by Anne Stuart
One more delay, he thought, his mouth tightening. They’d probably have to clear the entire street while they demolished twelve stories of glass. It was a royal pain in the butt, that was what it was, and if he’d only foreseen what trouble it was going to be, he would have opted for the second-best location, up in the East Eighties.
Except that he’d stopped accepting second best years ago. He was used to challenges, he thrived on them. If the fact that his current challenge was nothing more than a stubborn young woman irritated him, it also gave him a measure of infrequent amusement. It reminded him of an elephant being terrorized by a little mouse. He had no intention of running scared, however. He had every intention of squashing her flat.
It was well after six, the doorman-cum-security guard was busy reading the New York Post. He didn’t even notice as Michael walked past him to the narrow bank of elevators.
Three of them, all open. He hadn’t thought there’d be an office building in New York with only three elevators. Without hesitation he stepped into the streamlined gray Otis. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the glass and gilt lifts. He just preferred the familiar and unadorned. If he wanted works of art, he’d look at the walls of his apartment.
Even a decrepit building like the Glass House had full tenancy. He’d reviewed the file, tucking everything away in his almost photographic memory. The top two floors were kept by the owner. Laura Winston ran her modeling agency out of the twelfth-floor penthouse, and she lived one floor beneath it. Everything else in the building was commercial, from the literary agency on the second floor, the employment agency on three, the import-export business on four to the various dealers, brokers, agents and buyers. He was particularly interested in floors nine and ten. They’d been rented from the Winston family since World War II. They held the editorial offices of a small but flourishing trade journal, Swimming Pool News. Michael had no doubt whatsoever that they’d be happy to relocate to one of his buildings farther downtown, and he already had Zach looking into that possibility, if Laura Winston proved as difficult as word had it.
He didn’t really expect it to come to that, Michael thought as the Otis carried him swiftly, silently upward. Zach was a master at negotiation, but no one, absolutely no one, could twist and manipulate, intimidate and cajole the way Michael Dubrovnik could when he set his mind to it. He intended to bring all his very considerable talents to bear on Laura Winston, and he had no intention of failing.
There were two women sitting together in the softly lighted reception room of Glass Faces. They were turned toward the elevator, watching his approach, but Michael didn’t know the meaning of the word self-conscious. He took his time, surveying the lay of the land with a connoisseur’s eye. Mirrored walls, interspersed with six-foot blowups of beautiful, delicate faces. A thick, gray carpeting past the priceless kilim in the hallway, pink leather furniture from Milan, even a Picasso nude in a treasured spot. He dropped his gaze to the two women, for a moment mistaking their identity. He’d heard from her not terribly devoted mother that Laura had been a plain, plump child, with as much sense of style as a bag lady. Neither woman fitted that description, though one of them, the one behind the desk, was endowed with a generous bosom, simple, soft clothes and a wary expression. He almost risked greeting her as Laura to give himself the upper hand, when a sixth sense that had served him well in the past stopped him.
The other woman lounged in a pink leather sling chair. She was small, bordering on tiny, with long, narrow legs exposed by a tiny scrap of miniskirt, a skinny, boyish body, and a hairdo that reminded him of some twenties actress. He knew immediately that the huge red glasses were merely for show—you could tell by the way light reflected off them that they were flat glass. Her face was deliberately, clownishly pale, the mouth wide and painted a shocking red, and the black pearls in her ears and around her slender neck were absolutely real. She looked up at him with no more interest than if he’d been a messenger, and he immediately understood why Zach had come back empty-handed. It took an expert to see that Laura de Kelsey Winston was an adversary worthy of his mettle, and Michael was an expert.
Laura looked up at him, slowly, lazily, her dark eyes glinting with malicious amusement. “May I help you?” she inquired, not moving, swinging her silk-clad leg back and forth over the side of the chair. She knew exactly who he was and why he was there, and she wasn’t going to give an inch.
He could appreciate that. He could appreciate her. She was the kind of woman he never allowed himself to get involved with, the kind with brains and savvy and a dangerous determination that, while a challenge in the boardroom, grew emotional and tedious in the bedroom. Not that she’d be interested in going to bed with him, any more than he was interested in sleeping with her. The cool challenge, the glint of hostile amusement, told him that she knew an enemy when she saw one.
And they were enemies, there was never any doubt of that. He couldn’t imagine a world where it would be otherwise, even if an anachronism like the Glass House didn’t exist. If they had come across each other in the normal course of events, they would have found something else to battle over.
“You aren’t what I expected,” he said, his rough voice a deliberate contrast to the lush pink and white interior.
Laura raised an artful eyebrow. “I’m not?”
“Your mother said you were fat and plain and shy.” For an opening salvo it should have been remarkably effective, but she didn’t even blink.
“As you can see, my mother doesn’t know me very well. Don’t count on her for assistance, Mr. Dubrovnik. You’ll be wasting your time.”
The woman behind the desk had moved by then, as if by silent signal, heading toward the hot pink door behind her without even acknowledging his presence. She had a soft mouth, now tightened in rage. If Laura Winston hadn’t minded the insult, her friend minded for her.
“I never waste my time,” he said softly. Laura didn’t offer him a seat, and he didn’t take one. He had no problem standing while she lounged with such studied negligence in the pink leather chair. Towering over her had its own advantages.
“You’re here, aren’t you?” she observed sweetly. “That’s a waste of time, if ever I’ve heard of one.”
“I suppose it’s useless to come up with another offer.”
“Absolutely.”
“To appeal to your kinder instincts? To point out the compromised condition of this building?”
“Save your breath.”
He smiled then, a faint, satisfied smile. “All right.”
That got to her. She shifted in the chair, her dark eyes narrowing behind the phony glasses, and the blunt shingle of hair swung around her face. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“You’re giving up?”
His laugh was soft, genuinely amused. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve never given up in my life, and I’m not going to start with a snippy little girl like you.”
“There’s not much else you can do.”
“Don’t kid yourself, Laura.” He used her name deliberately, caressingly. “I didn’t get where I am today by being a gentleman. I fight dirty. You’re about to find that out.”
She rose then, and he noticed he’d been right in his initial assessment. She was short, coming just up to his chin. She was quivering with tightly suppressed rage, and he realized that despite the rail-thin model’s body she had breasts. Breasts that were rising and falling in fury. “I can fight dirty, too,” she said, her voice tight.
His nod was the essence of gentlemanly behavior. “I’m looking forward to it.”
Chapter Three
It was eleven o’clock at night. Back home in Kansas it would be just after ten. Mary Ellen’s mother would be sound asleep in front of the TV, her mouth open, snoring, the half-empty glass of Gallo Cocktail Sherry by her side. Jeff would still be awake. He’d be sitting in the kitchen of his small, spotless ranch house, the house he’d bought to share with her. He’d be drinking coffee, and he’d be thi
nking of her.
But she, Mary Ellen Murphy—no, Marita—she was in a luxury apartment at a hotel called the W. She’d looked around her when that funny little Ms. Winston had brought her here, hoping to see someone famous, but everyone looked rich but ordinary, and Mary Ellen had promised she’d stay in her room. Ms. Winston, Laura, didn’t want anyone seeing her before she was ready.
That was okay with Mary Ellen. During her long walk from the bus terminal she’d quickly seen that her clothes, while stylish enough for Rigby, Kansas, were unspeakably dowdy for the heart of New York. Her hair, her long, straight blond hair that hung down her back like a curtain, was equally outmoded. In this case Laura Winston was right. The fewer people who saw her in her current countrified look, the better.
She’d spent the last two hours walking about the bedroom suite, touching things, savoring the elegance. She stopped now and stared at her reflection in the huge mirror that took up half the bedroom wall. She stared, and a small, mysterious smile curved her mouth. Perfection. Her face and body were a work of art, one she lovingly tended. To do less would be sacrilege. God, or whatever power existed, had given her this remarkable combination of bones and beauty. To ignore it would be ungrateful.
She stood there, practicing her facial expressions. Haughty, meek, solemn, noble. Her face shifted from one emotion to the next, smoothly, perfectly, so adeptly that she almost convinced herself. She’d always had that gift, had always been able to arrange her features in the proper expression and bring forth exactly the response she wanted. Her mother, not to mention her teachers and friends, had always been complete suckers and she’d used both it and them, until they had nothing more to give her.
She lifted her thick blond hair above her head and let it fall, admiring the curve of her breasts, the narrow hips, the slender, delicate waist. Someone other than decent, boring Jeff Carnaby, some very wealthy, generous man was going to get all this perfection, someone who wanted to show it off. Some very lucky man. And whether Laura Winston knew it or not, she was going to find that man for her. Mary Ellen Murphy saw her beautiful smile curve in the mirror, as her bright blue eyes shone smugly.
Susan Richards pulled her Lanz nightgown over her head, the soft flannel the perfect defense against the chilly autumn air and the loneliness of an empty bed, and then paused to stare at her reflection. She forced herself to look unflinchingly, assessing her few good and many bad points. Beneath that soft flannel she was fifteen pounds overweight. She always would be—God knows, she’d tried everything in the world to get rid of those despised extra pounds. Modified fasts, Weight Watchers, walking, running, pumping iron, starvation, diet pills. She’d even considered liposuction, but the doctor had blithely informed her there was no fat to suck away. She was just built along more curvaceous lines than other women, than the skinny, borderline anorexic models she worked with, day in and day out. She was strong, healthy, well-muscled, smooth-skinned. She might as well accept the fact, the doctor said. Not everyone could have perfect cheekbones.
She’d reluctantly accepted the doctor’s pronouncement. If only she could have accepted herself as easily. She stared at her rounded, pretty face. And she thought of people like Tracey Michaels, wandering through the backrooms at Glass Faces, or Emelia Millhouse, or any of the other women, women without an ounce of spare flesh on them, women with tiny breasts and nonexistent hips, with flat masculine buttocks and endless legs. Women with cheekbones.
She turned toward her bed, away from the frustrating reflection. If only Tracey hadn’t walked out on Frank. She could deal with it all if he seemed firmly out of reach, involved with some impossibly beautiful woman. The thought of him, alone in his bed some twenty blocks away, was a torment that wouldn’t end. She could only hope he’d get involved with someone new quickly. Then she could put her fantasies safely away, and continue being his kindly older sister. Then maybe she wouldn’t die a little inside whenever he gave her those kisses that he handed out so freely.
Turning out the light, she sank into her queen-size bed, sliding against the Laura Ashley sheets. She was a Laura Ashley sort of person, she thought, even if she had to buy the largest size of the clothes they made. Frank didn’t belong in Laura Ashley sheets, he didn’t belong in a Laura Ashley life. She’d wanted him for more than four years. It was time she learned to let go.
Laura stripped off her clothes and dumped them onto the floor, kicking them out of the way. Pulling on the oversize silk T-shirt she usually slept in, she stopped to stare at her reflection, unflinching, like a technician checking a jet before takeoff. She had about as much emotional involvement with her small, spare frame as a mechanic. As long as it served her well, she ignored it. When it malfunctioned, she took it to a doctor to have it fixed. It provided her with energy and hard work. And no pleasure whatsoever.
She knew that she was no longer fat. There was no spare roll of flesh around her stomach, her breasts were small but well shaped, her hips narrow, her legs trim. It always took her a moment to realize that she wasn’t the plump, miserable adolescent, cursed with a beautiful mother and two indecently handsome brothers, the ugly duckling in a family of swans. If she closed her eyes partway she could see that girl again, the spotty complexion, the soft, double chin, the braces, the thick glasses, the limp, soft brown hair.
She’d ruthlessly gotten rid of all that, starting the day she found out that Jilly, her embarrassed, distant mother, had paid Jack Chambers to escort her to the Junior Assembly. Had even gently, delicately suggested that her plain daughter might be pathetically grateful for a little physical affection on the side. It might help her take an interest in her appearance.
What Jack Chambers had provided her in his parents’ deserted Fifth Avenue apartment had little to do with affection. He didn’t force her, didn’t hurt her. He merely mocked and tormented her into complying with something that was so humiliating, so messy, so ultimately degrading that she’d never tried it again. And never planned to.
Rapidly she blinked at her reflection in the mirror. She wore extended wear contact lenses now, ones that made her warm hazel eyes an almost wicked green. She paid Gregorio a fortune for her hair, and only he knew the soft brown color it really was beneath the jet-black dye and ruthless styling. She occasionally worked out, not because she wanted an attractive body, but because she wanted the fitness and the energy, and because she knew, no matter how much Jilly hated the fact, that she’d always be younger than her mother: And her body, which no one was allowed to touch, would always be better.
It was a small enough revenge for years of gentle torment, but it was enough.
Laura turned and climbed into the huge bed that had never held more than one small body. She liked plenty of room, and loved the sense of having all that space to herself. No one else would ever invade it; it was hers, inviolable.
“God, I feel terrific!” Laura announced, breezing into Glass Faces at half past eleven on Monday morning. “Suddenly everything seems under control. I think I can even face your coffee.”
“It would serve you right if I bought instant,” Susan grumbled.
“Oh, please, please, punish me.” Laura leaned against the beveled glass tabletop. “I think we’re saved.”
“Oh, you do, do you?”
Laura looked at her assistant and best friend, one of the few people she allowed herself to care about. “What’s wrong with you? Not enough sleep?”
“Nightmares.”
“About Frank?”
“Don’t be nasty, Laura. Tell me about our savior.”
“The mysterious Marita. She’s even better than I thought. I took her to Gregorio this weekend—”
“You took her to your precious Gregorio? I thought you were going to start following a budget.”
“I’m afraid any Winston is constitutionally unable to follow a budget. Besides, I think I can hit up my brother Tony for some money. All I have to do is tell him Jilly’s trying to twist my arm and he’ll give me a blank check.”
“Maybe. So Gregorio worked wonders?”
“Indeed. Particularly when he had such a glorious creature to begin with. Then I took her to Davelli’s, which might have been a mistake. She could go all the way, she doesn’t have to start even one step down, but I figured I owed Gianni for steering her toward me. When I think she might have ended up at Ford or Elite, my skin crawls.”
“Certain things are meant to be. How did the photography session go?”
“Spectacularly well. I waited long enough for one of his assistants to make contact sheets of the first few rolls of film. I wanted to make sure we didn’t end up with another Frank.” She waited for Susan to flinch, but Susan, as always, looked serene, only the shadow of sleepless nights dimming her soft blue eyes.
“So what’s our next step?”
“We wait.”
“Wait?” Susan echoed. “I thought the wolf was at our door.”
“The wolf is trying to buy our door out from under us,” Laura said grimly. “But there’s nothing he can do. I told him no, and he simply has to accept it.”
“I’ve never heard of Michael Dubrovnik taking no for an answer.”
“What else can he do? I don’t owe any huge debts at this point. He’s tried to get to me through Jilly, a major mistake on his part, I might add. He’s offered me ridiculous sums of money for the Glass House, money I refuse to take. He’ll simply have to accept defeat.”
“Maybe,” Susan said, clearly unconvinced. “By the way, why didn’t you tell me Swimming Pool News was moving out?”
Laura could feel some of her buoyant optimism start to fade. “I didn’t know they were. They have a twenty-year lease. Are they planning on breaking it?”
“I called your lawyers. Apparently they’re subletting.”
“Can they do that?”
“Absolutely.”
“Where are they moving?”
“You aren’t going to like this.”