by J. A. Coffey
Huffing, Jess leaned back and cradled her beer, holding it as a magic talisman against the words she knew she wouldn't want to hear. "Why Darius? Why now?"
"Because you love him. You've always loved him. You've saved yourself for him." He gave her a meaningful look. "I can't even save the last scoop of ice cream for Rob, but you've saved the carton, bowl, spoon, Cool Whip and cherry for a man you met once. Why shouldn't I see you two...merge?"
At her pained gasp, Jer plowed on with, "One question, Cookie: how did you feel when he held you? Icy chilly, or warm snuggly?"
Her bottom lip quivered, and tears wavered on her lids. She traced the sweat drops on the can and coughed out, "We could never be together. His father...." her voice dropped, and her throat tightened, "wouldn't approve."
"Oh, poop on him." He waved off her words and settled back into his seat. "When you get this inheritance, it'll be just like you're nobility."
She almost slammed her beer to the table. "You can't buy blueblood, Jer. I'll never be part of the aristocracy." A tear etched a trail down her cheek; she wiped it away. "And if being part of his world means treating people the way his father treated me, then I want no part of it."
For a moment, neither one spoke. Jeremy considered her, tipping his head in thought. "We could 'off' him." At her dark look, he added, "Well, not me. I'm too scared of guns. And not you. You're too gorgeous for prison."
"Plan B? Pray for an avalanche? Oh, wait, we don't live by any mountains. Plan C?"
"I still think your best bet is what your staff and I said earlier. Let him buy the pieces off you. I think that's your best plan." Then his bright smile filled his face. "And then you'll be fantastically rich, and Papa Bear shouldn't have any complaints."
She wanted to rail but had to grin and shake her head. Jeremy always had the best rationale, even when it wasn't very rational. "He doesn't have one point eight mil sitting around. And then Duncan pointed out what a media nightmare that would be to us. Arthur thinks we'd get slammed with capital gain taxes come spring. Brandy brought up the fact that we'd have to clear out the entire showroom to make room for everything or pay to store the whole lot, and Bob thinks the whole idea smells like blackmail."
"Ooh!" Jeremy changed the word T-H-E to T-H-E-A-T-E-R and added to the O to make O-U-T-S. "Cleared my board, more points for me," he sang. "So, seriously," he collected seven more pieces, "let's get back to talking about boys, and why you avoid them."
"Exhibit A." Her hands spread to Jer. "Need I say more?"
"Not me, Toots. Right guy, wrong team."
Groan. "In some ways, it's always the wrong team." She shifted, sipped her warming beer. "I mean, look at what happened to all my high school friends."
"The Fab Four." Those lips pressed tight in rue as Jer leaned back. "That was high school, Jess. High school."
"And college." A meaningful look. "Steph and Patrice both."
He leaned closer, and his voice pitched. "You can't blame every man for what happened to your friends. They were just in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"All of us? How convenient."
Jer grumbled at her flippancy. "I don't want to fight, Cookie. I'm a better lover than lieutenant. It's just...." he gathered her hands again. "You're my best gal pal. I want to see you happy. And I truly believe Darius is the one who can make you so." He cupped her cheek.
Touching always soothed her. She nestled into his chilled-beer hand and said, "He is rather dreamy, isn't he?"
"Mm, mm, mm. Were I not married...."
"And were he gay...."
"And were he not my BFF's man...."
Their eyes held. Jess leaned forward and buzzed him on the lips, still smiling. "You're too sweet, Jer."
He kissed her knuckles, his eyes honest with his thoughts. "If I were straight, I'd be the luckiest man alive."
"Stop," Jess swatted his hands and wiped her cheeks. "You're making me cry."
"Come on, Sugar." He pulled her up and tucked her to his side. "I think hot chocolate, popcorn, and While You Were Sleeping. You in?"
Grateful for his devout friendship, she wobbled a smile at him. "Definitely."
*****
He'd done the right thing, damn it. He'd left her to talk about him- a whole staff meeting? It had to be the inheritance. He'd driven by an hour ago and saw cars still in the driveway. And now the driveway was empty, the lights were on, a beautiful longhaired calico cat hunkered in the window, and he felt it safe to pick up Jeremy and drive him back to his car.
But as he strolled by the window to the front door, he saw them, captured forever in his mind in a lover's caressing hold. Then she kissed him. He said something to make her tear-up. Then she nestled into him as if they were going up to bed.
For a second, he thought it had all been an act; the flaming gay Jeremy and the best friend Jessalyn. But they would have won an Academy Award for not smiling or eye-rolling or giving any indication that it was all a ploy.
No. They were best friends of the opposite sex.
Perfectly acceptable to kiss each other and walk arm in arm up to the bedroom, where, if he backed up to the car, he could see the light flick on.
That should have been him up there. He should have been the one kissing her, holding her, tucking her into bed.
He was the one who wanted her.
Not Jeremy.
Then the curtains closed.
The light flicked off.
He marched to the front door, stomped up the steps and stopped as the dog barked. His fist- in pounding, not knocking position- hovered above the wood frame. He was losing control and didn't like it.
He thought of Sensei. He took a steadying breath. Then another. He took a step backward down the stairs, then two more, then he stopped when he reached the concrete path, still unable to look away from the door.
If he followed through now he would look like a jaded lover, a look he did not want to cultivate. It would make him look reckless. Uncertain.
Weak.
Ideas deserted him. He clasped his hands before him in the Asian salutation and gave a tight bow before leaving.
"Damn it." He should have stayed.
Chapter Nine
None of the news heartened him. Nor did the lobby. For an attorney, and one as expensive as Brinkley and Meyers and Masters and Son, Beauregard expected more than bare white walls and the obligatory degrees posted on them. A clock would have been nice, so he could see how much of his precious time was being wasted in the waiting room. Ah, that's why none could be found.
A mahogany executive desk? Nope. Just this box-store assemble-yourself laminate garbage placed before him.
Now that his illustrious brother was deceased, Beauregard felt as if a giant tumor of disappointment had been removed from his flesh. No longer would he have to endure the scowls, the stipulations, the incessant queries as to the health of little Darius. Now the inheritance should come free and clear to him.
His debts would be more than paid in full.
He could finally try his luck at Monte Carlo.
The timing could not have been better.
"Mr. Covington?"
"Finally," he muttered as he levered himself out of his chair by cane. "I've been waiting fifteen minutes," he growled at the receptionist, trying not to remember that he'd been waiting two weeks for Darius to finally return to this country so he could get this blasted procedure started.
"Apologies, Mr. Covington. Mr. Brinkley was late getting back from the prison. Traffic," she added, as if he might have thought the man had been arraigned.
The girl opened a door on the left and indicated a chair by the massive oak library table. "This is more like it." He eased into a cushioned vinyl chair and looked at the jolly ol' boy coming in. Late fifties, with a snow white head of hair and beard, along with a General Lee moustache. A slim belly and gentle eyes belied the harshness he knew from reputation this man capable of in the courtroom.
He looked like Santa Claus.
Beauregard hated him on sight.
"So, Mr. Covington, the message said you were here in regards to your brother's Will." He paused, a look of uncertainty in his eyes. "Did...you have any questions you were hoping I could answer?"
"Just when I can have access to the money."
"Your portion?"
"My portion?" He chuckled. "I think you mean the eighteen million dollars that I now control."
The man leaned back and tapped his fingertips together. "I see."
Alarm bells began to ring. No. "I beg your pardon?"
Mr. Brinkley huffed out a breath and leaned forward. "Your words told me everything I needed to know, Mr. Covington. You see, I'm afraid you are only receiving a portion of the estate."
"Portion?" His mouth dried. That filthy bastard. "Define 'portion.'"
"Five hundred thousand dollars." He slid a sheet of parchment paper across the desk, Last Will and Testament in calligraphy across the top. Mr. Brinkley indicated the paragraph with his name on it. Sure enough, the amount was written there.
Enraged, he sat back, feeling his jaw clench as little red dots clouded his vision. Five hundred thousand. That would barely cover it. He'd have nothing. He'd have to go back to London, if he could afford the damned plane ticket.
He would be forced to find a job, or live with relatives for the remainder of his life.
He'd never felt so degraded until this moment.
Ollie did something stupid with it; he felt it in his creaking bones. Some charity to save bacteria, or teach dogs to fly jets, or trees to talk. His hands gripped his cane until his fingers locked in anger. "Who gets the remainder?"
Mr. Brinkley smiled and said, "Your son. He must have thought quite highly of him."
Another bomb. "My son? My son? Does he know this?"
"No. I haven't been able to reach him. I've called a few times, but he hasn't answered."
Denial ate into him. He tore his fingers into his hair. It couldn't end like this. This was beyond low. Darius lived the carefree lifestyle of a jetsetter, flying all over the world on Ollie's dime, fighting for money like a fisticuffs hooligan. The boy would waste it on loose women and wine and never know a moment's hardship his whole life.
Beauregard choked on hardship. Chewed it daily.
He needed the money. Not only to live on, but to ensure he could continue living, should he not get the cash into Vito's hands within two weeks.
There had to be a way.
He realized how long he had been quiet. Rather than let an attorney see his anguish, Beauregard let his mind race. He forced a smile, hating the way his lips curved when they should be scowling. "Have an enjoyable time in prison?"
"Eh." He patted his stomach and paced behind his chair. "Nope. Never do. But my client should be free in two days. Good behavior and all."
Not that he cared, but Beauregard nodded and asked, "What was he in for?"
Santa paused at the question. "Allegedly committed arson. No witnesses, no proof. I've been pushing for six months to overturn the verdict, so hopefully Wednesday will be the day."
Something about the word "arson" rang a favorable bell with him. He stretched back into the chair, his mind fixating on that word, "arson," over and over to the exclusion of the conversation before him. "Did you just come from town hall? Or were you at the local jail?"
Mr. Brinkley's carefully schooled expression showed a hint of a frown. "The jail. Why?"
"Oh," he twisted the rubber stopper on his cane along the carpet. "I have to go home that way, that's all." Wednesday, jailhouse. Drive his son's beamer. "Bad accident blocking traffic?
"No, all construction. Two lanes down to alternating one-way traffic. It's a nightmare best avoided."
He harrumphed and reverted to the previous subject. "You need to find a way we can contest this last Will and pretend it never existed."
That white head of hair kept shaking. "I'm sorry. Oliver Covington made multiple copies, all initialed by my colleagues and I."
"And when was this?"
"Six months ago, before he first became ill."
"Not good enough." He pounded his cane once to the floor, but the blasted carpet muffled the sound. "I was to get all the inheritance upon Ollie's death. I'm the surviving patriarch. It goes to me. Not Darius." How dare Ollie throw this primogeniture shit in his face!
Santa studied him. "People get written out of Wills all the time, Mr. Covington, for disputes, break-ups...I've even seen a husband get written out because the wife didn't like how he treated her dog. I'm sorry that my hands are tied."
The times were past when Beauregard's influence and money made people trip over their tongues to please him. Now he was going to have to rely on himself.
He believed he already had a plan.
Chapter Ten
An internet search told Darius that Phoenix Antiques opened ten minutes ago. His fingers hovered over the phone, vacillating his next move.
His father's telephone messages indicated he was on the warpath; he knew the man too well to think any differently. But it didn't mean he had to respond in the same fashion. In fact, he had spent his entire adult life schooling himself to be different from the man who raised him.
Which had worked beautifully until yesterday.
Embracing the discipline of his Aikido master, Darius lifted the receiver and dialed the number under Contact Us. A girl answered, probably Faith.
"Hello, this is Darius. Is...Jessalyn available?"
"Oh, hi," she giggled. "Yes, let me get her." He was placed on hold to the Foreigner song, "I Want to Know What Love Is."
Hm.
Jessalyn picked up the receiver, and he could tell her words came out a little breathlessly. At least he knew he wasn't the only one so affected. "Darius?"
"Hi, it's me."
"Hi."
He clicked on her home page and looked at her picture. Even touched the screen. "I know we got off to a wrong start, here. Really. I shouldn't have come to your house yesterday, but Jeremy insisted. I apologize for that."
"Oh." She cleared her throat. "Um, apology accepted."
Oh? He blinked. She must not be used to men apologizing. He decided to use that to his advantage. "We're both adults, and I'm sure we can reach an arrangement without resorting to lawyers. I'd like to make it up to you- you know, placing you on the spot like that- interrupting your meal. It was terribly rude of me, and again I'm sorry. Is there any way we can meet? Coffee, or ice cream, or lunch?"
He sensed her wavering. "Lunch would be fine. When?"
He leapt. "Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow? Um, yeah...I can do Wednesday."
He frowned at her hesitation, leaned back in his chair. "Would Thursday be better?"
"Nope. How's twelve-thirty?"
He grinned and barely stopped himself from telling her it was a date. "Twelve-thirty tomorrow, then. I'll be there."
"No bells necessary. I'm sure my watchdog Faith will tell me the moment you're in the door."
He laughed, enjoying her retort. "See you soon."
"Okay. Bye."
He cradled the receiver, smiling down at it. Lunch. With Jess. Power suit or sexy shirt? Jams or jewels? Cologne or cotton? Was his image to be friend, foe, or foreplay? "Blast." He suddenly realized he had no idea what to wear.
Chapter Eleven
Damn, she couldn't stop fidgeting. Worse, she must have looked at the clock every thirty seconds for the last ten minutes. And worse still, Faith had noticed and now stubbornly refused to leave the front door, choosing to peer out between the scrolls of the Victorian fireplace screen in the picture window overlooking the parking lot.
The clock said twelve-twenty. She brushed down her black skirt, smoothing away any wrinkles. At this rate it would be threadbare by the time he got here, which would offer a whole new world of possibilities. She felt her face flame at that and focused harder on her wardrobe. Her baby-blue cap-sleeved blouse had been tailored to hug her curves, and she loved the feel of it on her skin.
It looked killer, too, and she was glad she had impulsively decided to wear it today.
A matching jangle bracelet and hairclip completed the look.
"He's here, he's here," Faith called out as she dashed towards the cash register and began wiping down the counter as nonchalantly as possible.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Covington," she purred as he walked in. "I'll let Jessalyn know you're here."
"Don't bother," Jess said, tossing her a bemused grin complete with glowering eyes. "Faker," she whispered.
Hot damn, the man looked tastier today than yesterday. Black slacks clung to his trim hips, and a tailored white shirt hung crisp off his muscular shoulders. A baby blue tie completed the ensemble. She felt a world of relief that he had dressed professionally as well.
"Oh, you guys match." Faith batted her eyes at Jess, and she bit back the rest of her sigh.
Until the scent of Drakkar wafted to her. Then she felt herself physically wobble. Her kryptonite. Ye gads. If he was trying to storm the castle, it looked like her drawbridge had already fallen down.
When he held out his hand to her, Jess accepted, and he drew her in to kiss her knuckles. "You look beautiful. Blue is lovely on you."
He'd make a very dapper knight.
She noticed his tie was practically the same color as her shirt.
Like they were at a prom.
What was that about a castle?
He held out a bottle of red wine, wrapped in a yellow bow. "Peace offering," he whispered, giving her a little wink.
Fighting the blush required bravado. She accepted it with her most demure thanks and placed it on the counter. With a severe expression, she told Faith, "If you drink this, Mr. Covington will be guilty of providing alcohol for a minor. That could place him in jail for years, thereby solving all our problems."
Darius reached out and snatched it back. "I'll...just hang onto this until after lunch."
Jess laughed, enjoying his comeback.
He offered her his elbow, and Jess felt all the awkwardness and glamour of their first meeting come crashing back without mercy. She wrapped her fingers self-consciously into his crook, and he waved a warning finger at both Faith and the wine he had returned to the counter.