Songbird (Bellator Saga Book 7)

by Cecilia London

  She put her arm around me. “You’re not content,” she said quietly. “I know you better than you think. I’m just asking you to try. Please?”

  Maybe it was easier to give a little than to have this battle every time she brought the subject up. “Fine. I’ll try. But I won’t try very hard.”

  “That’s acceptable, although I’d keep the obvious lack of enthusiasm out of your voice when you meet him.”

  “Please don’t tell me he’s waiting outside the door.”

  She laughed. “No, but I’m going to keep that in mind if you don’t behave yourself. I’ll line up other suckers if need be. They’ll be happy to patiently obey my orders.”

  Of course they would. For a chance to go on a date with me and later write a tell-all letter to the modern equivalent of Penthouse Forum? The more desperate candidates would probably wait in Susannah’s car, while it was running, inside a closed garage. Which could conceivably be a facile way of weeding out the men who weren’t worth my time.

  “Tell me what I need to do,” I said.

  *****

  A retirement party. His retirement party. At Susannah’s law firm. In a high-rise office. In downtown Philadelphia. That was where I agreed to meet this man, who was sailing off into the sunset after many years of service as a partner (and later, of counsel) in one of their transactional departments. I didn’t have the chutzpah to ask why the firm hadn’t sprung for a banquet hall or hotel ballroom. They’d treated Susannah well, which had always impressed me given the dismal and rather un-Republican opinion I held about large corporate settings in general.

  Maybe the man wanted a practical, frugal send-off. Maybe they were hustling him out the door with a perfunctory slice of cake and kick on the ass. Maybe he himself had dictated the terms of said party. Maybe it was the easiest way to get the junior staff to crank out a few more billable hours before rewarding them with treats and pretty plasticware.

  Or maybe I was overthinking this. The location made it easier for me, truth be told. My agents could fade into the background, I could hang onto my daughter’s arm all night if need be, and if I didn’t hit it off with this man, I’d hide in a broom closet until the party was over.

  Caroline was a former federal prosecutor, so she knew a bit of the corporate legal realm. I’d taken some of my guidance from her along with what little I was able to weasel out of Susannah. Law firm life was not too terribly unlike general medical practice, where I’d spent the first couple of decades of my career before throwing my hat into the ring for a seat in Congress. Some people retired early. Some had to be forced to put down the pen and reflect on a pension or bonus or 401(k) well earned. Some phoned it in until they took the hint to leave.

  I had no idea how long this man had been with the firm or what type of law he practiced. In fact, I knew not a whit about him, since these were details my daughter refused to disclose prior to dragging me to the 47th floor of One Liberty Place. All she’d said, in a falsely reassuring voice, was he’s not old, mom. Along with a he reminds me a little of Daddy, which was incredibly unhelpful, but so be it.

  She hadn’t forced my hand, she’d coerced my entire body. Bully for her. Little did she know that I spent almost the entire traffic-filled ride to the party speculating on the Many Reasons Why I Had No Intention of Dating This Man in Particular but Points to My Daughter for Trying. Served her right for making me arrive there alone. The instant I finished glad-handing some of the familiar faces on the law firm staff, I made a beeline for her office. It was unoccupied so I stood in her doorway like a goof, unsure what to do. Spectacular timing on my part.

  I briefly debated whether to stride over to her desk and sit down like I owned the place, conduct that would befit a woman only a few weeks removed from the Presidency of the United States. After all, I had a reputation to uphold, and betraying my lack of confidence wouldn’t help me convince Susannah that I really was trying to get back into the arena of men. I rummaged around in my purse, deciding a text was the quickest way to resolve things, and stepped out into the hallway.

  Which was when I stepped right into him. Or who I assumed was a him. Hard chest, pinstripe suit, a faint whiff of cologne. I jumped back like I’d touched an open flame.

  “Sorry,” I said automatically. The socially programmed feminine response when confronted with situations where it’s impossible to determine who might actually be to blame.

  “The fault is mine,” said a resonant voice, and I finally composed myself enough to look up.

  Oh my. It was definitely a him. “No, I wasn’t looking where I was going, and—”

  “And I saw you there,” he said. “Surely that provided me with sufficient incentive to get out of your way.” He smiled. “You’re Susannah’s mother.”

  Like he didn’t know damn well who I was. But kudos to him for not trying to stumble over a name or a title. I couldn’t stand when people struggled to decide how to address me. “Do you know where she is?”

  “Hiding from the managing partner, I’d assume. He’s squeezing every ounce of labor out of his staff instead of letting them enjoy themselves for once.”

  A rather anarchistic statement for him to make, especially since Susannah was a partner herself. “Not a fan of the business operations here?”

  He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. “I’ve registered my share of complaints.”

  “Yet you remain a valued member of the firm?”

  He pursed his lips. I’d broached a sore subject. “Former member. I’m here for the festivities.” He held out a hand. “Alexander Guardiola, at your humble service.”

  I prided myself on my handshakes. Firm, authoritative, with a hint of feminine élan. Not so crushingly hard as to be intimidating, gentle enough to coddle men into underestimating me at their peril. And I never, ever smiled while introducing myself. “I am, as you noted, Susannah’s mother.”

  His eyes crinkled as he stifled a chuckle. So much for resting bitch face rendering me too daunting a target. “She made partner,” he said, tapping the nameplate on the side of the door. “Good for her.”

  It got her back to the States so I couldn’t really complain. Although it did mean she spent more time away from her children, which I knew she disliked. “She must have impressed them during her time in Paris.”

  “I’m surprised she came back. Those are pretty sweet gigs in Europe.”

  What could I tell him? That she probably felt guilted into coming back because her emotionally stunted mother she’d once thought dead had somehow emerged from a fascist dictatorship with her life and her ethics intact? The two of us hadn’t really talked about why she’d come home, but I sincerely hoped I was not the primary reason she returned. And a partnership was a partnership. The money, security, and recognition that came with the position made a lot of other concerns seem rather paltry. “You’d have to ask her,” I said. “Anything I’d say would be pure speculation.”

  “May I quote you on that?”

  A journalism joke. How quaint. “You may not.”

  I had to give credit where credit was due, because my stony-faced attempt to maintain distance had done little to dissuade him from further conversation. Oddly enough, I wasn’t all that disappointed at the prospect of continuing to chat with him.

  “Well,” he said. “Since your daughter has so rudely ignored your arrival, would you care for an escort to the party?”

  Even if I was cross with her, I couldn’t let Susannah go undefended. “I’m sure it wasn’t intentional.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t either. But I’ll go ahead and take you downstairs. Just shoot her a text or something. Everyone will end up there eventually, even if they’re being goaded into doing a few extra tasks before attending.”

  I nodded at my agents, signaling them toward the elevators before grabbing my phone.

  “Must be frustrating,” he said.

  “What’s that?” I said, tapping out a note to Susannah.

  “Having people follow y
ou everywhere.”

  It was a nightmare. If I were younger and more impudent, I’d have done my best to try to ditch them on a regular basis. “I’d tell you that it’s something you get used to, but then I’d be lying.”

  “Well,” he said, before pressing the button. “I certainly wouldn’t want you to lie.”

  My phone beeped almost instantly, and I scrolled through my messages. “She’ll meet me there, she says.”

  I gave him the once-over. His age was hard to place. He kept his hair shorn close to his scalp, but there were hints of silver and brown along his jawline. His suit was well worn, probably overdue for a dry cleaning. But he was tall and strong and had his nose and mouth and ears and chin all in the right places and proportional to one another, and a pair of stunning eyebrows that probably never needed plucking. Quite divine features, really, a bit of a scruffy look about him in a devil-may-care sort of way, just the right height with eyes a dazzling shade of greenish-blue I’d never seen before and oh my sweet baby Jesus what on earth was happening to me I could only hope my gaze wasn’t wandering as much as my mind was.

  Focus, Christine.

  “What brings you to the party if you no longer work here?” I croaked.

  Classy. Truly classy. A+ powerful lady effort there.

  He paused. “I felt obligated. So, I’m here.”

  Well, that was enigmatic. And terse. Very terse. The doors opened and he gestured for me to enter first. I glanced at him as he pushed the button for the floor. At least one of us knew where we were going. And while I was growing increasingly fascinated by his facial structure, he appeared to be riveted by his fingernails.

  Which were also quite well maintained, if I was being completely truthful.

  “Gave some of my best years to this firm,” he said quietly. “I’ve moved on.”

  He’d spoken to me unprompted, so maybe my presence in the elevator wasn’t the reason for his relative silence. “To bigger and better things, I hope?”

  “Better, for sure. Bigger is up for debate.”

  Alexander Guardiola didn’t want to be here, that much was clear, and his reluctance had nothing to do with me. Our ride passed without further conversation until the doors opened and we were greeted with the sound of chatter. The celebration had begun and Susannah was already there, the sneak.

  I turned to my now painfully silent chaperone. “You have my best wishes on whatever endeavors you pursue.” I managed a transparently fake politician smile. “Thank you for escorting me here.”

  He actually bowed. “The pleasure was mine, my lady.”

  I rushed over to Susannah as quickly as was possible in a pair of stilettos. “Where on earth have you been?” I whispered.

  “Work.” She waved a hand. “You were fine. You always are.” She looked behind me. “Someone brought you here?”

  I turned around, but Alexander was gone. “Ex-employee,” I said. “Don’t know where he went.”

  “Would you like to meet the guest of honor?” Susannah asked.

  She wasn’t wasting any time. There was a big enough crowd gathered that I could find a way to weasel out of a sticky situation should the introduction go awry. “Sure.”

  “Try to sound a little less blasé, mom. He’s really looking forward to meeting you.”

  “Susannah, I hope you didn’t talk me up to him.”

  She cocked her head. “You can’t think I would have to talk you up.”

  Yeah yeah yeah. My reputation preceded me, my accomplishments sold themselves, I was remarkably well put together for a woman my age, whatever. I’d heard almost every line in the book at one time or another, one of the many disadvantages of being a fairly attractive specimen of femininity. When in college, I received bunches upon bunches of flowers every Valentine’s Day, sent to me by anonymous admirers. Voted Most Attractive Member of Congress in so many consecutive surveys that I’d lost count. It was tiring and I tried not to think about it too much, because I knew my inconveniences were viewed as advantages by the rest of humanity. And they were correct.

  That didn’t make it any easier to puzzle out a man’s intentions. Dread crept up my spine. “Susannah—”

  She guided me through the human obstacles in the room. “You promised to try.” She stopped to wave at a man in the corner. “There he is.”

  He’s not old, mom must have been polite thirtysomething code for positively geriatric, because the gentleman heading our way appeared to be better suited to sitting at home in cardigan sweaters offering up Werther’s Originals to unsuspecting neighborhood children than looking for a new love interest. I should have known. I’d forgotten that of counsel often translated to one foot in the legal grave.

  “Susannah,” I hissed. Yes, I hissed at her. Hissed her name. I should have done it more than once. I saw no other option when it came to verbalizing my utter horror. He was coming closer. At breakneck old man speed.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  He’d gotten waylaid by a well-wisher. That bought me some time. “That man is old enough to be my… uncle,” I said.

  “He’s only a few years older than you.”

  I suddenly felt much better about my personal aging process, though I’d spent the past three years in a deep depression that had done nothing for my pores. “How much older? Need I remind you that I’m only fifty-seven?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe early seventies?”

  It took all my intestinal fortitude not to haul her down a few dozen flights of stairs and out into the street where I could give her a proper, thorough lecture. Surely she didn’t want her still young and vital mother taking up with a man who looked ready to be ferried across the Styx. “You’re being generous. Very generous.”

  “He billed a lot of hours early in his career and never let up on the gas. Maybe that took a toll?”

  At least she acknowledged her error. And thankfully she recognized the long-term effects of working one’s ass off for an employer, because she’d been cutting her billables back since she’d come home to Pennsylvania. One of the luxuries of partnership that my prospective suitor had apparently chosen to disregard.

  “Well, that’s a welcome sign. Stressed-out reluctant retiree from giant law firm bodes well for his long-term prospects with regard to breathing and having a pulse.”

  “Mother, be nice.”

  That did it. “You convinced me to come here under false pretenses. Any agreement we had about me being nice or promising to try is null and void.”

  “I wish you’d stop usurping legal terms for your own excessively dramatic use.”

  Caroline’s influence, no doubt. She wasn’t quite as stodgy as my daughter. I was trying to figure out a polite way to explain to Susannah that an older man—an extremely older man—did little to assuage my grief or assist in my ability to move on and love again or whatever it was she expected me to do. He was at least twenty years behind me in the life expectancy sweepstakes. What was the point in getting attached to someone who would leave me alone again?

  And for the love of all that was holy, I was not in any position to deal with profound revelations. I was one step away from having cake and punch and stale attempts at witty wordplay chucked at me and the last thing I needed was an inadvertent public breakdown.

  I leaned toward her ear. “Susannah, I need someone who’s closer to my age. For… reasons.” Reasons I would explain later, as I dangled a healthy amount of parental guilt in front of her face.

  “Then pretend,” she said. “We’ll fix it afterward.”

  I took a deep breath, forcing yet another politician smile as the honoree resumed his breakneck old man speed in our direction. With someone taller, younger, and much more attractive than him trailing behind.

  Oh no. Oh no no no.

  Their eyes were almost the same color.

  No.

  They had roughly the same build.

  Noooooo.

  And oh god they had the same damn smile.

  Nope nope nope nope.r />
  “Mom,” Susannah said. “This is George Guardiola, our guest of honor.” She shifted uncomfortably. “And his son, Alexander. Whom I did not expect to see today.”

  My daughter’s unease, while intriguing, was not enough to dispel my own anxiety. Was there a hole for me to crawl into? A large, ruthless law firm had to have a dungeon trap door somewhere. “Lovely to meet you both,” I said.

  Alexander winked at me, which I assumed was some indication that he had every intention of keeping our previous introduction a secret. “Madam President,” he said. “I brought you and your daughter some punch.”

  Because of course he had. And of course, now he’d switch over to that honorific. Small comfort that he didn’t have a clue why we were all being thrust together in the middle of a celebration. Or, I hoped he didn’t. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Alexander said.

  His voice was so deep. Lyrical. And those eyes… I realized upon a closer look that the green of his irises was more intense, more emerald than his father’s, which appeared to be more of a hazel color. Not that there was anything wrong with hazel; I knew some very fine people with some very unexceptional eyes. There was a depth in his eyes, a place I could drown, a color I could never match to anything in nature although I could certainly try.

  I realized I’d been standing there saying nothing so I quickly swallowed some of the contents of the cup I’d been provided in an attempt to cover up my ineptitude. “Punch is good,” I said weakly.

  Susannah frowned at Alexander before giving me the same look. Did she think I’d been poisoned? “Are you okay?” she asked.

  At least she hadn’t tacked a mother on the end of that question. Nothing stops a conversation faster than a glacial parent-child exchange, especially one between two women.

  I gave my daughter a regal smile. One of the best in my repertoire. It was enough to earn me a rather impish grin in return, a rarity from her. “Fine,” I said.

  “Alex just got back from Louisiana,” George boomed. “Spent a few months down there using his white privilege and ill-gotten gains to help hurricane victims.”