxers. Oh dear God above, he was fit.

  “Did you hear me say where my pen is?” he inquired. With a will of their own, my eyes landed on his crotch. There was little doubt about his feelings toward me. “God, you’re so hot, Sheila. Come and have a seat.” On one crazy level, it was tempting. If ever the perfect storm for a one-night stand existed, it was here and now. Good-looking guy I’ll never see again, anonymous hotel room, lots of liquor.

  “You know, I’m just going to pop to the ladies’ room,” I said, putting the letter in front of him. “While I’m in there, sign this so we can get all this pesky business out of the way.” Without looking back, I ducked into the bathroom and closed the door behind me.

  I looked in the mirror and whispered to myself, “You big dumb idiot. Wanting Tom O’Grady is very, very dangerous. You are on this tiny island to get his information so you can go home, write this book. Score this and the big-time’s right around the corner. Ray Diablo and real New York deals.”

  As I ran cold water on a washcloth, I noticed a feeling of dread in my belly. I didn’t want to go back to New York. The thought of sitting in Brenda Sackler’s office getting yelled at held no sway for me. I’d
miss my hens. I dabbed the smears of makeup off my face, then lay the cloth across my forehead to cool my feverish thoughts.

  “Stop it, Shayla,” I whispered, looking into my own green eyes. “Go out there and ride Chris Burton if you need to get something out of your system, but leave Tom O’Grady out of it.” I ran water on a clean cloth and scrubbed at the vodka on my dress. “Tom O’Grady’s just a grouchy, egotistical anachronism anyway.” I took a deep breath, willed my face to fall into a relaxed, seductive smile and opened the door.

  “Oh, there you are, Shayla,” Chris said. I stopped in my tracks. He was holding my passport in his hand. There were two freshly poured drinks on the table. “I didn’t mean to snoop; I opened your bag looking for a pen. As you can see,” he waved a hand over his near-naked body, “I don’t have one on me.”

  “It’s a long story,” I started.

  “No need to explain. I’m a bit of a true-crime buff, myself. I never miss an issue of Vanity Fair. The fact that you’re Hank de Winter’s daughter makes me want you all the more.” He drained his glass of vodka and stood up. I saw that he’d signed the letter. He advanced toward me and took hold of my body in a ballroom dance-style hold, pelvis-to-pelvis, with the flat of his hand on the small of my back. “What your farmer friend doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Just answer me one question, Tokyo Rose. Do you really work for Castle Stone? Because if you don’t, that’s a deal breaker.”

  I crossed my fingers way down below my rear. “Yes, I do work for Castle Stone.” I did. Kind of. Just not as a Cultural Blah Blah or a Blah Blah of Marketing.

  “Right, then, Shayla, seems we’re good to go.” He waltzed me toward the bed. When I saw where this was heading, I maneuvered my body so that I wouldn’t be pinned under him when we landed. He wasn’t prepared for my trying to lead, and his heel caught on the carpet. We went down hard. Right before his head hit the corner of the bedside table, I cradled it in my hand, protecting it slightly from the sharp corner. I saw stars and yelled every permutation of the swear “fuck” that I knew in rapid-fire succession.