All Through the Night

by Mixed authors

  “What are you, his PR person or something?”

  “No,” Angie said. “Just someone who wants to see you happy.”

  “I’m happy. Couldn’t be happier.” Maybe a little happier? Maybe some love in her life? No. Not love. Love hurt too much. Love sapped you and drained you and left you in pain.

  Only she had never found the right partner.

  Bobby could have been the right partner.

  No. No. She hated that she was still thinking that way. She had to wipe that thought from her mind—this instant.

  “Oh, yeah, you’re dancing for joy.”

  “Tonight I will be,” Regan said firmly. “Tonight is the first night of the rest of my life. Big move up, big money. Big chance to make a name for myself. There’s nothing to not be happy about. So why are you so negged out?”

  Angie shrugged. She hadn’t really tried to push Tony’s cause, but every once in a while, she just couldn’t help pointing out the obvious. Not that Regan didn’t know it. Regan ignored it, and sloughed it off. As usual.

  That was it as far as Regan was concerned. For today. So Angie regrouped and found a reason. “Three hundred bucks for a pair of shoes is why. You know me, I still come from New England thrift in spite of all our money. My ac-countant would have a fit if he had to pay a charge like that.”

  “As opposed to the charges you run up at Nordstrom? Come on, Angie.”

  “You’re having a brainstorm. This is not like you.”

  “Sure it is,” Regan murmured. Angie didn’t know everything about her life, after all, nor did she know everything about Angie’s. And she didn’t even know if she was all that curious either. “It’s like enough, in any event. Maybe I’ll surprise you.”

  Maybe I’ll surprise myself.

  Oh, God—I don’t want to surprise myself. I just want to enjoy this. That’s all I want to do, and I don’t want to think about how it looks to Tony or to Angie or any prospective clients.

  I just want to deal with how it looks to me.

  Some things you couldn’t plan. Sometimes fate just stepped in and handed you the means and motive to go after what you wanted. And sometimes fate just tripped you up.

  Bobby Torrance couldn’t decide which scenario was in play the day he heard that the Heights Herald was on the auction block, and that Regan had jumped feet first into the big leagues. It just shot a man’s plans all to hell, these unexpected events, didn’t give him time to react and strategize. Gave him five minutes to make choices that would immediately upend and impact his life.

  But because of those two events, he’d dropped everything, taken the first plane out of Chicago, and was standing on the doorstep of the family residence in the Heights, girding himself to defend his actions about decisions that were both visceral and no-damned-body-else’s business but his own.

  Nevertheless, he was here, and he thrust open the door with all the authority of the head of the house just as he heard Angie’s excited shriek behind him.

  She barreled into him and wrapped her arms around him from behind. “You—you—oh, my God, what are you doing here?”

  Bobby tossed his two carry-ons into the vestibule and pulled her around to envelop her in a bear hug. “Business. Where’ve you been?” He put his arm around her shoulders and guided her into the house.

  “Manhattan. Shopping. What else does a Torrance heiress do?”

  “Work. Contribute her talents and insights to the bottom line.”

  “Yeah, you really need my crack forehand on your team.”

  “Maybe I do,” Bobby said.

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning you wouldn’t have to move to Chicago. Ah, here’s Mother.” He relinquished Angie to take his mother’s hands. “The fatted son is back, Mother, so tell the chef to cook the prodigal calf in my honor.”

  “And that means just what, Bobby?”

  No fulsome welcomes here. His mother was suspicious of everything, bitter as poison since his father died and Bobby had taken over Torrance Media. And it wasn’t that he’d run the company to the ground: rather, he’d made more of it than his father ever had, and reversed losses and increased profits, and his mother couldn’t, for some reason, forgive him for that.

  “I’m home for the moment.” Less was more where his mother was concerned.

  “How many moments?”

  “As long as it takes to do business, Mother.”

  His mother pulled her hands from his and turned away. “I know what business, Bobby. I know just what you’re up to, and all those years you spent away from here—you never fooled me.”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about, Mother.” But he was damned certain he did. She knew. She knew.

  “Don’t do it, Bobby. Just don’t do it. We went through enough with it. Time won’t have made it better. She is what she is. Breeding shows. You can put her in pinstripe suits, and you can give her a corporate gold card, and all the money in the world, and at the end of the day, she’s still a slut. And she’ll make your life miserable, just like before.”

  And you’ll make my life miserable, Mother—just like before.

  “Appreciate the advice, Mother, but I’m just here on business.” Not a lie. He supposed Regan could be called business—unfinished business. He knew how to do spin. “I can just as soon stay at a hotel if my presence here bothers you.”

  “You pay the bills,” his mother said, waving her hand listlessly. “You’ll do what you want.” She drifted off toward the library, looking fragile, ethereal, miserable.

  “Bobby!”

  He shook himself. There was no rescuing his mother. And at that, he’d never exerted the effort to try. He turned to Angie. “What?”

  “Regan?”

  He shook his head. He could deny that she was his first order of business, at least—or rather, he could, and would, lie to Angie until he had some sense of how things were. “Nope. The Heights Herald.”

  Her eyes widened. “That low-rent rag? You’re kidding.”

  “Not kidding. Got the lawyers making an offer right now. You’re not thinking, Ang. We’re talking about a small, weekly shopper newspaper that covers some local events, which already has a subscription list and a viable advertising base, nipping at the border of Manhattan. You don’t think there’s some value to the company there?”

  “I’m not sure, what’re you thinking?”

  “Oh, features editor? Office manager? What do you think you’d like to do?”

  “Oh, Mother’s gonna die, Bobby. She didn’t want you within a thousand miles of New York until Regan was safely out of the way; she never forgave her for staying in town after the divorce. She hates her with all her heart.”

  “Okay,” Bobby said. “And you’re her friend, and I’d bet the store you haven’t told mother a thing about that. That’s a bigger betrayal than anything I could ever do, Ang. But that’s your business. The buy is a go, and I expect to find a nice niche with distribution into Manhattan and to make big inroads into other turf. So get used to it, and think about how you’re going to help me.”

  “I have been helping you,” Angie said stiffly.

  There was no doubt about it: guilt worked. And he had labored under it for seven years, and the burden of knowing that his mother wanted him as close as the next room, and as far away as he could get. China wouldn’t have been too far, had there been a reason for him to have gone there.

  And Angie had been the buffer, the rock, her mother’s companion, shielding her against everything unpleasant.

  But old grudges died hard.

  “You’re right,” he acknowledged, “you’re here with Mother when you should be having a life of your own. I owe you for that. But the fact is, I’m here to get this thing up and running and pointed south. So Mother is just going to have to deal with it.”

  “And it has nothing to do with Regan?”

  “It’s business and the rest is none of your business.”

  “That’s what I thought. Mother’s rig
ht, isn’t she?”

  “You know I haven’t seen her in years,” Bobby said softly.

  “Right.” But she didn’t know anything, actually. She felt as if she didn’t know him, and that was the worst thing of all. “What does that have to do with anything?” she asked.

  “Probably nothing,” Bobby said. “The topic is off the table, Ang. And I have to unpack.”

  And that was that. Regan had come between them again. All these years, she’d kept them niched in separate places. It’d been easy, too, because Bobby lived in the middle of the country, and flying trips home left him no time to do any-thing but hold meetings and make sure Mother was comfortable.

  Her association with Regan was barely ever mentioned— a passing question now and again, which made her think sometimes that Bobby had his own sources to provide him with information about Regan. But, then, the divorce had been so acrimonious, she thought most times she was wrong, and he was just as happy to know nothing about her at all ever again.

  Bobby had made his own life, deliberately headquartered far and away from his youthful mistakes. It had worked out well, only Mother hadn’t wanted to move cross country. Mother wanted to stay, but Regan hadn’t left and nothing their father offered in settlement could move her, so Mother had suffered all these years with Regan flaunting herself around town.

  And Bobby was right: Angie had snuck behind Mother’s back to maintain the relationship with Regan. Regan had been her best friend, before, during and after the marriage. You didn’t throw that away when a marriage didn’t work, or if a mother was mired in hate. That was Mother’s problem, and Bobby’s, and Angie had tried so hard to remain neutral for the benefit of both parties.

  Which had been so easy when he was far away, but now Bobby was here for the foreseeable future. And he was no callow twenty-four-year-old, and Regan wasn’t the exotic and romantic twenty-year-old she had been.

  Trouble. It could only mean trouble. Regan hadn’t changed in one respect over the years. She was still a man magnet, still attracting attention like a heat-seeking missile. All flash and fizzle, that was Regan. With loyal Tony invariably downrange, waiting for the right time, the right place, the right weather.

  Regan wouldn’t want her past dogging her just as she was stepping up and out. She’d want to keep out of Bobby’s way. She’d run as far as those wiggly wobbly Mascolos would carry her, if she knew Bobby was back in town.

  Angie was sure of it. She’d tell Tony, she thought, and Tony would tell Regan, and then he’d protect her, just as he always did.

  So maybe this wasn’t such a disaster, Bobby’s return. Maybe it would be the impetus for Regan to begin valuing Tony’s unswerving friendship, and to see finally that Tony really was the man for her.

  Tony wasn’t going to tell Regan anything. He put down the phone slowly, thinking about everything it meant to have Bobby Torrance back in town.

  It meant everything was gone to hell. It meant a continual looming presence at a time when the last thing Regan needed was that kind of distraction. And it would be a distraction; their past would underscore everything she did, and she’d be looking for ways and means to avoid him. She’d always be conscious he was somewhere around and that would take her focus off business, and that alone could shoot everything to kingdom come.

  Shit.

  God, that man had the timing of a master clock maker. Of all the times for him to stage a return.

  Damnit to hell.

  The less Regan knew, the better. She’d find out soon enough, anyway. Which was what he told Angie. He wasn’t going to tell her. And especially not on the eve of the party celebrating her success.

  Tomorrow was soon enough, he told Angie. Although he didn’t want to bet that someone wouldn’t tell her at the party tonight.

  No matter: this was Regan’s night. And his. And maybe, in some small way, his father’s. His father who had taken a gorgeous out-of-her-depth twenty-one-year-old and molded her with kindness and care, and made her into the spectacular businesswoman she was.

  Oh, yes, all the memories. They flooded out at the thought of Bobby Torrance. All the fights. All the jealousies.

  Bobby banging at the agency door, demanding his wife back. Bobby threatening him. Bobby demanding that Regan give up her job. Bobby, Bobby, Bobby—spoiled bad boy the-world-was-his-because-he-was-rich Bobby… Possessive, entitled Bobby… who’d just swept into town after graduating from that high-powered, high toned university in Chicago, took one look at Regan, and had to have her. Had to, had to, and stopped at nothing until he’d married her.

  And for several dazzling months, she’d been deliriously happy. And then it all deteriorated, first in bed, and then in their day-to-day life. First, it turned out that Regan’s needs and capabilities didn’t mesh with Bobby’s in bed. And the mother didn’t want her working. And Bobby was insanely jealous of every man she came in contact with because their private life was in such a shambles.

  And then Alex came along.

  Alex—mature, sexy, sympathetic, knowing, manipulative Alex… Whatever it was that was between them, it broke up the marriage like a time bomb, imploding from the inside and radiating out.

  The papers were filed, the settlement was made, and Bobby tore out of town like a tornado.

  And now he was back like a storm cloud, dark, ominous, hovering, ready to unleash a torrent of trouble when conditions were right.

  Still rich. Still on the hunt. Still thinking he was entitled.

  Men like Bobby never gave up what they thought belonged to them.

  Well, Bobby had to learn what they all had learned over the years: Regan belonged to no one, and Tony had reason to know that better than anyone else.

  * * *

  Chapter Two

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  She wore the Mascolos. And black. A column of long, slinky, shimmery black that grazed her curves, showed off her legs, and fastened with a jet-black choker collar around her neck. Crystal and jet earrings dusting her bare shoulders, framed by her tumbling curls, her only jewelry. A black sequined bag. Restrained makeup. A long glittery sweater coat to ward off the chill.

  Nothing out of line here. Perfectly fit, formal and worthy of a celebratory party. Even Angie couldn’t quibble. There wasn’t a hint of anything blatant. No cleavage. Nothing tight. No messages here that could be misinterpreted by anyone.

  But she was disabused of the comfort of that notion the moment she walked in the door of Mary Mackey Lee’s spacious Tudor home.

  Everything stopped dead as she paused in the archway to the sunken living room. She felt a wave of heat suffuse her whole body as she realized how many people were there, and that they all were staring at her.

  “Come on, Regan.” Tony came forward, and took her hand to help her down the step. “You look fabulous.” But fabulous didn’t begin to express how she looked. She looked different: sensual, elusive, exclusive.

  Not his.

  No. His, while the world outside could be held at bay.

  His, while she was on Mackey turf, surrounded by Mackey friends, family and colleagues. His, as she always was, one minute at a time.

  His, for tonight.

  He led her to the open bar. “Here we go. What would you like?”

  “White wine—Riesling if you have it.”

  “Sure. Anything you want, Regan.”

  Oh, God—did that mean something other than casual conversation?

  She took the goblet and lifted it to him. This was not the time to say she owed everything to him. “Thanks, Tony.”

  “Hey”—he grabbed his beer and clinked his glass against her wineglass—“you earned it.”

  She sipped and savored the fruity taste of the wine while she surveyed the crowd. “God, everyone’s here.”

  “Everyone we’ve ever sold to. All your neighbors and friends, everyone you grew up with and everyone you never wanted to see again,” Tony said with a trace of irony. “That about covers it. And my sister, of course,” he
added as Mary came up to them.

  “You look stunning tonight,” Mary murmured, signaling for a refill. “And it’s about time Tony promoted you— shame on you, Tony.”

  “Hey, you, too, can earn those kinds of commissions, and you don’t need a title to do it,” Tony retorted, putting his hand on Regan’s shoulder and squeezing lightly. “And the best is yet to come.” He slid his hand down her arm.

  “I think so too,” Regan said. “We’ve got the right strategy at the right time.” She sipped again so that she could move her arm out of Tony’s reach. “It’s brilliant, actually. No one else has thought of it—yet.”

  “Yet is the operative word,” Tony said. “But that’s business, that’s for tomorrow. Tonight—is pure pleasure—and we should enjoy it while we can.”

  “Thank God he has a sister who can wave a magic wand and set it all up with one day’s notice,” Mary put in. “It’s my pleasure, too, Regan. You deserve it. You’re like family, but you know that, and frankly, I don’t know what Tony would do without you.”

  Regan ignored the warning bells. “Thanks, Mary. It’s not an exaggeration to say that your family has been like a second family to me too.”

  Mary hugged her. “I wish you even greater success then, and I leave you to it.”

  Regan lifted her wineglass to her as Mary withdrew. “You don’t know how lucky you are, Tony.”

  “Sure I do.” He took her elbow. “Let’s mingle.”

  But she couldn’t take a step without someone stopping her to comment on her dress, or to congratulate her on her promotion. It was so lovely to have all these people, some she’d known all her life, some of them new friends she’d made in the course of selling them a house or an apartment, so undeniably pleased for her.

  She felt full, suddenly, in a way that she hadn’t in a long time. What Mary had said was true: Mackey’s was her family, and they were pushing her out of the nest and letting her fly.