Glass Houses

by Anne Stuart

  “I knew this had to come sooner or later. It’s probably all for the best. As long as he’s around, out of reach, I can’t get over him. Maybe once he’s gone I’ll be able to get on with my life.”

  “That’s the right attitude.”

  “Do you think I believe it?”

  Laura’s grin was rueful. “Not for a moment.”

  “You know me too well. You sure you can handle things?”

  “I’ve already told you I can. Out of here, Susan. I don’t want to see you again until you’re certain you want to come in. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Laura watched her go, a little twist of sympathetic pain inside her. Thank God she wasn’t prey to those sorts of emotions, thank God she’d never ached for someone so badly that she thought she’d die from it. Her heart, such as it was, was encased in ice, only melting around children, puppies, good friends and designer clothes. Her sex drive was nonexistent, burned out of her by a heartless preppy with a nasty streak. Her life was her own, and she gloried in every moment of it.

  Unthinkingly she brushed her mouth with one hand. That had been definitely odd. No heterosexual male had kissed her since she’d been old enough to duck––she would have expected her reaction to be rage, humiliation, disgust.

  It hadn’t been. Of all things, it had been curiosity. If it had been...interesting...to be kissed by a man she despised, how would it feel to be kissed by a man she liked? Found attractive? Might it not be even more interesting?

  She was thirty-two years old, getting older by the minute. Emelia, with her absorption in her own beauty, might not think that would matter to someone like Laura, but it was beginning to matter very much indeed. Too many of her married friends had gone through hell and back, trying to conceive. If she wanted to have children of her own, she was going to have to do something about it, and soon. And she desperately wanted children. Her nieces and nephews simply weren’t enough to fill the hole in her heart where she allowed no one else.

  She didn’t really need a man. There were any number of programs in New York to assist a woman in need of conception and nothing else. She’d been thinking more and more about it, the decision still eluding her. It wasn’t an easy decision—how could you tell your sixteen-year-old daughter she’d been conceived in a doctor’s office? That her father was nothing more than a vial of fluid?

  Laura had never had much of a father. Jefferson Winston had been a cool, demanding man, never allowing a grubby, affectionate daughter to climb into his lap, never showing any emotion for his family other than cold impatience. When his mother-in-law had bypassed Jilly and left the Glass House to Laura he’d been temporarily paternal, until she made it very clear that she had no intention of following his advice and disposing of the old albatross of a building. He’d walked away from her then, and within a year of her nineteenth birthday he’d been dead of a heart attack.

  No child needed that kind of father. They were better off with a single mother and no paternal heritage. Still, maybe she’d been too rigid in her vision of the future. Maybe there was room in her life for a gentle man, a kind man. One who wouldn’t interfere in her life, one who would take care of the children, cook dinner. God, what she needed was a wife, she thought with amusement. A nice, old-fashioned, docile wife. She could think of any number of men among her acquaintances who could fit that description, but she also wanted one capable of and interested in fathering a baby.

  What she needed was the antithesis of Michael Dubrovnik. At the moment she couldn’t think of anyone who fit that description, but then, she hadn’t been looking. Maybe it was time to broaden her horizons a bit.

  The phone rang, and she answered it, dealing with business with her customary cool efficiency. Wedding dresses belonged on runways and nowhere else. At least, not in her life.

  “What’s our next step?” Michael found he didn’t want to look into Zach’s knowing eyes, so he concentrated on a satisfyingly dark glass of cheap Scotch in his hand. He had expensive tastes, and he liked to indulge them, but every now and then he liked to remind himself where he came from, and the thick, peaty taste of bargain basement Scotch brought back the lean years, when things had been so much simpler.

  “She’s got the injunction. You can’t blast until the hearing, which is four weeks away.”

  “Can you get the hearing moved up?”

  “I’m already working on it. I can’t guarantee results, but I expect if I call in a few favors, we can have it within two weeks.”

  “Better than nothing.” He set down the glass and leaned back in his chair, staring at but not seeing the others in the trendy bar. “What else?”

  “We can do some digging. Bulldozers and backhoes can do all sorts of damage if improperly run.”

  “It’s a shame I didn’t get more experienced workers,” Michael murmured.

  “A damned shame,” Zach echoed. “The fines might be considerable.”

  For a brief moment Michael’s dark blue eyes met Zach’s. “Am I in some sort of financial difficulty that you’ve failed to mention to me?”

  “You’re disgustingly solvent.”

  “Then I don’t think I’ll spend too much time worrying about the fines.”

  “What about Marita?”

  Michael frowned, and his long fingers tightened on the glass. “What about her?”

  “Is that part of your plan? Sabotage Glass Faces and leave Laura Winston with no alternative but to sell?”

  A faint smile played around Michael’s face. “You know, I hadn’t thought of that. You can be very devious, Zach.”

  “I’ve learned from watching a master.”

  “Flatterer.” He took a deep swallow. “Actually, my interest in Marita has nothing to do with the Glass House. I was thinking it was time to get married again.”

  “Isn’t this a little sudden? You just met her yesterday.”

  “I’m not planning on jumping into anything. She might not do. But it isn’t sudden. I’ve been thinking of getting remarried for several years. I want children before I’m too old to enjoy them. I want someone to leave all this to.”

  “Sounds reasonable. What makes you think Marita will be the lucky girl?”

  Michael shrugged. “She’s very beautiful. She doesn’t talk much. And there’s a certain mystery, a certain air of secrecy about her that appeals to me.”

  “And you want to solve that mystery?” Zach prompted.

  “Not at all. I don’t want to wallow in anyone else’s psyche, not even my wife’s. I expect if I knew what lay behind that beautiful face, I’d be thoroughly bored. No, she can keep her secrets, carry them to the grave as far as I’m concerned. As long as she provides me with what I need. Children, a pleasant, well-run home, sex, and an occasional interesting conversation.”

  “That’s what I like about you, Mischa. You’re such a romantic.”

  “Thirty-nine is a little old to be romantic, don’t you think?”

  “Speaking from the advanced age of fifty-eight, I’ll inform you that thirty-nine is exactly the age to be romantic. But you won’t believe me if I tell you—you’ll have to find it out for yourself.”

  “You think I should fall passionately in love with Marita?” He didn’t bother to hide his amusement at the notion.

  “No. I think you should wait and find someone you can’t live without.”

  “That day isn’t going to come.”

  “That day’s going to come sooner than you think, old man. Trust me.”

  Michael shook his head. “You’re full of crap, you know that? You must have read Gone with the Wind too many times.”

  “Have you ever read it?”

  “No.”

  “You ought to. You might learn a thing or two about love and passion.”

  “I haven’t had any complaints so far.”

  “Perhaps, but that doesn’t mean...”

  Michael held up a hand. “Let’s not talk about my love life, Zach. It bores me. I’m much more interested in Laur
a Winston right now. Once I deal with her, we can sort out my affairs of the heart.” He didn’t like Zach’s grin.

  “Okay,” his associate said. “We’ll talk about Laura Winston and not your sex life. Are you sure the two aren’t connected?”

  “God help me, do you think I’d be interested in going to bed with Laura Winston?”

  “True enough. She’s not very pretty.”

  Why did he feel the need to defend her? “Don’t be an idiot, Zach. Not everyone can look like Marita. A hell of a lot of men would find Laura more appealing than a Barbie doll like Marita.”

  “But not you?”

  “Don’t play games with me. I like tall, leggy, beautiful women in bed. Laura Winston, despite her attractive qualities, is simply not my type. I’m more interested in smashing her than sleeping with her.”

  “So do it. You know you can. I’ve never known you to be squeamish before.”

  “I’m not being squeamish now. I just think I can get the Glass House away from her without destroying her life.” He signaled for a refill, a double this time.

  “You haven’t done your homework, Mischa. Once she loses the Glass House, her life will be destroyed. Don’t kid yourself.”

  “Then maybe she needs a new life.” He took a deep swallow of the fresh drink.

  “Is that for you to decide?”

  “It’s none of my business. All that matters to me is getting that building away from her, as soon as possible. And it’s taking too damned long.”

  “I’ll turn up the heat,” Zach said.

  “Do that,” Michael muttered, thinking illogically of the startled expression on Laura Winston’s face when he’d foolishly kissed her. “Do it fast.”

  “I can’t find him, Laura.” Susan’s tone was bordering on the frantic. “I checked at his apartment, at the bars he usually frequents, at the Vertical Club. No one’s seen him.”

  Laura leaned back in her chair, holding the telephone against her cheek. Night had fallen, the early twilight of autumn, and she hadn’t bothered to turn on any more lights. The dusky half-light illuminated the empty offices of Glass Faces well enough, and she liked the sense of isolation. “Calm down, Susan. Frank’s not going to do anything foolish. He has too much ego.”

  “It’s just been effectively trashed.” On the other end of the line Susan sounded close to tears.

  “Do you really think Frank’s going to hurt himself?”

  A pause. “I suppose not.”

  “He’s probably out getting drunk.”

  “Not in his usual places.”

  “His usual places are trendy night spots, Susan. Not the place for a man to do a bit of serious drinking. He’ll probably drown his sorrows and head on home. Just leave a message there and wait.”

  “He probably won’t go home alone.” The misery in her voice was at its peak.

  “No, he probably won’t,” Laura admitted.

  “Damn it, Laura, I wanted to help him.”

  “He’s probably too big a fool to accept it. Go home, darling. Take a drink, a shower, and go to bed. Frank’s a big boy now. He’ll be all right. You know that, don’t you?”

  There was a long pause at the other end. “I know it,” Susan said finally. “I’m just not sure about me.”

  Laura was left sitting there as the phone went dead. She’d kicked off her silver spiked heels and her stockinged feet were up on the glass-topped desk. She pulled off the glasses and tossed them onto the desk, wearily running a hand through her hair. Why did everything have to fall apart all at once?

  There was a benefit at the Guggenheim tonight. She’d promised the Graham twins she’d go, but right now all she wanted was peace and quiet. Her energy level had sunk dramatically. What she needed was another cup of Michael Dubrovnik’s coffee.

  What she needed was Michael Dubrovnik out of her life, she reminded herself. Despite her earlier fantasies, what she needed was blessed solitude.

  Which she wasn’t about to have. She heard the creaking of the ancient elevator long before it reached her floor. The sight of a male figure silhouetted in the hallway started a sudden, unreasonable panic inside her, until she realized it couldn’t be Dubrovnik. He’d take the Otis—he’d never waste his time on the gilt and glass elevators.

  The man approached the glass doors and opened one. She still couldn’t see more than his general outline. He was taller than Dubrovnik, and much more massively built. His hair was very short, and a light color, and his clothes lacked style.

  “Miss Winston?” His voice was flat, warm and Midwestern. Not for one moment did Laura worry. This wasn’t a psycho, a rapist, a druggie. He stepped into the pool of light, and she looked up into a handsome, fresh face, clean bone structure, worried brown eyes. He looked like someone from Kansas, and Laura instantly thought of Marita.

  “You’re looking for Mary Ellen?” she questioned gently.

  The man, who must have been in his thirties but still looked like a boy, smiled. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Have I come to the right place?”

  A tall, blond, handsome farmer, Laura thought hazily. Someone who could have stepped out of a Frank Capra movie. Clean and honest and Republican. The perfect husband and father.

  “Yes,” Laura said, her smile absolutely dazzling. “You’ve come to exactly the right place.”

  Chapter Seven

  The telephone purred quietly in the dimly lighted loft. After two rings the answering machine clicked in, then a voice, loud in the silence, thick with panic and tears.

  “Frank? It’s me again. Susan. Where are you? I’ve been everywhere, called everywhere. Tell me you’re all right. Laura’s worried about you. I...I’m worried about you. For God’s sake, Frank, pick up the damned phone.” There was a long pause filled with only the sound of tear-laden breathing, then a short, obscene curse, and the phone clicked off.

  Frank sat there in the darkness, a faint smile lighting his face. He wouldn’t have thought Susan would even know such a word, much less use it.

  He should have gotten up and answered the phone. He should call her back. That was the third message in an hour, and she might have left any number of earlier ones that he’d simply erased, never bothering to check them. But the fact of the matter was, he couldn’t.

  Couldn’t get up, that is. He was gloriously, splendidly, stinking drunk, and if he tried to make it to the phone, he’d fall flat on his beautiful face. Not that that face did him much good, he thought, tipping back the bottle of Cutty Sark and letting the warm whiskey burn its way down his throat. If he did make it as far as the telephone, he doubted he could come up with a coherent sentence. If Susan heard him stumbling and mumbling, she’d be down there in a flash. And in his current condition he’d be no good to either of them.

  No, Susan was going to have to worry a little bit longer. The thought of Susan worrying about him made him shed a few drunken tears, which he quickly wiped away. He wasn’t used to drinking this much, and it always made him maudlin. Tomorrow he’d have a miserable headache, a sick stomach, and the sour certainty that he’d punished no one but himself. Even tomorrow he wouldn’t be in much better shape to deal with Susan, to tell her what he’d finally accepted.

  So why wait till tomorrow, he reasoned, rising to his feet with inebriated dignity. He swayed for a moment, looking across the apartment to the telephone. Before he could move, the phone rang again, and after a few seconds Susan’s voice once more pierced the darkness.

  “Frank, I didn’t mean it. There’s a job tomorrow, if you want it. It’s not much, but it’s money. Down at the Seaport—they’ll have everything there. Ten o’clock. If you get back in time, just show up. Frank, I’m sorry. I...” The rest of it was muffled, and the phone clicked off.

  Frank blinked in the darkness. “I love you too, babe,” he said. And then he pitched forward, passing out on the moth-eaten Persian carpet by his bed, a beatific smile on his handsome face.

  Now that she’d found him, she didn’t quite know what to do with
him. Laura looked at the man, keeping her face bland and innocent while she sized him up. The first thing she wanted to do was buy him new clothes. Not Armani— Michael Dubrovnik favored Armani and she didn’t want there to be any comparison. Either Ralph Lauren or Calvin Klein would be the obvious choice. With his broad shoulders, big hands and handsome face he looked like a man of the people, a man of the country. Denim and leather and maybe just a touch of tweed, she thought, eyeing him with a professional air.

  She leaned back in the leather and chrome chair, half of her mind already bemused with her wedding plans. They’d have good strong children together, she thought. Blond-haired, blue-eyed, freckle-faced. Three of them, two years apart. If she could get him away from Marita. “I’ll give Mary Ellen a call. What did you say your name was?”

  “Jeff,” he murmured. “Jeff Carnaby. But don’t call her.”

  Laura left her hand on the phone, schooling her expression to one of quiet interest. “Why not?”

  He sank onto the pink leather sling chair, looking absurdly out of place. “She doesn’t want to see me,” he said morosely.

  “Why don’t you tell me all about it?” she suggested. “I promise I’m a good listener. By the way, I’m Laura Winston. I run Glass Faces.”

  For a moment his misery lightened with real surprise. “You aren’t what I would have expected.”

  “No?”

  “I would have thought you’d be old and ugly,” he said ingenuously. He was smiling at her—a warm, attentive smile that Laura returned with full force—until he remembered why he was there, and his smile vanished. “Mary Ellen and I were engaged,” he said. “Had been, since she graduated from high school. I thought she’d be happy with me. She told me she would, until she suddenly disappeared. She left a note for me and her mother, telling us it was for the best and not to worry, but I got to thinking she wasn’t ever coming back.”

  Laura didn’t know what to say, so she wisely said nothing.

  “Mary Ellen called her mother a couple of days ago from a hotel in New York. She wasn’t supposed to tell me, but Gretta Murphy couldn’t keep a secret if her life depended on it. So I flew in, went straight to the hotel, and then followed her while she went out to lunch with some fancy-looking hoodlum.”