Glass Houses

by Anne Stuart

Or maybe he hadn’t. Marita knew what she wanted, and she knew how to go about getting it. And with Laura Winston in her corner, coaching her, she knew what she was doing. He’d known that the moment he looked into her soulless blue eyes. He could respect that single-minded tenacity. She would have turned down a pass, gracefully, regretfully, but thoroughly.

  “Damn,” he said out loud, running a hand through his thick black hair in a ruthless gesture. He couldn’t get Laura out of his mind.

  Zach appeared in the door, lounging against the molding. “They want to know when to start blasting again. They followed your instructions, blasted for seven minutes, and they’re waiting for the word to continue.” His expression was knowing. “Did you realize you were going to get Ms. Winston in the sack when you ordered the blasting?”

  “If you’d used your eyes, Zach, you would have realized that we didn’t just come from a night of unbridled sex. Our landlady heard the blasting and headed down here to throw me out one of her damned cracked windows.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Think about it, man. Is Laura Winston my type?” Michael demanded irritably.

  “No. Marita’s your type. But I’ve never known you to draw the line at anything you wanted. If you thought bedding Laura Winston would get you the Glass House faster, you’d have her on her back in ten seconds flat.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what? Don’t tell me you’re becoming chivalrous in your old age? The woman’s a menace, we both know it. She’s standing in the way of the biggest real estate deal of your life. I can’t believe you’re going to let good manners and sentiment get in the way.”

  “You would.”

  “Yes, but we’ve already accepted the fact that I’m a Southern gentleman with outmoded values. You’re a pirate. You do the dirty work, I clean up after you.”

  Michael paused in the act of knotting his Brooks Brothers black silk tie. “Are you planning to clean up Laura Winston?”

  “After you get through with her, I doubt there’ll be much left. That is, if you’re running true to form?” It was a gentle question, one Michael could ignore if he wanted to.

  “I’m running true to form,” he said, staring at his reflection in the mirror. The man he saw there looked cold and cruel, the blue eyes just as lacking in soul as Marita’s magnificent ones. They’d make a good pair, he thought without pleasure. “Just be ready with the dustpan and broom.”

  “I always am, Mischa.”

  Michael winced at the name. No one called him Mischa but his closest friends. No woman ever had, apart from his mother and sisters. Why the hell did he suggest Laura Winston use it?

  “Good,” he said. “It won’t be long.”

  “I’m sure it won’t,” Zach agreed smoothly. And only his oldest friend recognized the skepticism in his words, kept well below the surface.

  “Don’t start on me,” Laura warned as Susan followed her off the elevator toward her eleventh-floor apartment.

  “You didn’t sleep with him, did you?” Susan demanded, ignoring Laura’s words.

  “Of course not! That snake, that wolf, that weasel!”

  “I wouldn’t call him a weasel,” Susan said fairly, shutting the door behind her. “Did you leave the door open all night?”

  “I told you, I wasn’t gone all night. I didn’t sleep with him. That monster had people setting off dynamite at the crack of dawn. Crack...” she murmured, remembering, and her pained gaze took in the long, graceful streaks in the smoked glass panels. “‘Damn him,” she muttered.

  “Did he promise to stop?”

  “Of course not. Call Phil Dobbins while I get dressed, would you? If my lawyer can’t get an injunction, I don’t know what I can do.”

  “Phil can stop him. At least for a while. We may be in over our heads this time, Laura. Michael Dubrovnik is the major leagues, the big time. How long do you think we can hold out against him?”

  “Forever,” she said fiercely, stripping off her clothes and heading for the shower. “Or until he loses interest.”

  “Those two things might be the same,” Susan muttered. “Want any coffee?”

  “God, no! Not unless you want to sneak back down to his apartment and steal some.” She paused in the doorway of her bathroom. “The man has one redeeming feature. He makes great coffee.”

  “Having seen him in only a bath towel, I’d say he has more than one redeeming feature,” Susan drawled.

  “Get your mind back to business, woman,” Laura snapped. “Call Phil, before Dubrovnik blasts this entire building down around our heads.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Damn Susan, why did she have to mention the bath towel? Through her confrontation with Dubrovnik she’d been entirely unaware of their scantily clad bodies. Now it was all she could think of. Particularly after seeing the knowing looks in both Zach’s and Susan’s eyes.

  Susan was right, of course. He did have a good body. After all, both women were in the business of bodies, and they’d have to be blind not to recognize a good one when they saw it. Maybe, if the Fates were kind and turned the tables on that rapacious creature, she could offer to find him some work. Underwear ads for catalogs would do nicely, she reflected, grinning at the thought. If only such sweet revenge were even remotely in her grasp.

  She wasn’t going to bring him to his knees. The best she could hope for was to hold out long enough, so that he’d lose interest in the project. She wasn’t going to give in; she wasn’t going to sell her birthright and see it tumble into the dust like so many other bright and beautiful buildings, only to be replaced by shiny boxes. She was going to fight to the bitter end, and then she’d fight some more.

  By the time Laura reached the twelfth floor, Susan had things humming along nicely. The lawyer was already filing for an injunction, the coffeepot was filling with oily, horrible-tasting liquid, jobs had been found for three of Laura’s teenage models, and Maxheimer had called with their usual request for Frank.

  “Maybe this won’t be such a horrible day, after all,” Laura said, sipping the black coffee with a shudder. Caffeine, even in its present poisonous state, was a necessity of life. Maybe she could find out the name of Michael’s computerized coffee maker. It seemed as if it might even be Susan-proof.

  “Maybe. I left a message on Frank’s answering machine.” Susan’s voice was carefully neutral. “I imagine he’ll get it sooner or later.”

  Laura immediately forgot her own worries and focused on Susan. “What happened last night at the party? Did he score?”

  “No. He was reduced to going home with me.”

  “Susan!”

  “It’s not what you’re thinking. We had dinner at a vegetarian restaurant near his loft. He graciously allowed me to pay for his meal while he told me all about his love life.”

  “Oh, Susan,” Laura said with real sympathy. “That man ought to be gelded.”

  “But what a loss for womankind.” Susan managed a wry smile. “Besides, it was very interesting. I had no idea he’d been involved with Emelia.”

  “Frank’s been around. He’s not exactly promiscuous—he just enjoys women.”

  “So I gather.” Susan sighed. “We talked until midnight, he gave me a peck on the cheek and sent me home in a taxi. All very sweet and brotherly.”

  “Can’t you get over him?” The question was gentle, the answer preordained.

  “I’ve been trying for four years,” Susan said, staring out over the New York skyline through the network of cracks in the smoked glass. The telephone rang, and both of them looked at it.

  “Phil?”

  “Frank,” Susan said, putting the receiver against her shoulder. “I’ll tell him about Maxheimer. At least he’ll be in a good mood.”

  “That makes one of us,” Laura said sourly, giving in and taking another sip of coffee. She moved over to the cracked glass panel, staring down into the vacant lot beside the building. She could see workers moving around, their hard hats glinting in the bright autum
n sunlight. The blasting must be over, at least for now, or they wouldn’t all be wandering around in such an aimless fashion. Dynamite has the tendency to make people move quickly, she thought, leaning her forehead against the cool glass. “Call Marita, will you? I think we’ve got to up the ante a bit.”

  “I thought you were going to be circumspect.”

  “How can I be circumspect with that monster blasting our foundations out from under us?” Laura shot back, spinning on her heels. “How can I...?” Her voice trailed off as an elegant apparition stepped from the elevator. “Oh, no!” she moaned. “As if today weren’t bad enough.”

  Susan followed her gaze to the front hallway. The woman walking toward them had once been as beautiful as Marita, perhaps even more so. The years had treated her kindly, as had her plastic surgeons. Her beautifully boned face showed not a trace of her fifty-two years, her black hair was thick and glossy and knotted at her graceful nape in a severe style that only the very beautiful can carry off. Her body demonstrated the years of exercise, her carriage reflected the years of money and power. She practically floated into the room, making Laura feel like a small, awkward, fat little girl. As always.

  “Hello, precious,” the woman said, her voice low and delightfully musical, a perfect match for her face and body.

  “Hello, Mother,” Laura said without enthusiasm. “Slumming again?”

  Chapter Six

  “Susan,” Jillian Margot de Kelsey Winston Petrovini McAllister von Kempel purred, ignoring her daughter’s jibe as she glided into the offices of Glass Faces with as much grace as Laura’s most successful client. “You’re looking wonderful. That color is marvelous on you. So slimming.”

  Susan’s polite smile never faltered, but her eyes met Laura’s for a brief, knowing moment. “It’s good to see you, Baroness,” she murmured. “It’s been a long time.”

  Jilly’s expression held just the right combination of regret. “I’m afraid my daughter finds me a bit of an old crock. Don’t you, dear?”

  Laura winced. No one in their right mind would ever call Jilly von Kempel an old crock, and well she knew it. “Yes, Mother,” she said politely. “What can I do for you?”

  Jilly’s magnificent dark eyes chilled for a moment, but her warm smile remained fixed. “If I might have a few moments alone with you? I’m sure Susan will excuse us.”

  “There’s no need...” Laura protested, but Susan was already escaping, the rat, leaving her to her mother’s tender mercies.

  “I have a few phone calls to make,” Susan murmured, disappearing into the back room with more haste than grace.

  Jilly watched her go, her expression speculative. “I realize Susan is a dear friend, Laura. But don’t you think you could do better? If you must run a modeling agency, don’t you think you could present a trendier image?”

  “You didn’t come here to talk to me about Susan. Get to the point.” It didn’t take much effort to control her temper. She’d already expended the bulk of it on Michael Dubrovnik, and she had more than enough experience in deflecting her mother’s gentle barbs.

  But Jilly was clearly taking her own sweet time. She glanced around her, her expression a perfect combination of pity and distaste. “I hate this place, do you realize that?” she said suddenly. “I wish to God that Mother had sold it years ago. It reminds me of everything I’d rather forget.”

  “It’s a beautiful building,” Laura protested. “It was Grandfather’s finest work.”

  “It caused his death,” Jilly said flatly. “I don’t need to remind you of the sordid details, do I? I doubt a single person in all of New York has forgotten.”

  “You don’t need to remind me.”

  “Then surely you understand why I want this building gone, leveled, blasted out of existence?”

  “No.”

  “Laura, a madman named Henry Q. Johnston shot my father dead in the lobby of this building!”

  “I’ve always known that,” Laura said patiently. “I’ve also known that Grandfather was having an affair with Johnston’s wife, which the juries considered to be extenuating circumstances.”

  “That man spent eighteen months at a luxurious prison farm,” Jilly said, her voice rich with the tragic note she’d perfected long ago.

  “And died a hero in World War II. End of Henry Q. Johnston. You were two years old when your father was killed, and you don’t even remember him. So don’t try to tell me that the loss of your precious father scarred you for life. I won’t believe you.”

  “So hard,” Jilly murmured sadly. “So very heartless, the young are.”

  “Grandmother left the Glass House to me because she knew I’d watch over it and keep it intact as long as possible. You would have sold it the first time you needed a little extra spending money. I would think, Mother, that when you go through so many husbands, you might at least have the sense to pick ones richer than you are.”

  That snapped Jilly out of her tragic queen mood. “Since you brought up the subject of cold cash, darling, I might point out to you that I have nothing to gain when you sell the Glass House. It’s yours entirely—I have no ulterior motive.”

  “I have no doubt whatsoever that that snake downstairs has offered you a bribe if you can get me to sell to him. Sorry, Mother, it won’t work. You say you hate this place. Let me assure you it’ll be blasted into rubble before I let Michael Dubrovnik profit from it.”

  “He’s here? Downstairs?” Jilly murmured, momentarily diverted from her single-minded goal.

  “Hadn’t you heard? He got Swimming Pool News to vacate and he’s moved in, lock, stock and coffee maker.” Laura knew her mother well enough to recognize the speculative expression on Jillian’s lovely face, and felt a curious, unnameable sinking in her stomach. Michael Dubrovnik wasn’t that much younger than Jilly’s current, soon to be ex-husband, and her taste in men had gotten more and more youthful. Laura had seldom seen any man able to withstand Jilly de Kelsey’s considerable charms.

  “I suppose you’ve been churlish, as always,” Jilly said tartly. “Honestly, darling, don’t you know that you can accomplish a great deal more with charm? A smile instead of a scowl, a compliment instead of an insult?”

  “Sorry, Mother. I never learned the fine art of manipulating people. Even with such a marvelous example in front of me.”

  Jilly shook her head. “Laura, Laura. There are times when I despair of you.” She crossed the room, graceful as always, and gently flipped her daughter’s bobbed hair. “Couldn’t you do something about this abominable hairstyle? Something softer? And why can’t you be like everyone else and get contact lenses?”

  Laura looked at her mother through the double barrier of extended wear contact lenses and clear glasses. “Because I’m not like everyone else.”

  “No, indeed.” Jilly’s sad little laugh was a masterpiece, Laura thought sourly. It was a shame she lacked an appreciative audience for her belated mothering. “Well, if you refuse to be pleasant to Michael, then at least I can try to mend fences. He’s not a good enemy to make, darling.”

  “Too late, Mama. We’re already at each other’s throats.’’ Out of the blue, the memory of his mouth, his lips on hers, shot through her brain, and she immediately slammed it away.

  Not before her mother noticed something. Jilly wasn’t an intellectual woman, but when it came to the nuances of human emotion she was a genius, and she’d caught the flash of reaction that had sped across her face, Laura just knew it.

  “Go and flirt with him, Mother,” she said, turning away. “If you can distract him from trying to flatten me, then I’ll be eternally grateful.”

  “Well, of course I don’t want him hurting my baby.”

  “I know perfectly well you’ll do everything you can to help him,” Laura said coldly.

  “I love you, Laura.”

  Laura didn’t move. For once Jilly’s voice was devoid of artifice, and for some strange reason Laura believed her. Not that Jilly had ever exhibited love for her chang
eling daughter, but Laura knew that Jilly was just sentimental enough to possess a trace of maternal feeling.

  “I know,” Laura said gently, not turning back. A moment later her mother was gone. Off to the wolf’s lair, she thought bitterly. So much for mother love.

  Susan reappeared, her normally placid face creased with worry. “We’re in trouble, Laura.”

  “You’re telling me,” Laura sighed. “What is it now?”

  “That was Maxheimer. Frank called in.”

  “And?”

  “Those fools told him it would be his last shoot. That they’ve decided to go for a new look, but they felt they owed him something for old times’ sake.”

  “Oh, God. What did Frank say?”

  “Nothing that could be repeated over the phone, apparently. The people at Maxheimer are royally put out. You’d better call and soothe them. They’re going to want someone new, and you don’t want to throw away the commission simply because they’re heartless turkeys.”

  “Much as you’d like me to?” Laura guessed. “We knew this was coming, sooner or later. So did Frank.”

  “They could have handled it better,” Susan said, her usually soft mouth tight with suppressed rage.

  “Life doesn’t work out that way. I’ll talk to the people at Maxheimer, tell them I don’t like the way they do business. They’d better do it through me in the future, and if they don’t like it they can take a flying leap into the East River. What about you?”

  “I don’t want to take a flying leap into the East River,” Susan said, with just the ghost of a smile.

  “Go see him if you want. Tell him we can find something, at least temporarily. We have a responsibility to him.”

  “And he needs someone’s shoulder to cry on. You sure you can handle the office?” Susan was already pulling her purse from the desk.

  “I’m tough. If I can handle the Whirlwind, I can handle anything. Tell Frank I’m sorry.”

  Susan paused by the door. “He’ll leave, won’t he?”

  “If everything else dries up, we won’t have anything to offer him,” Laura said gently. “I’m sorry, Susan. I don’t know what else we can do.”