“Yeah. What was his name? Fox?”
“Fletcher Wolf, and maybe he’s not crazy.” I shoved the papers at Maggie.
As she read, her brow furrowed despite her recent Botox treatment. “Damn. I thought he was just a stalker, like Kenney.”
Merely hearing my ex’s name brought a wince to my face. “I don’t know, but this is trouble. Major trouble.” I crammed the papers into my satchel before Natalie could see them, making a mental note to get them to my attorney.
~*~
I barely slept that night. Along with the lawsuit and the panic attacks—something which only Maggie knew about—I’d been getting hang-up calls and wrong numbers. I was afraid I was being harassed by Nat’s father, which made me even more edgy.
Fun stuff, huh?
Though I really didn’t believe I had become a complete paranoid, I was engaged in a high-wire act keeping everything from Natalie. Nat was a hassle and a half who’d been allowed to run wild while in the care of her father and whichever arm candy he had around that week. Kenney was a drug-dealing millionaire who’d lost his big bucks in the last economic crash and sent her back to me as—get this—a cost-cutting measure.
I believed that the real story was that when she became a hormonal, sharp-tongued preteen, he couldn’t deal with her anymore. So back to Mommy Natalie went. That he’d rejected her didn’t stop him from phoning at all hours, even though she generally refused to talk to him. I didn’t blame her. Kenney was the kind of guy who’d leave the toilet seat up and laugh when your butt fell into the bowl at one a.m. I must have been in an altered state during the few short weeks we’d been together.
But I loved Nat, even though I didn’t know how to talk to her. With Kenney’s millions, he’d been able to get custody from me shortly after she was born. I’d been a student at the time, and so had little contact with my daughter during her crucial early years.
A brainiac, and snarky to boot, her sharp hazel eyes missed little. With long, fluffy red hair she typically wore in a braid, she often showed flashes of the fabled redheaded temper. Despite her father, she was the coolest kid in the world. I wouldn’t freak her out by hyper-parenting, but I had to protect her.
I wanted to forward all our calls to my cell and keep it turned off, but I worried about missing phone calls from my parents, who live upstate, near Ithaca. My father has M.S., so I can’t risk missing calls.
So I spent a sleepless night punctuated by hang-up phone calls, fights with Kenney, and wrong numbers. By the time dawn rolled around, my nerves were tighter than the cables supporting the Brooklyn Bridge.
Later that morning, I blew off work and went to meet my attorney and B.F.F., AnnMarie Slye of Swift, Slye, Jonas and Crebbs. With conventioneers overrunning lower Manhattan, I couldn’t make it to her office, so we met at a Starbucks roughly between our workplaces.
I’d known her for over fifteen years, since I’d arrived in the big city, a scared seventeen-year-old from upstate with a scholarship to Parsons. Another student’s older sister, Ann and I had met at a party and hit it off. I admired her more than anyone else in the world. Sharp as a box of tacks, she’d warned me about Kenney, but I’d ignored her. Unfortunately, she hadn’t finished law school when he got custody of Natalie. But she’d set up my business at a nominal fee and helped me negotiate the loans that had made Cara Fletcher Couture possible.
Slim and gorgeous at forty, AnnMarie sat tall at a table radiating legal eagle attitude. She wore one of my business suits, a stunning creation (even if I do say so myself) emphasizing vertical seaming and a narrow line. In silver-gray gabardine almost the same shade as her short platinum hair, the outfit made AnnMarie look like an unsheathed knife.
I liked that image. AnnMarie was my sleek, sharp weapon, a stiletto I’d plunge into the heart of this Wolfman who threatened to destroy everything I’d built. Fifteen million dollars, fifteen million dollars, fifteen million dollars ... The insane amount of money Wolf demanded in his complaint droned through my mind like the refrain of a hated though catchy song.
After I picked up my latte (nonfat, no caffeine to interact with the Xanax, extra vanilla) I joined her. “I want to know more about Fletcher Wolf and his operation,” I said. “Who is this man, and why is he trying to screw up my life?”
“I don’t know if I can answer those questions, but I have a dossier on him. Here’s a copy for you.” Reaching into her gray croc briefcase, she pulled out a manila envelope and gave it to me.
The heavy file sagged in my hand. “Whoa. When did you have the opportunity to put this together?”
She shrugged. “The internet is both a blessing and a curse. It deprives all of us of privacy, but the flip side of the coin is the availability of information.”
“Why don’t you give me the Cliff’s Notes version for now?” I tried to relax into the uncomfortable wooden chair.
“Fletcher Wolf is a Virginia native. Graduated from the University of Virginia. He’s run Fletcher Tool and Gear since he was twenty-two years old. He’s nearly forty now.”
I narrowed my eyes. “That’s a lot of power for a relatively young man.”
“Some people might say that about you.”
I shrugged. “We both know I owe everything to the First National Bank of Manhattan.” Tired of working as a wage slave for other designers while they garnered all the money and fame, I’d taken out massive loans to open my own couture company. I looked forward to when the risk would pay off.
“Then let’s make sure you don’t lose your shirt.” She leaned forward. “What you need to understand about Fletcher Wolf is that he’ll chew you up and spit you out like bad fish. A little operation like Cara Fletcher Couture is nothing to a corporate raider like Wolf.”
My belly twisted, harbinger of another anxiety attack. Maybe more positive affirmations would banish the shakes. I told myself that I was safe.
“What’s more, he writes his own rules for his own game. Nobody knows what he’s doing until after he does it.”
Though my throat was tight, I forced out words. “You sound as though you admire him. What’s he done that’s so special?”
“He inherited a small regional company and brought it into the new millennium. Fletcher Tool and Gear has become a nationally dominating concern in several specialized areas, such as marine transmissions and precision tools used in laser surgeries. Wolf knows how to spot a niche and fill it before anyone else has even perceived a potential market. Usually he does that by corporate acquisitions.”
“Boat transmissions and laser surgeries? What do they have to do with sportswear?”
She spread her hands wide. “Obviously the products have nothing to do with Cara Fletcher Couture or even Fletcher’s Gear. But the transmissions include gearshifts in a patented design called the Fletcher Gear.”
I sagged into my chair, heart racing like a thoroughbred going down the stretch.
“That’s apparently why Wolf became so upset about Fletcher’s Gear, your menswear line,” she said, sipping her cappuccino.
“Oh, please. What kind of fool would mix up transmissions and T-shirts?”
“Wolf and his attorneys think there are plenty of fools in the public who will confuse the two products. He’s alleging, first, that you have no right to use the name.”
I was dumbfounded. “You told me when we set up the company that I could always use my own name.”
“Yes, that’s true. You can use your own name, unless it’s for a fraudulent purpose. I believe that the first cause of action in his complaint will fail, so he won’t get a preliminary injunction. I think he’ll lose the first round, but if he wins anything else, he’ll win this case.”
I went cold, clenching my hands together, sure they’d tremble like small, scared birds if released. So much for banishing the shakes. “You s-said he’s got a lot of high-powered legal talent. Please be honest with me. Do I need to hire specialists for this?”
She leaned back in her chair. “We are a specialty firm.
We’re corporate and business experts, which includes intellectual property litigation. C’mon, honey, you know I’ll never let you down.”
“What about your fees?” Fifteen million dollars sang through my head.
For the first time, she looked uncomfortable. “You know I don’t like to talk money with you.”
“I can’t take charity, you know that. Especially if the litigation is going to be expensive. How could you explain it to your partners?”
Nevertheless, she continued to hesitate, then said, “There’s no way I can predict outcomes, but I’d advise any other client to amass a war chest of at least a hundred grand.”
“A hundred thousand dollars?” My voice came out in a horrified squeak.
“That’s just to begin. The longer the case goes on, the more expensive it will become. But that’s true for both sides.”
“But you said he’s a major player. If he’s wealthy, he won’t care about a measly hundred grand. But I do. I have to.” I was going to explode into little pieces all over the fashionably dressed patrons of the midtown Starbucks. I wrapped cold hands around my latte. “This could ruin me. I spent a lot of money on the ad campaign. Borrowed money. A lawsuit will break me. I don’t have a hundred thousand dollars.”
“Cara, you know I don’t care about the money. I care about you. If you can carry the expenses—filing fees and so forth—don’t worry about the rest.”
My eyes filled. “Thanks,” I whispered. “I don’t want to take so much from you, but I have to.”
“Fuggedaboudid.” She let her Brooklyn accent show as she patted my hand.
I cleared my throat, pulling myself together. I didn’t want to draw attention by bursting into tears in public. “Umm, this seems to be happening awfully fast. Don’t legal cases take years? Is there any way to get this delayed?”
“That was my first thought, but opposing counsel turned down my request for a continuance. Wolf thinks that the longer the situation goes on, the more damage there is to his interests.”
“Damn.”
“His lawyer said that Wolf called you after the football playoff commercial aired. Is that true?” Ann fixed me with a steely gaze.
I raked a shaky hand through my hair. “Yeah, I guess so. I thought it was just a crank call. I’ve been getting a lot of them lately.”
She winced. “That mistake could cost you.”
“Well, if this jerk wants a fight, let’s give him one. I don’t know where I’ll get it, but I’ll get some money to you somehow.” Probably from more loans. I gritted my teeth at the prospect, shoving panic into a nice, tight box in the back of my mind and encasing it with mental duct tape. I wasn’t going to let this creep trash my entire life. “File a response pronto, okay? Let’s get into that court and kick a little legal ass, and make him pay. If this request for a preliminary injunction is garbage, we should get fees for this hearing, huh?”
“Yes, I believe there are grounds for the award of attorney’s fees and costs. If we prevail. There are no guarantees, you understand?”
“Let’s go for it. Listen, my April show is costing a fortune. And even with the department stores helping, those T.V. commercials...” I grimaced. “I’m deeply in debt, and one more straw is gonna break the bank. I need this mess to go away quickly. Very, very quickly.”
“You know we’ll do our best. Like I said, his initial salvo is weak. If we beat them on this first issue, we’ll be in a strong position to get fees or to settle out of court.”
“That sounds like what I want.” Taking a deep breath, I forced myself into a semblance of calm. “I’m sorry to have gotten upset, but I need to deal with this right away.” I stared out the window, watching pedestrians scurry past like frantic ants. I didn’t feel much different.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “What the hell are friends for?”
We hugged as I left, with Ann squeezing me extra-hard. “How is Natalie taking all this?” she asked.
“She doesn’t know.”
She eyed me. “O-kay.”
“She’s another reason this has to go away fast. She’s just starting to adjust. The last thing we need is more stress now.”
In a taxi going uptown to my shop, my mind whirled as though I was stuck in the spin cycle of a washing machine. Fletcher Wolf could trash everything I’d worked for all my life! If I had to declare bankruptcy, I’d be toast. Without good credit, I’d never be able to put on another runway show again.
I had to fight. I had no choice. I couldn’t afford to recall all of Fletcher’s Gear and have new labels sewn in. Besides, why should I? Fletcher was my name too, and I had every right to use it.
Unbearably tense, I pulled out a sketchbook from my satchel and started to draw, sure that it would relax me, but what came out was a dominatrix with silver hair whipping a chained wolf.
I could only hope that Ann looked good in leather and knew how to use a flogger.
Chapter 2
With the survival of my business at stake, I obsessed about the court appearance. Along with a paralegal, Ann and I slaved over the papers filed against the Wolfman’s attack. Because I wanted to impress the court as an earnest businesswoman, I tinted my chin-length bob a serious shade of ash brown. The morning of the hearing, I bunched my hair into a tiny bun at the nape. After inserting brown contact lenses, I popped a pair of heavy tortoise shell glasses onto my nose and donned a serious suit and heels.
I called a taxi for an hour before the hearing and waited in the entry of my townhouse, feeling as though my belly housed ten thousand writhing snakes.
“Don’t worry.” Natalie tried to reassure me. I hadn’t been able to keep the lawsuit completely from her, but I hoped that I’d minimized its threatening nature. Maybe not, if my child wanted to comfort me.
To hide my concern, I straightened her Peter Pan collar. She sighed, allowing me to fiddle with her clothes, even though we both knew she hated fussing. “We’re early,” she said, twitching slightly. She wore an adorable, knee-length pleated plaid skirt and a navy sweater that allowed her white cuffs and collar to peek out. You think I’d send my child to a school with an ugly uniform? No way.
“Who’s ‘we?’ You’re not coming.” I turned my attention to her French braid.
“Aw, jeez. You know I’ll learn a lot more from going to court than I will at school today.”
“You won’t learn algebra or Spanish.”
The phone rang. I reached for it, but she grabbed it first. “No one there,” she said. “Hey, haven’t we been getting a lot of these calls lately?”
I faked ignorance. “Well, your father calls a lot.”
“I don’t mean him.” She dismissed Kenney with a wave of her hand. “I mean the hang-up calls. When you pick up the phone and there’s nobody there, or there’s a dial tone. It’s almost like some creep keeps calling our number.”
Paranoid, I thought it very likely. Maybe Kenney was pushing my buttons. Or did the zipperhead suing me have anything to do with it? But I wasn’t going to talk to Nat about any of that. Instead, I said, “Of course not. With so many people in Manhattan, there’s bound to be some phone line mix-ups. Don’t worry about it, okay?”
The door buzzer sounded. “Get your pack, Nat, and let’s go.” I herded her downstairs to the taxi, hoping I radiated comforting Mom’s-in-control vibes.
~*~
I stared at the forbidding courthouse, repressing an unnerved shudder. The Manolo Blahniks with the four-inch stiletto heels had been a big mistake. I’d worn them to add some height, since five-four isn’t exactly impressive. Better, the gorgeous periwinkle suede matched my suit. But, given the slippery-looking stone stairs outside the building as well as my morning tranquilizer, I had to struggle, picking my way to avoid falling on my butt. I told myself it was okay, since I still had twenty minutes before the nine o’clock hearing.
Even so, I clung to the rail with a death grip. Once inside, I passed through security and then found the correct floor. AnnMari
e had said we’d meet outside the courtroom, but I didn’t see her, so I headed toward the nearest women’s room for a last, nervous pee and primp.
A trio of males outside one of the courtrooms grabbed my attention. One of them raised his head to give me the eye and even took a step away from his group. Despite the seriousness of the situation, I couldn’t help responding.
First I checked out what he was wearing, a well-tailored Hugo Boss that retailed for a cool five thousand. That suit hadn’t come off the rack, not on that bod... Whoa.
Hot wasn’t a hot enough word to describe this guy.
Unfashionably longish hair with silver streaks. A maverick. He wasn’t afraid to buck the trend toward shorter cuts and no doubt would never dye his hair to look younger. But despite the hair and body—big, solid, and buffed—it was his eyes that grabbed me in the gut and wouldn’t let go. They were an unusual shade of hazel. Golden, really, feral and predatory, like a wolf. Or maybe one of the great cats. A lion or a jaguar.
His face was all bold planes, with high cheekbones, a strong jaw, narrow but sensual lips. And a small scar by the side of his mouth. How had he gotten that? A knife fight? A beer bottle in a bar brawl?
I silently laughed at myself. He probably fell off his bike when he was six. But still, he was hot. Very hot. Beyond hot. Not in a metrosexual sort of way—this macho male would never bother to check himself out in a store window, like some men I knew. He oozed masculine assurance.
His gaze caught mine, and I went from ninety-eight-point-six to one-oh-three inside of a second.
A set of nearby double doors banged open, and I blinked, jolted. A redheaded woman in chic brown tweed burst into the hall, followed by a phalanx of attorneys, bees swarming their queen.
“I didn’t pay you thieves a grand an hour to get screwed!” she screamed, her stride an angry clatter on the stony floor. Buzzing with temper, the group rushed by. I stayed upright until the last attorney in the swarm plowed into me.
Book Boyfriends Cafe Summer Lovin' Anthology 2015 Page 151