The Tycoon's Socialite Bride (Entangled Indulgence)

by Livesay, Tracey

  That Saturday, Pamela immersed herself in work at the women’s shelter. From the moment she stepped through the front door, she’d answered phones, filled out paperwork, and reviewed contracts and grant proposals. Anything to keep her emotions in check and her mind off Marcus Pearson.

  Being with him was like sitting in the first car of a roller coaster. The emotional hills and valleys, the twists and the turns, were activating her relationship motion sickness. She thought they’d reached a plateau: a truce. Not friends, but friendly business associates.

  Except business associates didn’t kiss each other under twinkling lights.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force that memory away. Her thumb still tingled where he’d scorched it with the rasp of his tongue.

  She was an idiot. When would she learn?

  He asked her opinion and listened to her ideas. He responded as if he agreed with her decisions. And the moment she left, he ignored everything she’d suggested and invited the Holcombes to the wedding.

  It was like interacting with the Senator all over again.

  Her cell phone rang and her heart pounded, each beat tumbling into the next. She grabbed her phone off the table and checked the caller ID. Her heart returned to a normal pace and she pressed the speaker button to greet Alice.

  Although she hadn’t talked to her father since the gala at the estate nearly a week earlier, Alice had phoned a few times. The woman was on a mission to reconnect father and daughter.

  “How are things coming along?” Alice asked.

  “I’m making calls, getting everything ready. You know what’s involved in planning an event.”

  “I do. The gala took six months to plan. Speaking of the gala, the silent auction item of golf with your father got a bid of mid-four figures. He was pleased, considering…” A pause. “I’m calling on behalf of your father. He’s been holed up in his office, making recommendations on certain pieces of legislation, but I know he misses you and wishes you were home.”

  “I doubt it. He probably hasn’t noticed my absence.”

  “That’s not true, Pammie. He loves you. You can get past this, but I think you need to make the first step.”

  “I did. I sent him an invitation to the wedding.”

  “That was so impersonal. You need to call him. He’s set in his ways. This is hard for him. He and your mother had a lot of plans for you. He believes if he stays to that course of action, you’ll be happy. Be the bigger person. Call him.”

  “Why should I bother? We both know he’ll come. Otherwise, people would think he didn’t approve of Marcus, which meant he couldn’t control his daughter. The scandal. The public embarrassment. How would he survive the defiling of the Harrington name?”

  “Pamela!” Alice chided. “I understand you’re hurt. Senator Harrington can be harsh and I know he wasn’t always the type of father you wanted, but he’s still your father. I won’t allow you to disrespect him in my presence.”

  A lump formed in her throat and her fingers tightened on the phone. The censure in Alice’s tone smarted. She shouldn’t have made that last remark. It may have been how she felt, but it was childish and nasty and Alice didn’t deserve her insolence.

  “This wedding will be small, with a few friends and Marcus’s business associates. Nothing big and extravagant like the ceremony I planned with Devin.” She sighed. “I’ll call him, but make him understand this day is about us and what we want. Not him, not the Harrington name.”

  Except it was about both of those things.

  She’d just disconnected the call when Shelly walked into the office, her brown eyes brimming with sadness. “Another intake.”

  “Is she okay?” Pamela frowned, remembering her nerves and embarrassment when she’d first walked through the doors of the shelter, a year ago.

  “It was pretty bad. She’s determined to leave him, so we’ll do our best to help. Maybe we should consider hiring secur—”

  The tinny buzz of the phone’s intercom sounded. When Shelly pressed the button, the receptionist’s voice sounded on the other end. “Is Pamela back there with you? The workshop is about to start.”

  “I need to go. Being late wouldn’t send the best message.” She stood up, scooping up a clipboard with a list of names attached. “How many have signed up?” she asked.

  “Nine or ten, the last time I checked.”

  “Really?” Pamela asked, unable to suppress the smile that curved her lips.

  “Word of mouth. We’ve gotten a lot of interest from some of the smaller shelters that can’t offer these services. It’s a brilliant idea.”

  Pamela blushed, dropping her gaze to her shoes. “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s everything,” Shelly insisted. “You’re not window dressing. You do good work here and never want to take credit for it. There aren’t a lot of women who take time out of their day to volunteer here. Especially women like you.” She crossed her arms and tapped a finger against her cheek. “I’m going to clean out the broom closet, call it your office, and hire you full time.”

  Shelly’s praise and approval warmed Pamela’s spirit. “The broom closet? Haven’t you heard?” Pamela flipped her hair over her shoulder and tilted her nose in the air. “Pamela Harrington doesn’t do small offices.”

  “Go on, Miss Society. They’re waiting.”

  She grinned, sketched a wave, then walked down the hallway and crossed the reception area. When she stepped inside the rec room she saw that Shelly was wrong. There weren’t ten women waiting.

  There were thirty.

  The women were packed into the small room, sitting in folded aluminum chairs. Some of them had pens and pads of paper on their laps. There was a wooden lectern and white dry-erase board at the front of the room but Pamela bypassed them, grabbed a chair, and sat down, staring at faces of different colors, shapes, and expressions. A tidal wave of understanding broke over her in that moment. Seeing the strength and courage these women possessed put her life and “hardships” into stark perspective.

  “My name is Pamela and I volunteer here at the shelter. The next step in your journey to take your lives back is to become self-sufficient, and getting a job with a steady paycheck will help you do that.”

  A voice called out from the back. “What do you know about a job, princess?”

  Pamela wasn’t offended. They knew who she was. Or at least, what she was. Why wouldn’t they resent the source of the information?

  “You’re right. I don’t have to work to put a roof over my head or food on the table. But I do know how it feels to be constantly told you’re not enough. I know what it’s like to feel unsafe with the men in your life, who’re supposed to love and care about you.”

  The nodding heads gave her permission to go on. “I also know how to work hard, how to be presentable, and how to make a good first impression so you can get the chance you need. That’s all I’m here to do. To answer your questions and help you help yourselves.”

  When she looked around the room, gazes met hers instead of studying the faded linoleum. There were more open expressions and a couple of smiles. The woman in the back looked skeptical but at least she was still sitting in her chair.

  “Great. Let’s get started.”

  …

  So this was the G Street Women’s Shelter, Marcus thought.

  The building was in a transitional neighborhood, but it was maintained with pride and care. The sidewalk in front of the door was swept, the windows were clean, and the small patch of grass beside the curb was freshly mowed and edged. Just two blocks away, lofts were going for over a million dollars. In another year or two, if the economy held up, the buildings in this area would be worth a fortune.

  He wouldn’t change his decision to invite the Holcombes to the wedding, but he understood why Pamela had been upset. He would have been livid if his opinion had been disregarded like that. A lump formed in his stomach when he recalled the pain he’d seen in her eyes. He didn’t like hurting her. He ne
eded to apologize. When he’d learned she wasn’t in her suite at the Four Seasons, he’d played a hunch and headed to the shelter.

  Walking inside, he choked on the tension that abruptly materialized. He was stunned to discover he was the source of the discomfort. Women halted their activity and watched him, some with fear, some with open hostility.

  “May I help you?”

  A young woman stood behind a counter, a closed door at her back.

  “My name is Marcus Pearson, and I’m here to see Pamela Harrington.”

  She picked up the phone and spoke into it. A few moments later she hung up.

  “It’ll be just a second.”

  He didn’t have to wait long. Moments later, a very attractive woman came out of an office and walked toward him, a mass of tiny curls circling her head like a halo. She held out her hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Pearson. I’m Shelly Williams, director of the shelter.” She had a firm grip and an authoritative demeanor that commanded respect.

  He glanced around at the faces staring at him. “I shouldn’t have stopped by without permission. I wasn’t thinking. I needed to see Pamela.”

  “You don’t need permission to stop by. You own the building. But I’ll take you to Pamela. Follow me.” She led him to a doorway, opened it slightly, and stepped back. “Have a look.”

  Confused, Marcus poked his head through the doorway.

  Inside, Pamela spoke to a group of attentive women. “One of the most important things I want you to remember,” she said, not noticing him, “is that like it or not, appearance matters. If you’re going in to an interview, dress neatly: slacks or a skirt, a nice blouse, and simple shoes. Once you get the job, you can see what the dress code is for the company. One way to communicate you’re the perfect person for the position is dressing the part.”

  Marcus watched as Pamela eased fears and gave good, practical advice. He believed he could accurately size up a person upon first meeting them, but Pamela shot that theory to hell. He never would have imagined the same woman he’d first met in a designer dress and heels would look just as elegant in jeans, a T-shirt, and sneakers.

  Or look just as beautiful.

  “I’d like you to pair up in groups of two. I’ve listed typical questions you’d hear at a job interview. Take turns asking and answering the questions.”

  Shelly tapped his arm and he gently closed the door, so as not to disturb anyone. She guided him past the desk in the entryway, telling the receptionist to have Pamela come to her office when the workshop was finished. She gave him a brief tour of the facility and eventually led him down a long hallway to a small office in the back. There, Shelly sat behind the desk and offered him the chair in front of it. Its floral-patterned cushions and wooden arms and legs had seen better days.

  “It shouldn’t be much longer,” she said.

  “If you’d told me a couple of weeks ago that she was teaching a class on finding a job, I would have thought you were lying.”

  “Pamela is full of surprises.”

  Something about the woman’s tone of voice struck him. “How much has she told you about our…relationship?”

  “Enough.”

  “And you don’t approve?”

  “It’s not my place.”

  “But you have an opinion?”

  “It would be stupid to insult the owner of the building.”

  “A belief Pamela doesn’t share.”

  She laughed, considering him, then leaned her elbows on her desk. “Instead of my opinion, I’ll offer a recommendation. She has a big heart. Don’t start something if you aren’t going to follow through.” She glanced over his shoulder. “You have a visitor.”

  His breath quickened and he cursed his body’s betrayal. The ratio of mental energy spent on the Holcombe deal versus Pamela Harrington was shifting daily, and not in the right direction. He stood to face her.

  “I’ll be out front. Take as long as you need.” Shelly came around the desk and squeezed Pamela’s arm. She left the office, closing the door behind her.

  “How did you know I was here?”

  He shrugged. “You weren’t at the hotel, so I guessed.”

  “You shouldn’t have come here. This isn’t the place for us to talk.”

  “I know, but I needed to apologize. I was an ass. It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last.”

  She arched a brow. “Is there some sort of Early Ass Detection System I could buy so we can avoid this scene next time? If I know what to look for, I can seek shelter or put on my armor to try to minimize the damage.”

  “I deserve that,” he said, nodding.

  “Yes, you do.”

  “I saw part of your workshop. I think what you’re doing here is great.”

  “Really?”

  “You were knowledgeable about your subject and gave strong practical advice.”

  “Abusers tend to isolate their victims, who usually come to a shelter with no money and no recent work experience. We want to do more than get them a job that will barely help them to survive.”

  “We’re still staffing some positions. I’ll give you the name of a contact in the HR department. If any of the women are interested, you can send them over.”

  “You would do that?”

  “If it’ll help.”

  “That would be wonderful.” She hesitated, then clasped his hand and squeezed.

  He liked the warmth of her touch, and laced his fingers through hers when she would have let go.

  She glanced at their hands and then at him. “Did you get the wedding plans I e-mailed you?”

  “I did.” He’d been surprised to receive the message from her this morning, especially because it contained an increased guest list, many of them business associates he wanted to meet and impress. “Thank you.”

  “There’s one little detail I didn’t include in my message.”

  “The president will officiate the ceremony?” he teased, swinging their joined hands between them.

  Her green eyes were brimming with excitement. “I talked to David Holcombe and he’s agreed to let us get married at the hotel.”

  Anger surged through him. He dropped her hand and he stepped back as if slapped. “You what?”

  She blinked rapidly and searched his face. “You don’t want this? I thought you would be pleased.”

  “Why? Why there, of all places?”

  “I was trying to do what you would do. Like when you invited the Holcombes to the wedding. You want to buy the hotel. It’s the reason we’re getting married. And it’s available. Seemed like the perfect place to me.”

  Of course it did, but it wasn’t. Not to him. It had been years since he’d visited the hotel and it called forth terrible memories. He hadn’t wanted to darken those doors until the building belonged to him and he’d fulfilled his promise to his mother.

  A weight settled on his chest. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t want to get married at the hotel, but since Pamela already had permission, would Holcombe be offended if he didn’t?

  Chapter Nine

  The sharp crack ripped through the air as bat connected with ball and sent it soaring into the sky. The crowd roared to its feet as the Washington Nationals took the lead, three players crossing the plate.

  Pamela leaned against the railing, admiring the view that stretched out before her: the alternating shades of green that crisscrossed the spacious field, the vivid Technicolor that flashed on the enormous scoreboard, and the enthusiastic fans who cheered their hometown team. There was a palpable swell of excitement, and she allowed it to gather her up and include her in its tide.

  A Thursday afternoon at the baseball park wasn’t a usual entry on her social calendar. But when Marcus invited her to Pearson Enterprises’ employee appreciation day, she jumped at the chance to take a break away from their engagement scheme. Things had been tense since their argument at the shelter the weekend before. She’d thought he would love the idea of getting married at the Holcombe,
but for some unexplainable reason, he’d gotten angry. Their brief truce now ended, they’d gone back to uneasiness. She didn’t know how long they would be married, but she didn’t plan on spending the time in simmering agitation. Today, they would get back on track.

  In a platonic way, of course.

  There would be no more kisses. A peck or two for show, but no more of the bone-melting embraces like the one at the St. Regis, or the hard, quick clinches that thrilled her down to her Jimmy Choo-clad toes. It would be madness to get involved with another man whose sole interest in her stemmed from her pedigree.

  Most of the employees were gathered in the Presidents Club, one of the ballpark’s exclusive seating areas, which Marcus had rented out for the game. A few energetic ones had taken the employees’ kids and some of the local kids from the Boys & Girls Clubs of Greater Washington that Marcus had invited over to the jungle gym and batting cage in the Family Fun Area. He’d also reserved the lounge adjoining the club for private conversations or for anyone who needed a break from the boisterous group. Pamela had watched a couple of nursing mothers and sleeping toddlers take advantage of the peaceful alternative.

  “Miss Harrington? Marcus asked me to bring you this.”

  Pamela turned and saw a familiar pretty, petite blonde holding out a tall white plastic cup with the baseball team’s logo emblazoned in red on the front.

  “What is it?”

  “An iced chai latte.”

  Pamela smiled, losing the battle not to let the thoughtful gesture matter. He remembered. She took a sip, the cool liquid a refreshing shield against the city’s humid afternoon heat.

  “Thanks. And please, call me Pamela,” she said. “We met earlier. You’re Amanda, right?”

  “Yes, I work in Development.” The other woman leaned next to her on the railing, her foot resting on the bottom rung. “Are you enjoying the game?”

  “It’s been fun. I’m not a big sports fan, but the energy from the crowd is infectious.”

  “The Nats have a lot of love here in DC.” Amanda leaned forward, her voice a conspiratorial hush. “I’m a Giants fan, but I have to admit they are fun to watch.”

  “Giants? You’re from New York?”