“I didn’t want to worry you. It’s been creeping up on him slowly.”
“You mean this is the serious kind of ill?”
“Yes, Steven. His heart’s ready to explode. The doctors tell him to slow down, but he won’t. God knows, he doesn’t need any more money. He should sell the company and retire, plain and simple. That would solve everything.”
He patted his mother’s hand. “Don’t worry, Mom, I won’t desert you.” He grinned at her. “You get half of everything, anyway, no matter what happens.”
“Half isn’t the point. I don’t want that woman running our company. Your father is so damn infuriating. I try to feed him the right foods,” she rambled on, “but he sneaks in burgers, and he drinks too much coffee. He spreads himself too thin. You should be at his side, helping him. He’s cut me out of the loop completely, and after all I’ve done! Tells me to volunteer at the hospital, do more charity work. As if I don’t do enough already.”
“It’s hard to believe all this. Dad’s no dummy. He’s not going to just throw it all away, especially to someone who’s not even in the family.”
“You’ll see. It doesn’t take a genius to see through that woman.”
He settled back in his seat, sighed, and glanced out the window at the passing city. His mind wandered away from his mother and father to his surroundings, the parade of cars and trucks as far as the eye could see, the dense smog, the sweltering heat floating in watery waves over everything metal, then back to his all-encompassing mother, smothering him, trying to pull him away from his dream and back into her life.
Steven leaned forward and pushed the button to open the window to Gus. “Take us by the office, please.”
“No,” Carrie countered. “Home. We’re having a party tonight. It’s Della’s thirtieth birthday. Your father wants it big, a band, caterers, the works. Everyone who’s anyone in the company will be there. See what I mean? Who else has he done that for?”
“So, I finally get to meet Dad’s dolly.”
“She’s not his dolly. I don’t really quite know what the hell she is. Yes, I do, she’s a cunning little bitch. That’s what she is. Your dad and I have taken her under our wing, bailed her out of hassles with men–”
“I remember you telling me about that guy involved in drugs. Wasn’t Henshaw involved, too? That was a long time ago. There’s been more?”
“No, but if you ask me, she’s a glorified tramp. I took that woman with me everywhere, helped her pick out her clothes, practically taught her how to walk and talk. I took her to my gym, my hairdresser. What did I get for it? Squat. The better she looked and acted, the more weight I gained. She’s been like a damn curse on me.”
“This isn’t like you, Mom. Why would you let some woman who works for Dad get at you like this? You run Beverly Hills society.” He glanced out the window and said softly, “Sounds like you’re a little bit jealous, Mom.”
She slapped his arm. “I’m worried about the company, our future.”
“What do you want me to do? Dad doesn’t listen to me when it comes to his business.”
“We’ll work that out later. I’m telling you, she’s conniving. I want your opinion. It’s your life too, Steven.” She took his hand and squeezed. “I’m so glad you’re here. I feel more in control now.”
* * *
Della pulled her new black Lexus up in front of the Gates mansion at eight o’clock on the button. She was filled with exhilaration and wonder–the whole evening was planned around her thirtieth birthday and five-year anniversary with the company. No one had ever done anything like this for her before. Rumor had it Gates planned to make a big announcement about her. Surely it would be a promotion of some sort. Manager? Auditor, maybe? She’d worked her tail off during her five years with the company, gone back to the university nights and weekends and gotten her degree. She loved every waking moment of it and some of the sleeping moments, too, when she dreamed of her job and came up with ideas that blew her away. She turned out to be a natural in the business world.
Somewhere along the way, her relationship with Carrie had fallen by the wayside. Right after her annulment from Rick, they were thicker than pea soup. Then, the busier she got, the less time she had for Carrie. She never forgot all Carrie had done for her, but no matter how hard she tried, once her life settled down, Carrie seemed distant and unreceptive to hanging out together anymore. She wasn’t interested in going to the gym, or any of the other things they did to keep themselves physically fit.
Lillian had been right. Make your own way, depend only upon yourself. Della glanced down at the gold embossed invitation lying on the seat next to her. If only Lillian could see her now! She’d be so proud. That brief visit just over four years ago had been her last. The memory of her mother lingered in the back of her mind. How frail and unkempt Lillian was! The weariness in her eyes constantly haunted her. Lillian needed someone to love her and look after her. She wanted to be that person.
She had the wherewithal to take care of her mother, a snazzy condo in a high-rise on the beach, a little money in the bank, a never-ending supply of exquisite clothes from Jon Clarin, who claimed Della was his favorite walking advertisement for his professional line of smart dresses and business suits. How she’d love to let Jon take a crack at Lillian. She could be Della’s long lost aunt, on her father’s side. They could change her name. That’s it! She finally saw a way to bring her mother back into her life and still keep her true identity a secret. Now, the trick would be to find Lillian. When Della had tried to contact her shortly after their brief encounter, she discovered Lillian’s old house had been sold. Her mother had disappeared before they had a chance to be a part of each other’s lives again. Della searched everywhere for her, but to no avail. Obviously, Lillian didn’t want her daughter in her life. At least her mother was financially secure; that was some consolation.
Wes had used a detective to search out Rick’s elusive background, so why not hire him to find Lillian? She tucked the prospect in the back of her mind for the right time.
Three cars in front of her waited for the attendants to park their cars. At least ten were stacked up behind her. What a night! She checked herself in the rearview mirror. Her lips were glistening with gloss, her makeup perfection, her short strawberry-blonde hair fluffed and wavy with the J.L.L., the just-laid-look she adored. Jon Clarin had designed her tight, deeply cut, long dark blue hostess gown especially for tonight. She was conservative on the job, but this was social, and she wanted to flaunt herself. She wasn't taking any chances by going understated to a party of this magnitude.
Finally, a uniformed attendant got around to her. He opened her door, looked her up and down, and grinned approvingly as he helped her out of the car. “Happy Birthday, Miss Garland.”
Shock of shocks, even the parking attendants had been informed. Leave it to Wes Gates to make sure everything was taken care of down to the minutest detail.
In the foyer, the maid took her silver-gray faux fur wrap and pointed her toward the living room. The place was jumping.
“Well, here goes nothing,” she muttered, lifting a glass of champagne from the tray resting on the shoulder of a penguin-suited waiter doing his balancing act through the crowded living room. “Happy Birthday Della” shimmered above the fireplace in sparkling gold and silver letters. Balloons of all colors floated near the ceiling throughout the large, elegant room. Everyone smiled, mouthed “Happy Birthday.” Dance music drew her to the outdoor patio, where most of the action was taking place.
She grabbed a giant shrimp from the tray of another waiter, nodded a thank you, then sized up the group while looking for a place to park and drink.
The band played That Loving Feeling, Rick and Della’s song, and she felt a sinking in her stomach. Wouldn’t that song ever go away? She often wondered where he was. The police, DEA, and whoever else had been chasing him never found him. He was such a high-flyer–living like a fugitive somewhere, watching out for the law around every corn
er wasn’t Rick’s style. The creep had never paid her back. She had a loving feeling for him, all right.
A soft breeze tingled on her bare arms. A man should have been escorting her to a table, but she hadn’t been into men since Rick. She had buckled down to make something out of herself. After all that schooling, working side by side with professionals, at last she felt comfortable with herself. Wes and Iris provided her with one challenge after another. Each one was tougher than the previous, but work didn’t frighten her off. She took to business like kids took to computers.
She loved her independence, her ability to travel, to have carefree fun without worrying what a man was doing while she was away. If one day she discovered real love, she might just settle down and have a family. In the meantime, she liked her life just fine. She had beat her past.
What a perfect night! The stars were like jewels–so shiny and close, she could have reached up and plucked one out of the sky. A light woodsy scent from the tall cypress trees surrounding the patio drifted through the air, mingling with grilling meats and oven-fresh breads.
Iris danced with Phillip Henshaw. Now, they were a pair. Phillip never took any heat for buying drugs from Rick. As a matter of fact, no one took any heat.
She waved when Iris looked her way and pointed to an empty table near the band, then breezed over and took a seat.
Phillip and Iris returned to the table. “Della, happy birthday. Is hitting the big three-oh hard?” Iris flashed an experienced smile.
“Not at all. Adds character and brings more respect. I went to the supermarket earlier this week. As I was checking out, the box boy called me ma’am. First time. I knew I’d arrived then! They can’t call me the kid anymore.” She laughed.
“You look stunning, Della–and a young-looking thirty, I might add.”
“You look pretty hot yourself, with your hair down like that. You should wear it down more often.” She had never seen Iris without a bun and certainly never showing any cleavage.
“You say the nicest things!”
“Enough of this syrupy stuff. I'm not used to it.” Della turned to Phillip. “How about going to the bar and getting me a Long Island Iced Tea?”
“Whoa!” Phillip reared back. “You're going for the hard stuff.”
“What's a Long Island Iced Tea?” Iris said.
“It's a knock-yourself-out drink, is what it is,” Phillip said with a sparkle in his eyes. “You have a designated driver?”
“Yes,” Della retorted, “Yellow Cab, if I need one.”
She wondered if Phillip hadn’t been taken to task over the drugs because Wes bought out Henshaw and Associates for Carrie. One day, she would weasel her way into Phillip’s inner sanctum and find out his deep, dark secrets. Maybe she’d even find out what happened to Rick.
“That drink sounds interesting,” Iris said. “Get me one, too.”
“To go with the new look?” Phillip said.
“We are celebrating, aren't we?”
“Speaking of celebrating,” Della said, “where's Wes and Carrie? I haven't seen either of them since I arrived.”
Phillip pulled himself up. “They're around somewhere in this sea of people.” He wormed his way into the crowd to get the drinks.
“I love this place,” she said to Iris. “I want all this fancy jazz one of these days.”
Iris laid a hand on Della’s. “At the rate you’re going, my dear, it won’t be long. I never thought I’d see the day when I’d be working more for you than for Wes.”
“Do you mind?”
“You’re everything I’ve wanted to be, but never had the guts for. I’m a second banana, and I love it.”
Observing Iris closely, Della thought how lovely she was in a soft, natural way–a true lady. She would faint if Iris uttered a four-letter word. Many times over the years, Della had been accused of talking like a sailor. Thanks to Jack Davis, she acquired enough control to maintain decorum on the job. But off the job was different. Life wouldn’t be as much fun if she always had to be a lady to the core.
Phillip returned with the drinks.
Iris took a quick sip of her drink, rolled her eyes and said, “Mmm, this is good, Phillip. Doesn't taste too strong.”
“Wait,” he said, “it'll hit you like a time bomb.”
Della pulled out the straw, took a hefty swallow and sank back in her chair. “Ah, now that's good stuff.” She immediately felt its soothing effect.
“What's in it?” Iris held up the drink and inspected what looked like a cola drink.
Della snickered. “Vodka, gin, rum, sweet and sour, a dash of cola and a splash of tequila on the top.”
A few moments later, out of the crowd, one of the handsomest men she had ever seen ambled over to the table.
“Steven Gates,” Phillip said, “I didn’t know you were back in town. You know Iris. This is–”
“Della,” she interrupted. The first thing she noticed was the young man's dark eyes which were sensual, filled with warmth and intelligence. He had a small scar on his chin, giving that otherwise perfectly chiseled face some character, and a body she surmised worked out many hours a day at the gym. He had Carrie’s high cheekbones, but looked nothing like Wes.
“Well,” Phillip said with surprise in his voice, “what brings you to this party, Steven? I thought you were toughing it out in New York.”
“Just home for a visit.”
Another rich kid, Della thought. He looks it and acts it. He moved with such grace and self-assurance he dazzled those around him, lit up the group with his presence and poised manner.
Phillip said, “You passed the bar?”
“I did. First time around! I’m working. Got a great job in New York. I’m taking a short leave to visit the family.” He continued to stare at Della. He put a hand out when the band returned to play. “How about a dance?”
“Sure, but let's find out what they're playing first.”
Steven was about a foot taller. If she did her math right, he was about five or six years younger than she, but with premature gray streaks in his thick, black hair. His sultry dark eyes clearly told her he did his best work in the bedroom. Something familiar pulsed through her–a feeling she had experienced twice before in her life. When she met Kent Bradley and when she met Rick Courtney were the only two times she’d suffered a case of butterflies in her stomach and jelly legs. Was this some kind of soul connection people kid about at parties? Were they people you met in another life and promise to connect with again in this life? The little voice inside her head frantically screamed, “Danger, danger! Don't dance, don't dance.”
He took her hand and pulled her to him, led her out onto the portable dance floor next to the swimming pool, drew her into his arms and pulled her head to his chest.
The band played Feelings, and she thought she was going to faint dead away on the spot from an overdose of romance, a condition she missed more than she’d ever admit.
But with the boss’s son?
“I've been watching you since you came in,” Steven said.
“Why?”
“Because you're the most exciting woman here.”
“I’m surprised we haven’t met before. You must not get home very often.”
Steven’s body pressed against hers as the band played on. This man spelled trouble, she decided, as he rooted her to one spot and barely moved his body against hers in a slow rhythmic motion, like the magnolia blossoms floating on the ripples of the pool.
“This is dancing?” she muttered against his chest.
“Shh, you talk too much.”
“What kind of law are you practicing?” she said in a desperate attempt to cool him down.
“Why don’t we discuss my career over lunch tomorrow?” His mouth curved into an easy smile.
Christ, Della thought, now what? If this continued, he'd try hustling her out of here and home to bed. No way would this cocky young stud get her to bed and break her down. He had all the signs she’d promised herse
lf would warn her off. He was too handsome, too smooth, too sexy, and off-limits. She’d successfully avoided this kind of feeling for the past four years, promised herself the next time she connected with any man, they must start out as friends, then let the friendship grow into something special. Wes wasn’t a man who would appreciate her having an affair with his son. And Carrie, well, she didn’t even want to think about what Carrie might do.
The moment she got home, out would come her divorce papers–as if she needed a reminder of her past mistakes. When Rick cleaned out her apartment, the last thing she remembered saying was, “No man will ever do this to me again.” She must never forget those words.
“Let's ditch out, go someplace quiet,” he murmured in her ear.
Stunned by his bluntness, she said, “I'm here on business.”
“Oh, that’s right. It’s your birthday and we’re celebrating.”
“That’s right. I came in alone, and I'm leaving alone.” The music ended. They stood glued to each other until she looked up at him and said, “Don't you think we're making a spectacle of ourselves, standing here like we're attached at our navels?” She tried to wriggle free of his grip.
“Sorry,” he said, “but you’ve just knocked my socks down. It's hard to let go of the exciting feeling of being close to you.”
“It's hard, all right,” she said, grinning into his hypnotic eyes. Then she saw Wes and Carrie sauntering toward their table. “Shit,” she grumbled.
“What's the matter?”
“Nothing. But for my career's sake, would you mind treating me like an acquaintance rather than a mink?”
“Ooh, funny lady.”
“Have you ever heard the old expression about dipping your pen in company ink?”
“I don’t get off on old expressions. I make new ones.”
She laughed. “Too bad I won’t be hearing any of them.”
She gave Carrie a hug first, then turned to Wes and hugged him. They were both in formal attire. Carrie wore a loose-fitting long gown that looked like it been designed by Omar the tent maker. She had a difficult time understanding how Carrie, who had always taken such pride in her appearance, could let herself go like this.
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