The Doll Brokers

by Hal Ross

  “And enjoy your Scotch.”

  Felicia knew her so well. Ann brought the glass to her lips and sipped. “I will.” She paused. “I love you.”

  “I know that, too. Good night.”

  The line disconnected. Ann dropped the cell back into her briefcase. Please, God, please, let this deal work. She took another swallow of Glenlivet. She closed her eyes briefly and repeated her silent prayer. When she opened them, the Scotch almost came back up her throat.

  She had been right, after all, she thought. Someone had been following her. Standing behind her, watching her in the mirror, dark eyes smoldering, was the one man she knew would never share Felicia’s opinion of her, the one person who didn’t think she was good at all.

  CHAPTER 2

  Jonathan Morhardt dropped a hip onto the stool beside her. “I’ll have a Sierra Nevada,” he said to the bartender. “The Pale. And refresh whatever the lady is having. It’s on my tab.”

  “Thanks for the offer, but this lady is leaving.” Ann took her credit card from her wallet and snapped it against the bar.

  “Don’t let me run you off.” His brows climbed in a challenge, dark brown hair topping a face that was a little too chiseled to be called handsome. But at thirty-five he had hazel poet’s eyes that were mesmerizing, and the hint of a smile that was both mischievous and intriguing.

  Ann hated surprises. Seeing him here unexpectedly took the wind out of her. She looked sideways at him, trying to assess the situation, and felt for an instant his hatred of her. Or was it merely hostile indifference? It had been seventeen years since she’d come to live with Jonathan and his family. A lost sixteen year-old. In all that time she had yet to get a handle on his true feelings towards her. The acrimony that had always seemed to exist between them was intensified by her own suppressed desire, the need to know him better that had always been denied.

  She touched a manicured fingernail to the edge of her credit card and slid it back toward herself. “On second thought, I don’t want to deny you the chance to spend money on me.” She looked over her glass at him and took a sip of her drink. Their bickering was safe, secure, familiar ground. It was eminently more comfortable than negotiating the biggest deal of her career.

  “Good,” he replied.

  “Aren’t you out of your element?” she asked, knowing he gravitated towards darker, moodier places.

  “A sacrifice worthy of the cause,” he said. “I’m here to keep an eye on you.”

  Consternation turned her muscles to wood. She hadn’t noticed him in the other room when she scanned the place. That in itself bothered her, but not half so much as his stated purpose and apparent lack of trust in her. Had he come here on his own volition, or had he been sent by Felicia or Patrick?

  Ann had never hurt Jonathan, had never infringed on his territory. They were removed from each other because of his lack of interest in Hart Toy. Patrick, of course, was a different story. Of Felicia’s two remaining sons, Patrick had reason to despise her. She’d stolen his thunder, but Patrick did not have the capability or talent to grow the company or even run it. She would not feel guilty over that. But Jonathan was quite a bit different. He had the smarts to run the family business but wanted no part of it.

  Ann had always been aware that it would take her forever to convince Jonathan that she’d never asked for the things Felicia had given her. Years ago, she had relinquished that battle. He had always questioned her motives and no matter what she said it seemed he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, believe her.

  Jonathan Morhardt was his father’s son. Frederick had kept a step clear of Hart Toy, too, at least as much of it as he had lived to witness. He was a dreamer, and profit margins were alien to them both.

  “Your brother sent you,” Ann said now, forcing a tone of bored acceptance.

  “I haven’t spoken to him in weeks,” Jonathan offered.

  “Then what interest could you possibly have in my meeting?”

  “As I said, I’m keeping an eye on things. I refuse to let you destroy everything my mother has built.”

  “Oh? You think I’d act on my own?”

  “I don’t know what to think. And that’s the problem. So, tell me—how much of Felicia’s money did you spend?”

  “Seventy-five percent of what she authorized. Your inheritance is safe.”

  “I don’t care about the money; Felicia is my concern.”

  Ann reached for her drink, just to prove to herself, to him, that her stomach was fine. She had been living with the Morhardts—with Felicia and Patrick, Jonathan and Matthew—for all of four months when Jonathan first discovered her weakness. She wasn’t comfortable in their well-to-do home with its lush carpets and big rooms filled with beautiful things. She knew who she was—the abandoned daughter of a drug addict. Homeless with nowhere to turn, she’d spent those first four months in a type of dreamlike limbo, waiting for Felicia to turn on her, kick her out, become a person who would break her.

  Instead, Felicia had showed her nothing but gentle kindness. And in their home, on the eve of a party celebrating Felicia’s fifty-fifth birthday, she’d brought Ann a dress, a sleek, shimmering azure sheath that still hung in her closet. It had caught the blue of her eyes, had sculpted her skinny frame into something that was somehow voluptuous and provocative. Ann allowed herself to fall in love with Felicia the moment she slipped that dress over her head and gazed into the mirror. It was as if the actress had found the perfect costume. The dress transformed her instantly. And suddenly she saw herself as the person she could be. From that moment on she had strained and strived, and applied herself in every way to become a woman worthy of wearing that dress and to earn Felicia’s respect. It had been grueling work, and to all outside appearances it had paid off. Yet, too often, Ann would awaken in the middle of the night with a question rolling around in her mind—was she merely an actress performing a role or had all that effort and Felicia’s steady hand actually resulted in a true transformation?

  How had Felicia understood that Ann was no longer a child, that she had ceased being a child when the unimaginable had happened, forcing her to flee Newark? Instead of dressing her in flounces and pink, Felicia had nudged her into becoming a woman to be reckoned with. But that night, the night of the party, even Felicia had been powerless to curb Patrick’s jealous tongue.

  “Look, it’s Lady Ann,” he’d hissed in her ear when she’d arrived at the bottom of the stairs. “Come to steal the silver.”

  The look on Patrick’s face, the smell of his sour breath, had been so ugly, that after a few minutes of forced gaiety, with face flushed, stomach churning, she had literally run up the stairs to be sick. No one could have possibly suspected the reason behind her retreat. But just as she arrived at the bathroom door, Jonathan stepped out. Ann had practically crashed into him in her frenzied rush to get inside. He hadn’t moved fast enough and, face to face, she had spewed all over him.

  Ann jerked herself back to the present. She wasn’t sixteen anymore. She was thirty-three.

  “I don’t like the name,” she said flatly and suddenly. “Felicia wants to call her Baby Talk N Glow. It sounds seventies to me. Too pedestrian. But I guess we’ll just have to hope that she’s unique enough to overcome the shaky moniker.”

  Jonathan’s eyes narrowed as he realized that she was talking about the doll. “Go on.”

  “I’ve run the numbers in every imaginable way, starting with sales of a million pieces and regressing down to five hundred thousand.” Her breath felt short. She didn’t want to believe it could come to that. “I think I’ve accounted for every possible contingency.”

  “To protect your own salary, I’m sure.”

  She felt it as a slap in the face but chose to ignore the comment. Her stomach twisted and she raised the glass of Scotch to her lips, then continued. “On the one hand, dolls are comparatively safe. They account for volume of over two billion dollars in the United States alone. On the other hand, we could still end up in trouble because
of the enormous risk. One glitch with this product, one misstep with the marketing plan…”

  “Then take a pass.”

  His comment hardened her spine. “No. Felicia wants her. And there are eight or ten other companies who will snatch her up if we don’t.”

  He leaned back on his stool. “What’s in it for you?”

  Ann fought to breathe. She reached for her briefcase. “Your time’s up, Jonathan. I’ve got better things to do with mine.”

  “Just know, I’ll be watching.”

  “Spare yourself the trouble,” she said as she stepped down from the bar, lost her footing, and practically fell into his arms.

  He went to steady her.

  She pulled herself upright, turned abruptly and walked away. “Good night, Jonathan,” she called over her shoulder.

  He watched her leave, thinking that she didn’t move so much as cleave through space.

  She’d played her own part in his younger brother’s death, Jonathan thought. He would not let Ann hurt Felicia again. He couldn’t explain the bad feeling he had about this doll, but Ann’s influence over his mother in her weakened state could not be overlooked. And neither could the possibility that the cancer had impaired Felicia’s judgment. Jonathan had a fierce need to protect his mother. No matter what the personal cost, he would put his own life on hold and watch Ann like a hawk. He’d stick to her until he finally understood everything. And when he got to that place, perhaps then this absurd fascination with her that had plagued him for years, would finally disappear.

  CHAPTER 3

  Ann dropped the knocker against Felicia’s apartment door and it swung inward, giving way to an imperial foyer lined with large oil paintings of country landscapes. Beyond was a spacious parlor, now bustling with visitors.

  Patrick Morhardt greeted her. Once, long ago, he had been an attractive man. As blond as his brother was dark, as suave as Jonathan was brooding, over the years his physique hadn’t so much softened as it had relaxed. Today, at thirty-nine, gravity tugged gently at his skin. Time—and probably more alcohol than Ann could even begin to imagine—had leeched much of the life from his brown eyes.

  “Hail the conquering hero.” He swept a hand out exaggeratedly and ushered her inside, where she joined a crowd of people summoned by Felicia to celebrate the acquisition of the doll.

  She dipped one shoulder and let her cashmere shawl slide down her arm. She caught it on the tips of her fingers and offered it to Patrick, an obvious insult. Color crept slowly up his neck, but he took the wrap. Ann crossed to Felicia, seated in a chair in front of a window that afforded a spectacular view of Central Park from thirty-seven floors up.

  “You’re the real heroine here,” Ann whispered as she leaned in to kiss her cheek.

  Felicia smiled, and Ann thought she could hear her facial skin moving with the effort, almost like paper rustling. “I’ll let you think so, dear.”

  “Where is she?” Ann said, straightening. “I know you. She must be on display around here somewhere.”

  “In the dining room.”

  Felicia’s living room and dining room had once been housed in separate apartments, combined when the wall between them was removed. The décor had a distinctly Far Eastern flavor: proud marble figurines from China on multi-colored pedestals, a Japanese ceramic sculpture at least five feet tall, and a burnt almond cabinet that dated back a few centuries and appeared priceless. The doll stood on a black lacquer table beyond it.

  Felicia’s guests milled around her. Koji and Chow were still in the States and they had, of course, been invited. Koji demonstrated the doll’s features, his small, smooth face alight with child-like pleasure. A few business acquaintances were present as well, some envious, most pretending not to be. It was a tradition of sorts, despite the fierce competition, to share good news with one’s peers.

  Irene, Patrick’s wife, swatted her fourteen-year-old son’s hand as he tried to poke the doll in a spot the average little girl would never contemplate.

  “Are you more comfortable with the deal now?” Chow asked, easing up beside Ann as she approached.

  “Very comfortable.” Ann used the moment to look around for Patrick. And for Jonathan. She liked to pinpoint her vulnerable flanks.

  Patrick was hunkered down in front of his mother’s chair, his weight braced on his heels, his hands gripped together between his knees. He spoke urgently. Ann kept her gaze on him as she poured herself a Glenlivet at the sidebar in the dining room. Then she headed back in their direction.

  A man caught her elbow as she reached the midway point of the large room. Ann flashed an automatic smile. Alvin Pelletier, of Single-Brite Inc. Alvin was a self-made man who had built his company from scratch. Single-Brite was heavily into toddler products, riding the wave of over-stressed moms bent on finding electronic babysitters for their children.

  “That doll is beautiful, absolutely exceptional.” Alvin let his hand slide down until his fingers linked with hers. His palm was damp.

  “Yes. She is.” Ann took a moment to consider that nearly everyone she talked to referred to the doll as though she were a living, breathing entity. A very good sign.

  “How’s business otherwise? Your inventory problem?”

  “All tidied away.” There are no secrets in this business, Ann thought. “Thanks for asking.” She was impatient to get into the pow-wow between Patrick and Felicia.

  “We’re doing well,” he confided as if she had asked. “We’d be looking at sixty million this year if not for that asshole at Swansons.”

  She knew who he was referring to but didn’t want to get distracted by gossip. Patrick was standing now, ending the conversation. “I’d put my money on you any day,” Ann said. Alvin may have looked insipid, but he was a vicious businessman. He had a reputation for never employing salespeople directly, thus avoiding the burden of medical insurance and pension plans. Instead, he used independent representatives who covered a specified territory on a commission basis, and she’d heard from more than one angry source that he habitually failed to pay them what was due.

  Less than a month ago he’d been predicting sales of forty-eight million. No doubt some of the commissions he’d stolen back made up a part of the sudden difference.

  “This guy—this Dean Carlson, the Division Merchandise Manager over there—he wants three thousand dollars for my short-shipping him a hundred pieces of an item,” he went on.

  “Bet you wish you hadn’t done it.” Ann tugged her hand free and fought the urge to dry her palm against her thigh.

  “It was an oversight! Now it’s a fucking nightmare. I’ve tried to reason with him, but the man won’t bend. I might end up cutting him off. There goes five million in orders.”

  He wouldn’t, Ann thought. Even Hasbro or Mattel wouldn’t dare cut off Swansons. Ann took a sidestep, grimacing in feigned commiseration. “Excuse me, Al, I’ve got to—”

  “I’d like to talk to you about this guy. How to handle him, get your take on him.”

  “Give my secretary a buzz in the morning. She’ll set up lunch.”

  “Donna, right?”

  “Her name is Dora.” Ann left Pelletier and stepped quickly up to Patrick. “Talking about me?” she asked, blocking his way.

  He jerked around. “Only in that you’ve bitten off more than even you can chew.”

  Ah, she thought. He was already anticipating her pratfall with Baby Talk N Glow. She sipped her drink. “Time will tell.”

  “I’m meeting with our bank tomorrow, but I’m hardly optimistic. They’ve been worried about our inventory.”

  “You well know that problem’s been rectified,” Felicia said, her voice reedy. It got that way when she was upset.

  “So what’s your contingency plan?” Ann asked Patrick.

  “One step at a time.” His brow lowered.

  “Not with this doll. I want your back-up plan on my desk before our own bank declines. In fact, let’s aim to meet at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

/>   “Who the hell do you think you’re—”

  “I’m the president of Hart Toy,” Ann interrupted him. She hated to pull rank but had learned a while ago that this was the only way with Patrick. “And you’re my vice president of finance. I believe I’ve just requested the pleasure of your company tomorrow morning?”

  “This is the part where you salute, Pat.” Jonathan’s voice came from just behind her left shoulder.

  “I’ve already signed the deal, Patrick,” she said, trying to be more conciliate. “We’re not going to go back on our word, not with the Chinese.”

  “Patrick, please line up interviews with other banks,” said Felicia.

  Both of them knew that it should have been done already, but Ann held her tongue.

  She pivoted to look at Jonathan. “Well, well, the gang’s all here. Still keeping an eye on things?”

  “I wouldn’t miss Francesca’s cooking.” He plucked a shrimp-and-crab ceviche from his cocktail plate and held it up as though to admire it.

  He was keeping his concern over this project from his mother then, Ann thought as he dropped the ceviche onto his tongue.

  She turned away. “Where were we?”

  “Patrick was just telling me that our advertising director still has the flu,” Felicia said.

  As glitches went, it was minor. “Then we’ll make arrangements to go ahead with the commercial shoot without him,” Ann said. “I should be able to clear my schedule and get to Toronto by Wednesday.”

  “That sort of thing needs weeks of preparation,” Patrick argued.

  “In Los Angeles, sure. But I’m going with the Canadians on this one. I thought I mentioned that. Yes, I’m sure I did. In a memo. Do you read my memos, Pat? Canada is generally more flexible and I want to get this ball rolling as soon as possible.”

  “Full steam ahead,” Jonathan said conversationally.

  Ann fought the urge to look his way again. She still wasn’t sure what he expected to accomplish with his agenda regarding the doll. As she turned away from the family enclave, she felt Jonathan’s gaze on the back of her neck. She returned to the dining room and was plunking fresh ice cubes into her glass when a hand roughly the size and texture of a bear’s paw closed over hers and took the tongs from her.