Glass Houses

by Anne Stuart

  Laura grinned at the apt description of Michael Dubrovnik, then she considered the ramifications. “Did he see you?”

  “He didn’t. She did. But she looked right through me like I was a sheet of glass. I never thought she could look like that. Cold and hard as ice.”

  “She’s starting a new life,” Laura said gently. “A very busy, exciting life. I’m sure she didn’t mean to be cruel.”

  “Maybe,” Jeff muttered.

  “I still don’t understand. What do you want?”

  “I guess I need to talk to her, to make sure it’s over. I can’t go on with my life, waiting for her to call, waiting for her to come home. I need to know if she’s just been telling me a pack of lies, if she ever loved me at all.”

  “People change.”

  “She’s only been gone a week and a half.”

  “She could have been changing right under your nose, and you might not have noticed it. When would you like to talk with her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll arrange something,” Laura said, taking charge with her customary energy. “In the meantime, do you have a place to stay?”

  “I’ve got a room at the Holiday Inn. I didn’t know Holiday Inns could be so expensive.”

  “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t I set a meeting with Marita for tomorrow afternoon? We can meet for lunch ahead of time, you and I, and discuss things.”

  “Marita?”

  “That’s Mary Ellen’s professional name.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “It’s going to become a household word.”

  “Like Mr. Clean,” Jeff muttered.

  Laura stared at him in surprise for a moment, then giggled. He was showing more and more possibilities all the time. “Do you love her very much?” she asked softly.

  “I love who she was. I love Mary Ellen. I’m not so sure I’m in love with Marita.”

  Better and better. “Go back to your hotel, get a good night’s sleep, and we’ll work on this tomorrow.”

  He smiled at her. He had a terrific smile, Laura thought. Lots of straight white teeth, sparkling blue eyes, and real warmth, the likes of which she hadn’t seen in New York City since she didn’t remember when.

  “You’ve been very kind.”

  That’s what you think, Laura mused. “Let me walk you to the lobby. It’s late, and I’ve been sitting here for far too long.”

  “I’m sorry.” Jeff jumped up, towering over her. “I’ve been keeping you from something important.”

  “I had nothing planned.” It was a gentle hint. She’d already invited him for lunch—it was up to him to think of dinner tonight.

  Unfortunately Jeff Carnaby’s thought processes weren’t as far-reaching as Laura might have hoped. He just shook his head in surprise, following her out into the hallway. “A pretty lady like you without a date?” he murmured. “New York’s a darned strange place.”

  She hadn’t heard anyone say darn in at least fifteen years. She smiled up at him. “It certainly is,” she agreed, stepping into the elevator. It was the Otis, but this time she couldn’t afford to be picky. They rode down smoothly, speedily, smiling at each other, and she luxuriated in the feeling of him towering over her. Life seemed to have once more shifted a good ninety degrees on its axis, and while the notion seemed faintly disturbing, it was also very exciting indeed.

  Her little cloud of well-being lasted halfway across the art deco lobby of the Glass House. Lasted until she came up against Michael Dubrovnik hurrying toward the abandoned Otis, pulling at his tie as he went.

  He stopped, staring at Laura, staring at her companion, but the last thing Laura wanted was to mess with introductions. What could she say? Marita’s former fiancé, meet Marita’s future fiancé? It would have been extremely awkward. And while Jeff seemed the most reasonable of men, he might have aggressive tendencies. Like all New Yorkers, Laura thought anyone born west of the Mississippi had hidden cowboy traits. She didn’t even know if Kansas was west of the Mississippi, but she wasn’t going to take any chances. She didn’t want to see Jeff decked in her pristine lobby.

  For a brief moment she stopped to consider why she was so certain that it was Jeff who’d end up decked. He was several inches taller than Michael Dubrovnik and much broader. He appeared to be a man who worked with his hands and body, unlike Michael, who used his mind. And yet she would be more than willing to place bets on the outcome, if the two of them ever decided to settle their differences in a fight.

  “Who was that?” Jeff questioned as she hustled him out into the cool night air.

  “Who?”

  “The man in the lobby. The one who took Mary Ellen out to lunch today.”

  So much for playing innocent. “His name’s Michael Dubrovnik. He’s an entrepreneur.”

  “Even in Rigby, Kansas we’ve heard of the Whirlwind,” Jeff interrupted, a pensive note in his voice. “What was he doing with Mary Ellen?”

  “Uh...”

  “Stupid question. Is she seeing anyone else, or is he my major competition?”

  Laura was signaling for a taxi, praying for one to show up quickly and end this tricky conversation. As usual, when you really needed one, none was in sight. She turned to look up into Jeff Carnaby’s warm blue eyes. “I don’t think he’s your major competition,” she said frankly. “I think Marita is.”

  For a moment he didn’t say anything. And then he nodded. “I’ll pick you up at noon,” he said, as the long-awaited taxi finally responded to Laura’s desperate hand-waving.

  “I can swing by the Holiday Inn...”

  “I’ll come get you,” he said firmly. “And I’ll take you out to lunch. You pick the place, but I’m paying. Is that understood?”

  “That would be very nice,” she said gently, leaning a little as he squashed his big body into the cab. “Good night, Jeff.”

  She was whistling as she walked back through the empty lobby. Dubrovnik was nowhere to be seen, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she watched the lights above the Otis travel to #9. She’d been afraid he’d by lying in wait, ready to pounce on her. She should have known he’d have better things on his mind.

  She punched the elevator button, the glass and gilt doors slid open, and Michael stood there waiting for her, his jacket off by this time, his shirt half unbuttoned, his dark hair rumpled across his forehead.

  “I should have known,” she said bitterly, stepping into the cage with the hungry lion. “Why’d you send the elevator up to your floor? You didn’t have to go to such elaborate ends. I’m not afraid of you.”

  “You don’t strike me as someone who’s afraid of anything,” Michael rumbled, pushing the ninth-floor button and leaning back against the elevator wall. “I’d gotten on the elevator and pushed my floor before I changed my mind and decided to find out who that man was.”

  “Why should you care?” She reached over to push #11, but his hand shot out and stopped her.

  “Because I spent most of a very uncomfortable lunch having him glare at me, that’s why,” he said.

  “I’d think you’d be used to having people glare at you. Comes with the territory.” He was holding her wrist. His fingers were long and slender and very strong, and they wrapped around her small wrist with space to spare, like a human bracelet. She hadn’t been held against her will since she was eighteen, and she didn’t like it. “Would you let go of me?” She struggled to keep her voice free of the panic and anger that were simmering beneath the surface; a distant, separate part of her was ready to fight, to kick and scream if necessary.

  It wasn’t necessary at all. He released her immediately, and she noted with surprise that there was no mark on her arm. He hadn’t been holding her that tightly, after all.

  “I thought you might stop by my floor and have a drink,” he said mildly enough, as the doors slid open at the ninth floor.

  “Why should I do that?”

  “To find out what the enemy has in mind,” he suggested affably, holding
the doors open with one of those strong, slim hands.

  “And what do you have to gain?”

  “The same thing.” If his grin was supposed to be welcoming he hadn’t looked in the mirror recently, Laura thought. Michael Dubrovnik was a wolf if ever she’d seen one, ready to devour any little lamb fool enough to stray into his lair.

  But she was no little lamb, she reminded herself. And she wasn’t afraid of the Whirlwind, not one tiny bit.

  She stepped off the elevator, noticing as she passed him that he wasn’t as tall as Jeff, nor as wide, yet for some reason he was much more intimidating. She smiled sweetly, waiting as he unlocked the thick oak door that still had Swimming Pool News stenciled across it. “How did you like the restraining order?” she murmured, stepping into his apartment and deliberately shutting away the memory of what had happened the last time she’d been here.

  “I didn’t,” he said, tossing his jacket and tie across the leather sectional sofa and heading for the bar. He began mixing drinks, and without another word turned and handed her a Lillet on ice.

  She took it, albeit warily, and sank onto the white leather. “How did you know I drink Lillet?”

  The wolf’s grin again. “I know everything about you, Laura. You may have disparaged my private detectives but they don’t really miss much. Not much at all.”

  She refused to let him intimidate her. If she thought about it, there were things she’d rather die than have him know, but she had no control whatsoever over it. Better not to think about it. He was wrong about one thing, at least. She liked her Lillet with a twist of orange.

  “I forgot to get oranges,” Michael said, sinking beside her, too close.

  “I’ll survive.”

  “So who was that huge man, and why does he hate me?” Michael took a sip of his own drink, something dark amber and whiskey-smelling.

  “He’s Marita’s former fiancé.” She waited to see how he’d respond. She was taking a chance in being honest, but she wasn’t certain she’d be able to control a confrontation farther down the road, if she didn’t make the rapid progress she was hoping for. At least this time she could control the information.

  If she expected Dubrovnik to show jealousy or displeasure she was disappointed. “Then why was he staring down at you like he’d just been given Super Bowl tickets? Did you promise to get Marita back for him?”

  “Do you care?”

  “It’s too early to care. I’m mostly curious. Who does he want, you or Marita?”

  Laura choked in the midst of taking a sip of her drink. “Is that a serious question?”

  “Do I look like a frivolous man?”

  No, he didn’t, Laura thought, staring at the man sitting no more than eighteen inches away from her. With those chilly, dark blue eyes, the broken nose, the hard jaw and Slavic cheekbones, he looked dark and dangerous and determined. Not the sort of man to ask silly questions or accept silly answers. Not the sort to accept anything but exactly what he required.

  “He wants Marita,” Laura said, intimidated despite herself. “He’s going to have to settle for second best. I don’t suppose that’s something you’re familiar with, is it? Settling for second best?”

  “I don’t,” he said, draining his drink. “And in this case you’re assuming you’re second best?”

  “A cocky assumption, I know, but the man seems willing to be distracted.” She should get up and leave, she knew she should, but the couch was comfortable, and flirting with danger, with the wolf, was dangerously seductive. She glanced around her, at the sparse, elegant furniture, the plain walls. “Don’t you think you should move in some more things? You’re going to be here for quite a while. I’d think you’d get tired of camping out.”

  His grin acknowledged the hit. “I’m not much for Victorian clutter. My mother was a hoarder. I don’t think she ever threw out anything in her entire life, and the apartment I grew up in was crammed with knickknacks, embroidered pillows, religious icons, old photographs, crocheted table covers. Just walking from the front door to the kitchen was like running an obstacle course.”

  “So you vowed to be completely different. You didn’t like your mother?”

  “My mother was the most wonderful woman who ever lived. She and my father had a perfect marriage, and they luckily died within days of each other. I don’t think either of them could have lasted alone. But my mother was very much old country. Smothering, both in her apartment and in her mothering. Which is fine in a mother, but not in a wife.”

  “What kind of wife do you want?” This was a strange conversation, but Laura was too comfortable, too involved to stop it.

  “Someone decorative. Intelligent, but not intent on proving it all the time. Someone who’ll give me babies and take good care of them. A good hostess, an interesting companion, but not someone who makes impossible demands all the time. Someone who’s good in bed.”

  “A charming list. You’re one of the last all-time sexist pigs, you know that? What kind of impossible demands?” She reached up to push her glasses further up her nose, and then realized with dismay that the glasses were still upstairs.

  “I don’t want a wife who needs constant attention and reassurance. She’ll need to fend for herself. I’m too busy a man to spend my time holding hands.”

  Laura shook her head, clucking in mock sympathy. “Poor man. A little hand-holding can do wonders for your level of stress. You ought to try it sometime.”

  “Like this?” He caught one of her hands in his, and for a moment she tried to yank it away. But the fingers wrapped around hers were strong, and any struggle would be undignified. Besides, it was her fault. She’d goaded him deliberately, ignoring the likelihood that he must have held a lot more hands than she ever had.

  She plastered a cool, unruffled expression onto her face, leaning back against the soft leather and leaving her hand where it was. “Something like that,” she agreed. “But you’re wasting it on me.”

  His thumb was traveling gently across her palm, his long fingers entwining and cupping hers, caressing her knuckles, the narrow back of her hand, skirting the gold and silver rings she wore in abundance. “You may have a point,” he murmured, his voice low. “This could be both soothing and stimulating.” He placed his palm against hers, his long fingers curving over her own. “I’m just curious about one thing.”

  “Yes?” She managed to keep her voice flat and bored.

  “Why is your hand trembling?”

  She snatched her hand away, clenching it into a fist that she would have loved to send into Michael’s jaw. “I’m tired,” she said. “I’m going upstairs.”

  “Actually, I’m afraid I have to leave first.” He propelled himself out of the cushiony sofa and away from her. “I have to be at a party uptown in twenty minutes. Why don’t you stay here and finish your drink? You’ve barely touched it.”

  He moved into his bedroom, stripping off his shirt as he went. She allowed herself a furtive glance at his strong, tanned back, before turning to stare fixedly at her drink. “You trust me alone here?”

  “Of course.” His mocking voice floated into the room. In a moment he was back, buttoning a fresh shirt, a new, darker tie over his shoulder. “Mi casa es su casa.”

  “I’ll say,” Laura muttered. She didn’t like sitting there, watching him tie his tie with a few quick, precise motions, she didn’t like watching him tuck his shirt inside his pants and pull on his jacket. It all felt too damned domestic.

  “Make yourself at home,” he said, heading for the door.

  She still hadn’t moved. “Enjoy yourself,” she said.

  She never would like that grin. “You too.”

  The night air had grown cooler by the time Michael Dubrovnik stepped onto the sidewalk. His Bentley was waiting, Zach and Connie were inside, and he looked down at his suit with a resigned shrug. He should be wearing a tuxedo. He hadn’t wanted to take the time to change completely, however. He’d been afraid he’d scare Laura away. He’d managed to ge
t her as far as his apartment, and the trap had been baited. Now he simply wanted to see if she was going to nibble.

  Zach leaned out the open door of the Bentley. “What’s up?”

  “I’ll be ready in a minute,” Michael said, staring upward. In only a moment he got the answer he was waiting for. The lights on the darkened tenth floor flicked on, as Laura Winston gave in to temptation and searched his offices.

  His grin lighted the interior of the limo as he slid inside, dutifully kissing Connie on her patrician cheek. “Nice night, isn’t it?” And as they headed off toward uptown he was chuckling to himself.

  Chapter Eight

  It was more than clear that Michael Dubrovnik wasn’t planning to spend much time in the Glass House. Now that the tenth floor was empty of the noisy, chattering crowd, Laura could see that very little occupied the vast room that had once held the slightly seedy offices of Swimming Pool News. A desk, a computer, a leather chair and a bank of telephones sat in front of the smoked glass panels overlooking the city. He had a perfect view of Trump Tower down at Fifty-seventh Street. He probably found it inspiring, Laura thought sourly, pausing on one foot and massaging the other. She’d left her shoes on the narrow metal service stairs. There was no telling if Michael might suddenly return, and she didn’t want her impractical footwear to slow her down. Ginger Rogers might be able to dance backward in high heels; Laura Winston hadn’t yet perfected even a short sprint in the damned things. But she was not going to spend her life being five foot one and a half around people like Michael Dubrovnik, even if she had to endure podiatric torture.

  The desk was absolutely bare. She headed straight for the computer, sinking into the comfortable chair and turning it on, but the computer was well-protected. No sooner had the Mac warmed up than it demanded a password. Laura made a few desultory guesses at the third incorrect one the machine turned itself off in an indignant huff.