by Tracy Wolff
“You’re wasting your money,” she said. “Not only is this...new avenue...pointless, but I’ll be happy to tell you anything you want to know about me.”
He studied her again—the dark, candid eyes, the bloom of color on her cheeks, the softly parted lips. She looked the same way she had yesterday when she first caught his eye, the moment she walked into the library. He couldn’t remember ever reacting to a woman with the immediacy and intensity he had when he’d met her. He had no idea why. There had just been...something...about her. Something that set her apart from everyone else in the room.
At the time, he’d told himself it was because she wasn’t like anyone else in the room. His joke about the pack of bloodthirsty jackals hadn’t really been much of a joke. That room had been filled with predators yesterday, which anyone who’d spent time with Park Avenue lawyers and socialites could attest to. And Grace Sumner had walked right into them like a dreamy-eyed gazelle who hadn’t a clue how rapacious they could be. It was that trusting aspect that had gotten to him, he realized now. Something in that first moment he saw her had made him feel as if he could trust her, too.
And trust was something Harrison hadn’t felt for a very long time. Maybe he never had. Yet there she had been, making him feel that way without ever saying a word. Now that he knew who she really was...
Well, that was where things got even weirder. Because even knowing who Grace Sumner really was, he still found himself wishing he could trust her.
He quickly reviewed what he’d discovered about her on his own by typing her name into a search engine. Although she had accounts at the usual social networking sites, she kept her settings on private. He’d been able to glean a few facts, though. That she lived in Seattle and had for a year and a half. That before that, she’d lived in Cincinnati, where she grew up. He knew she’d been working as a waitress for some time, that she was attending college with an early childhood education major—always good to have a fallback in case conning old men didn’t work out—and that she never commented publicly or posted duck-face selfies.
It bothered him that her behavior, both online and now in person, didn’t jibe with any of his preconceived ideas about her. An opportunistic gold digger would be a braying attention-grabber, too, wouldn’t she? Then he reminded himself she was a con artist. Right? Of course she was. Naturally, she would keep her true self under wraps. That way, she could turn herself into whatever she needed to be for any given mark. Like, say, a dreamy-eyed gazelle who made a mistrustful person feel as if he could trust her.
“All right then,” he said, deciding to take her up on her offer. “Have you ever been married?”
“No,” she said. But she didn’t elaborate.
So he did. “Have you ever been engaged?”
“No,” she replied. Again without elaboration.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“There’s no one special in my life,” she told him. Then, after a small, but telling, hesitation, she added, “There never has been.”
Her reply was ripe for another question, this one way more invasive than she could have considered when telling him he could ask her anything. And had it not been for his mother’s presence at the table, he might very well have asked it: Does that mean you’re a virgin? It would have been perfect. If she replied no immediately after saying there had never been anyone special in her life, she would have sounded like a tramp. Had she answered yes, at her age, she would have sounded like a liar. Win-win as far as a court appeal was concerned.
Funny, though, how suddenly he wasn’t asking because he wanted to use her status against her. He wanted to know about her status for entirely personal reasons. Was Grace Sumner a liar and a con artist? Or was she really as sweet and innocent as she seemed? And why was he kind of hoping it was the latter? Not only would it give him the upper hand if he could prove she was conning them all, but it would make her the kind of person he knew how to deal with. He knew nothing of sweetness and innocence. No one in his social or professional circles claimed either trait.
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” he asked, trying a new tack.
She shook her head. “I’m an only child.”
“Mother’s maiden name?”
“Sumner.”
The same as Grace’s. Meaning... “No father?” he asked.
At this, she smiled. “Um, yeah, I had a father. Everyone does. Were you absent from health class that day?”
He refused to be charmed by her irreverence—or her smile. Instead, he asked, “What was your father’s name?”
Her answer was matter-of-fact. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know who your father was?”
She shook her head, something that freed another tantalizing strand of gold from her ponytail. “My mother never told me. On my birth certificate, he’s listed as unknown.”
Okay, this was getting interesting. It wouldn’t be surprising to anyone—like, say, a probate appeals judge—to discover that a young woman whose father had been absent when she was a child would, as an adult, turn to conning old men. Even if she hadn’t set out to become a professional grifter when she was a little girl, should an opportunity for such present itself when she was older, it wasn’t a stretch to see how a woman like that would take advantage of it.
Maybe she was right. Maybe he wouldn’t need a private investigator after all.
“What about your grandparents?” he asked.
“I barely remember my grandmother,” she said. “She died before I started school.”
“And your grandfather?”
“He died when my mother was in high school. My grandmother never remarried.”
Oh, this was getting too easy. A pattern had developed of male role models being completely absent from the life of little Gracie Sumner. It didn’t take Freud to figure this one out.
Unable to help himself, he spoke his thoughts out loud. “So. Major daddy issues. Am I right?”
“Harrison!” his mother exclaimed.
Whether her reaction was due to anger at his invasive question or worry that it would make Grace change her mind about giving her back her homes, he couldn’t have said. Still, he supposed maybe, possibly, perhaps, he had overstepped there.
“Sorry,” he apologized. Almost genuinely, too. “That was out of line.”
“Yeah, it was,” Grace agreed.
Surprisingly, though, she didn’t seem to take offense. Certainly not as much as Harrison would have, had he been asked the same question.
“No, Mr. Sage, I do not have daddy issues,” she continued evenly. “I come from a long line of smart, independent women who didn’t need the help of anyone—least of all a man—to get by.”
He was surprised by the splinter of admiration that tried to wedge itself under his skin at her cool reply.
Until she added, “But you should probably talk to someone about your own issues.”
He grinned at that. “What issues?”
“The one you have about strong, independent women.”
“I don’t have issues with women,” he told her. “I have issues with a woman. A woman who took advantage of my father.”
He could tell by her expression that there was more she wanted to say on that matter. Instead, she said, “If you’ll both excuse me, I thought I’d take the train into New York today to do some sightseeing, since I may never have the chance again.”
Harrison bit back a comment about the private jet and the yacht she owned, thanks to his father, and how she could go anywhere in the world she wanted, whenever she felt like it. Instead, he sipped his coffee in silence and tried not to notice the wisp of dark gold hair that was curling against her nape in a way that made him unwillingly envious. If she were any other woman, he would have reached over and coiled that strand of silk around his finger, then use
d it to gently pull her face toward his so he could—
So he could nothing, he told himself. Grace Sumner was the last woman he wanted to touch with affection. Or anything else. Even a ten-foot pole.
“That’s a lovely idea,” his mother said. “You should do some shopping, too. A young girl like you—” She smiled in a way that was kind of astonishing in light of the fact that she’d just encouraged a stranger to go out and spend money that should belong to her. “A young rich girl like you,” she amended, “should have a closet full of beautiful things to wear. Beautiful new things.”
The emphasis on the word new obviously didn’t escape Grace’s notice. She glanced down at her outfit, one that looked like something from a sixties flick titled Beach Blanket Barbie. Strangely, she didn’t seem to think there was anything wrong with it. For a moment, she looked as if she wanted to explain her wardrobe choices, and then seemed to change her mind. Good call, Harrison thought. His mother never kept clothes past the season and year for which they’d been designed.
“Timmerman can drive you to the train,” Vivian told her. “Just remember to be back by eight, because Eleanor is making something special for dinner tonight. In your honor.”
Somehow, Harrison kept from rolling his eyes. His mother was becoming such a suck-up.
After Grace left, he finished his coffee, downed what was left of the bacon and toast and listened for the car to pull away from the house. Then he headed for his Maserati and made his way to the train station, too.
So Grace wanted to see the sights of New York City. Right. All along Fifth Avenue, he’d bet. Starting with Saks and ending with Tiffany, allowing just enough time for a late lunch at Le Bernardin. Luckily, he’d given himself the rest of the week off—he could do that, being the owner of his own company—to deal with The Sumner Problem, so he had no obligations today.
None except exposing a con artist who was so good at what she did, she could make a man long for things he knew he would never have.
* * *
It was some hours later that Harrison discovered how right he’d been in his suspicions—Grace Sumner did go shopping and treat herself to a late lunch. But only after seeing sights like the Empire State Building, Rockefeller Center and Times Square. And even though that last left her within walking distance of Fifth Avenue, she took the subway to go hopscotching all over Brooklyn. Specifically, through the thrift stores of Brooklyn. And instead of Le Bernardin, she bought her lunch from a Salvadoran food truck.
Grace Sumner was either a con artist of even greater sophistication than he’d thought, or she knew he was following her. And since he was confident he hadn’t revealed himself, he was going for the former. Unless, of course, her intentions toward his father’s money were exactly what she claimed, and she would be giving it all away, meaning she was on a major budget that prohibited things like Fifth Avenue shopping sprees.
Yeah, right. And maybe tonight, while he was sleeping, the Blue Fairy would fly into his room and turn him into a real boy.
What the hell kind of game was she playing? And how long was she going to play it? Even if—no, when—his detective discovered the truth about her, and an appeals court finally found in the Sages’ favor, for now, his father’s money legally belonged to her. It could be weeks, even months, before Harrison had the evidence he needed to win the return of his father’s fortune. It would take even longer for another appeal in court. In the meantime, she was within her rights to spend every dime.
So why wasn’t she doing that? And why was she staying with his mother on Long Island, away from Bennett Tarrant and his colleagues, who were the only support she had? There was more going on here than a simple con. There had to be. Harrison just needed to figure out what it was. And he would have to do it within a week, since Grace would be leaving after the paperwork was complete to return the estate and the penthouse to his mother. Just who was Grace Sumner—wicked woman or good girl?
And the toughest question to answer of all—why was Harrison kind of hoping it was the latter?
Four
Until she saw it in action, Gracie never would have guessed how closely the New York Stock Exchange after the ringing of the bell resembled the kitchen of Café Destiné after the eighty-sixing of the béchamel sauce. Absolute mayhem. And she wasn’t even on the floor. She was with Harrison in the gallery above it, looking down as millions of dollars’ worth of commodities, futures and options—and, for all she knew, lunches, Pokémon cards and Neopets—were traded, bought and sold in a way she would never, ever understand. Not that Harrison hadn’t tried to explain it to her. He’d used every minute of their drive from Long Island doing just that—probably because it kept him from having to talk to her about anything else.
It had been Vivian’s idea that he should bring Gracie into the city again today, but for a different kind of sightseeing. Last night, over dinner, when Gracie and Harrison had been gazing suspiciously at each other across the table and responding to Vivian’s attempts at repartee with little more than awkward mumbling, his mother had suggested the two of them should spend more time together so that each could get to know the other’s version of the man they shared in common.
Gracie figured it was more likely, though, that Vivian was worried about the antagonism that could potentially mushroom between Gracie and Harrison, and how Vivian would then be left homeless.
So Gracie and Harrison had risen extra early to make it to Wall Street in time to hear the Friday opening bell. Early enough that Gracie only had time to consume a single cup of coffee. That had given her just enough presence of mind to at least pretend she understood all the stuff Harrison said about SEC, PLC and OTC—and the stuff about yearlings and bulls and bears, oh my—but it hadn’t constituted much in the way of breakfast. Now her UGI was growling like a bear, her mood was fast depreciating and her brain was beginning to liquidate.
Hmm. Maybe she’d understood more of what he’d said than she thought. Despite the downturn of her current market...ah, she meant, body...she tried to focus on what he was saying now.
“My father had a real gift for trading,” he told her.
Harrison fit in this world nicely with his dark slate suit and dove-gray dress shirt, but his necktie, with its multicolored dots, was a tad less conservative than the staid diagonal stripes and discreet tiny diamonds on the ties worn by the other men. Although Gracie had tried to dress for business, too, the best she’d been able to do was another vintage suit—the second of the only two she owned. This one was a dark ruby with pencil skirt and cinch-waisted jacket with a slight peplum. She’d thought she looked pretty great when she got dressed. Seeing the other women in their dark grays and blacks and neutrals, she now felt like a giant lollipop.
“His initial fortune,” Harrison continued, “the one he used to buy and build his companies, was all earned in the stock market. He never went to college. Did you know that?”
There was something akin to pride in his voice when he spoke of Harry’s lack of formal education. It surprised Gracie. She would have thought Harrison was the kind of man who wouldn’t want anyone to know about his father’s lack of education because it would be an embarrassment to the family name.
“I did know that, actually,” she said. “But he told me it was because he couldn’t afford to pay for college.”
“He couldn’t. Not after he graduated from high school, anyway.”
“Harry never graduated from high school.”
The moment the words were out of her mouth, Gracie regretted them. Not because she worried they would be an embarrassment to the Sage name, too, but because Harrison’s expression made clear he hadn’t known that. And now he was finding it out from someone he’d just met who had obviously known it for some time.
Nevertheless, he said, “Of course my father graduated from high school. Findlay High School in Cincinnati. Class of fifty-thre
e.”
“Harry never even made it to his junior year,” Gracie told him. “He dropped out when he was fifteen to work in the Formica factory. He lied about his age to get the job and join the union.”
Harrison gazed at her blankly. “Why would he do that?”
Oh, boy. There was obviously a lot he didn’t know about his father’s early life. And Gracie didn’t want to be the one to let the cat out of the bag, which, in Harry’s case, would be more like freeing a Siberian tiger from the Moscow Zoo.
Gently, she said, “Because by then, Harry’s father was drinking so much, he couldn’t hold down a job, and his mother was caring for his little brother, so she couldn’t work, either. Harry had to be the one to support the family.”
At the word brother, Harrison’s eyes went wide, and Gracie’s heart dropped to her stomach. Surely, he’d at least known his father had a brother.
“My father had a brother?”
Okay, maybe not. “Yeah. You didn’t know?”
Although Harrison’s gaze was fixed on hers, she could tell by the emptiness in those blue, blue eyes that his thoughts were a billion miles away. Or, at least, a few decades away. Or maybe he was just trying to decide whether or not to even believe her. But Gracie had seen photos of Harry’s family. The old pictures were with his things in the storage unit.
Harrison shook his head lightly, honing his icy blue gaze—which somehow, suddenly, seemed a little less icy—on Gracie again. “But I always thought... I mean he told me... Well, okay he never really told me, but I always assumed...” When he realized he wasn’t making sense, he inhaled a breath and released it. “I always thought he was an only child. By the time I was born, his parents were both dead, and he never mentioned any other family. Hell, he barely mentioned his parents.”
Gracie tried to tread lightly as she told him, “Benjy—that was his little brother—had polio. He died when he was thirteen, and Harry was sixteen. It hit him pretty hard. His mother, too. She left home a year or so later, and Harry never saw her again. He took care of his dad for a couple more years, until he died, too, of cirrhosis. Then Harry left Cincinnati and didn’t come back until after he retired from his job as a TV repairman.