Play Action Pass

by Gina Ardito

  “Yeah, that worked so well for you two in a busy restaurant.” With a grimace, Marcus leaned back to look up toward the heavens. “I shoulda known. I thought you said this was a win-win situation for us.”

  “It is!”

  Marcus’s head dropped level, and his eyes narrowed.

  Jordan held up a hand to stem the brewing argument. “So, okay, we lost the ability to acquire the site ourselves, but the more I looked at it from her point of view, the more I realized it’s much better for her purposes than ours anyway.” Not the total truth, but if he said it aloud often enough, he silently hoped he’d come to believe it. “I’ve already got feelers out for a better space. And the commission I’ll get from the Loughlin sale will put us in a stronger position to acquire something more suited for us.”

  “Yeah?” Marcus folded his arms over his chest. “Well, if this is such good news, why do you look like I just shot your dog when you talk about it?”

  He uncapped the bottle of water and took a deep swig before replying, “Because dealing with Cameron Delgado is like facing a pack of rabid dogs. When she sinks her teeth into something, she refuses to let go. Years could pass by, and she’ll still bring up crap that you’ve forgotten about—”

  Chuck! A crack of the bat onscreen sent the rest of the group into raucous cheers, and both men veered their attention to the television where a player rounded the bases at a jog.

  Distracted by the noise and the game, he blurted without thinking, “Cam has a way of getting under your skin until you wanna...” He cupped both hands, spread at least a foot apart, unsure what he could possibly say next. “She makes me crazy, that’s all.”

  “Uh-oh,” Theresa remarked as she maneuvered a bowl of chips around her husband’s shoulders to place on the end table. “I’m pretty sure Marcus used to tell his mom the same thing about me.”

  Marcus snaked an arm around his wife’s waist and pulled her into his lap. He pressed a kiss to her mouth and pulled away, smacking his lips. “Mmm...sweet. Raspberries?”

  “Berry cider. Jordie brought them for me. They’re deeee-licious.” She kissed him again. “See?”

  “Uh-huh.” Craning his neck past Theresa, he mouthed to Jordan, “Alcohol content?”

  Jordan shrugged. “Four? Five?”

  “Nine,” Theresa exclaimed.

  Marcus’s eyes rounded in surprise. “Nine?! How many ciders have you had, woman?”

  “One.” She held up an index finger and climbed out of her husband’s lap to stand upright. “I’m not drunk. I’m sipping it slowly. I’m not a child, Marcus.” Turning to Jordan, she added, “If you get tired of hanging here with these Neanderthals, join me in the kitchen. We’ll talk about your Cameron.”

  His mood plummeted deeper. “She’s not my Cameron.”

  Theresa winked. “Sure, Jordie. Not yet. But she will be.”

  “She was—once. I’ll never make that mistake again.”

  “Really?” The lilt in Theresa’s tone left no doubt he’d piqued her interest. “Oh, now, I want to know all the juicy details.” She maneuvered behind him, gripped the handles of his chair and leaned over him, enveloping in her flowery fragrance again. “Marcus, I’m kidnapping your business partner. We’ve got stuff to talk about.” Marcus glared at her, but she silenced any argument he might make on Jordan’s behalf with the added comment, “Since my money’s in this venture, too, I’ve got a right to know what we’re up against.”

  “There’s nothing to tell,” he argued. “It was a long time ago.”

  “Uh-huh. As old as yesterday.”

  To Jordan’s disappointment, Marcus got up from the chair. “Good luck,” he muttered before rejoining his buddies around the television.

  Jordan glanced up into Theresa’s smug expression. “Was that last comment by your husband for you or for me?”

  “Oh, you, honey. Definitely you.” She cackled as she pushed him forward. “Your Cameron’s ability to sink her teeth into something that interests her’s got nothing on me. Let’s go.”

  LATE FRIDAY MORNING, while he drowned in spreadsheets before an afternoon meeting with Susan, Rachel slipped into his office with a steaming cup of coffee. As she placed the mug on his desk with a thunk, she whispered. “Michaela wants to see you in her office. Now.”

  He glanced up, and she pressed a finger to her lips. What was with the cloak and dagger routine? “The blind wolf bays at the moon.”

  She blinked. “Huh? What are you talking about?”

  Damned if he knew. “What are you talking about? I thought this was some kind of spy game you and Michaela cooked up with cryptic messages. I was just playing along.”

  “No spy game or cryptic messages.” Cocking her head to one side and staring out the window, she seemed to reconsider for a minute. “Well, not really. But we do want to keep Susan out of the loop right now.”

  Now, he studied her. “Why?”

  “You’ll see. Come on. Leave the coffee. You’ll want it when you come back.”

  Back from where? He still had no idea what was going on.

  She straightened, hurried to the door, then waited. When he still didn’t move, she jerked her head and widened her eyes. “Come on,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “What’s the rush?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” She stamped her foot. “Susan’s out of the office, and her dragon lady assistant is in the lunchroom. Now’s the best time for us to talk without anyone noticing.”

  “Noticing what?”

  “That we’re talking.”

  His head spun. How could he get off this ride? “Rachel, I—”

  “Sssh! Talk on the way. Come on.” She waved a hand with frenetic motion. “Hurry up.”

  “If we’re in such a rush, why didn’t Michaela come to me?”

  “Because it’s already up on her computer, and her office is the farthest away from the lunchroom.”

  Sure. That made as much sense as the rest of this conversation.

  “Quit dawdling. Let’s go!”

  First Theresa, now Rachel. What had gotten into the women he knew? “All right, all right.”

  On a deep sigh, he followed Rachel out of the office and down the carpeted hallway to Michaela’s office several doors away. As soon as he was inside, Rachel shut the door, locked it, and turned to peek through the side window out into the hall.

  Oh, sure. No spy games here.

  If he expected a saner response from Michaela, he was doomed to disappointment. She stood up from behind her desk and used both hands to wave him over, her voice no louder than a rustle. “C’mere, c’mere. Quick!”

  “What is going on with you two?”

  “We found you a building.”

  That got his attention. He pushed himself forward in double-time while Michaela swerved her monitor to give him a better view.

  “It’s in Hell’s Kitchen. Corner unit, ground floor. Used to be a supermarket so it’s got lots of open space. Eleven thousand square feet, plus a huge parking lot.” She used a pencil to point out the open area of asphalt to the right of the building. “There’s also a garage across the street for your more...particular clients.”

  Particular? No, more like private. Clients like he used to be: pro athletes, or maybe dancers, performers who might want to keep an injury under wraps from the press for as long as possible.

  He stared at the photos on her monitor with a practiced eye. Good space. Plenty of windows. All on the ground floor, which gave him a comfort he hadn’t felt at the other property. The Loughlin place had two stories with the offices upstairs, meaning, in case of any emergency, he could be stuck up there with no way out—a scenario he’d learned to keep in mind and prepare for in everything he did: choosing a job, a place to live, or even a hotel room.

  “This looks terrific,” he said. “Do you have specs?”

  Michaela exchanged a panicked expression with Rachel, who rolled her hands and murmured, “Go on. Tell him.” Before he could decipher the dread h
e’d noted in her eyes, she returned her attention to the narrow window.

  “Yeah, please,” Jordan said to both women. “‘Tell him.’”

  “It’s not our listing.”

  Shit. “Then why show it to me?” Susan would have his head for going outside the agency.

  “I know, I know,” Michaela said. “But it’s a great fit, don’t you think?”

  “Well, yes, it would be—if Susan was getting her piece of the action. But if she’s cut out... ” He mocked slicing a knife across his throat. “Crrrrt! We’ll all wind up cut.”

  The ladies wouldn’t look him in the eye, which raised the hackles on his nape. Clearly, there was something even scarier they weren’t telling him.

  On a hunch, he asked, “Who’s the seller?”

  Michaela’s eager expression clouded. “Bella Richards.”

  His jaw dropped. “Are you insane?”

  Bella Richards was originally one of the two Rs in HRR Corporate Realty, along with senior partner Lori Reynolds, but Bella left the firm in 2010, taking Susan’s husband with her. Susan had never forgiven either of them for the betrayal—a betrayal made doubly worse when they opened their own corporate real estate office in midtown.

  “Why don’t we just shoot her in the heart? It would be less painful.”

  “Don’t be a wuss, Jordan,” Rachel retorted. “This is business. A site like this one doesn’t come along every day. At least let us do some research. Susan doesn’t have to know we’re shopping. Not yet, anyway.”

  And if this deal went sideways, which was bound to happen, how quickly would these two push him under the bus? “Look, I appreciate you trying to help me with this but—”

  “But nothing,” Michaela interrupted. “Take a step back. Forget the ugly details. Just tell me the truth. If Susan was onboard, would you be interested in the property?”

  He stared at the images again, interior and exterior, then turned his attention back to Michaela. “Probably. But you and I both know there’s no way I can pursue it.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” Michaela shrugged. “I might have a way around that large, scary obstacle in the corner office. Give me a day or two. In the meantime, do you want to follow up on this? Set the wheels in motion? I can have Bella send me some specs, if you’re interested.”

  He backed away from the desk, the computer, and the siren tempting him toward professional doom. “Not behind Susan’s back, no.”

  Her lips twisted, displaying her disappointment. “Brown-noser.”

  Let her think what she wanted. While he did owe some loyalty to Susan for hiring him and giving him a chance, his reticence to pursue the building had more to do with empathy. The last thing he wanted to do was get in the middle of a romantic tragedy. He’d barely survived his own.

  Chapter 8

  At six o’clock, Val knocked on Cam’s office door and poked her head inside. “Time to go.”

  Cam looked up from her computer and groaned. “Crap. Already?”

  Dinner with Mom and Mr. Ellison waited on this Friday night. Just what she didn’t need at the end of the week she’d endured. After that contentious lunch with Jordan on Tuesday, she’d come back to her office to discover her staff in an uproar. A burglary at their Atlanta location had resulted in the loss of thousands of dollars of school supplies, and with kids set to head back to classrooms within a week, Val, Casey, and several other employees were scrambling to replenish the coffers before Saturday’s giveaway event was scheduled to occur.

  Cam had joined in the melee, making phone calls and pulling strings to strong-arm office supply store managers into rushing shipments overnight so the staff down in Georgia could get the new supplies catalogued, stuffed into backpacks, or set up on displays for overextended parents to grab and check off their child’s wish list. On Thursday, she and Val had flown down to help with the event and only arrived back home six hours ago. Now, she faced a critique session with her mom and Mom’s latest husband du jour.

  “Shoot me now.” She scrubbed her fingernails through her hair, sending tingles across her scalp, barely registering on her sleep-deprived brain’s Richter scale.

  Val shrugged. “Sorry. Can’t do that. You’ll just have to muddle through like the rest of us. As for me...” She yawned wide enough for Cam to check her tonsils from the opposite end of the office. “I’ve got serious relaxation plans tonight. I’m trying a new entrée from my food subscription service, miso-glazed salmon with faro, followed by a hot date with my bathtub with a glass of chilled wine. Then, around nine or so, I’ll put on my comfiest Vanguard nightshirt and settle in bed to watch the true crime network until I fall asleep. Don’t ask me why, but a little murder and mayhem knocks me out faster than sleeping pills.”

  God, what Cam wouldn’t give for a night like that tonight! A few hours of solitude and then, blissful sleep. But, no. She had to suffer through several hours of stilted conversation and biting criticism, all while pushing around the steamed vegetables and mock meat on the family Flora Danica china. By the time she arrived home tonight, she’d be too wired and anxious to sleep so she’d pace the floors with her favorite comfort food, a bag of ranch-flavored tortilla chips. Her stomach burned in dread.

  She glared at Val with envy. “Rub it in, why dontcha?”

  “Get a move on,” Val said with a cheeky grin. “The sooner you go, the sooner you can have it over with.”

  She pushed away from her desk and out of the chair before she could come up with some fake illness to back out of tonight’s invitation.

  Ninety minutes later, she sat in the formal dining room of her mother’s home and stared at the broccoli and cauliflower—no sauce—decorating two sad-looking broiled chicken breasts and a colorful salad—no dressing—fit for a starving artist’s canvas.

  As she sipped icy water from her cut-crystal goblet, Cam suspected the minute she left, Mom would pull out a roast duck with cherry sauce, potatoes au gratin, asparagus with hollandaise and a baked Alaska for dessert. This pitiful offering was for her benefit, a silent rebuke to her curves and her weight and her size. Well, she could play this game, too. Maybe she’d have Larry stop at a fast food place on the way home and get her a burger and fries—mega sized. And ice cream for dessert.

  “I hear you just got back from Atlanta,” Mr. Ellison remarked from her right side.

  She noted he toyed with his meager dinner, same as her. Probably couldn’t wait to tear into that duck the minute she got into her car downstairs.

  “Yup. Landed at JFK this afternoon, as a matter of fact. The local foundation down there ran into a snafu with the school supplies drive earlier this week. Val and I took care of it.”

  Her mother, seated across from her, studied her with razor-sharp scrutiny. “That explains why you look more drawn than usual.”

  She had to anchor her eyes to keep them from rolling to the back of her skull. “Wow,” she said with no inflection. “Thanks.”

  Mom, of course, looked stunning. Her platinum blond hair was styled into a sleek bob, and she’d wrapped her slender figure in a salmon-colored, bonded crepe sheath with a split funnel neckline and cap sleeves. Around her throat, she displayed one of her own designs: a simple collar necklace of polished rose gold. The piece was deceptively understated. In retail stores, that pink metal bangle ran about three grand.

  “Oh, you know what I mean,” Mom retorted with one of those royal hand waves she used to dismiss anything Cam felt strongly about. “You should let Val handle the piddly details of the foundation. She’s been with you...what? Three years now?”

  “Almost five.” Cam speared a stalk of broccoli and popped it into her mouth, mainly to keep from telling her mother to butt out of her business. The vegetable might as well be made of Play-Doh for all her taste buds could discern.

  “There you go.” Mom’s head jerked in some kind of curt nod of approval. “I think it’s time you started delegating more of the day-to-day running to Val. You could use the extra time you’d gain to seiz
e your life and make something of it.”

  “My life is fine the way it is.”

  Mom blew air out her pursed lips. “Fine. Hair is fine. Sand is fine.” She swept her fork back and forth in the air as if conducting the New York Philharmonic. “Life is supposed to be grand, adventurous, full of passion and romance!”

  “No, thanks, Mom. You’ve lived enough of that kind of life for both of us.” For a nation, in Cam’s opinion, but she bit back the rest of her thought behind clamped lips.

  “Maybe if you had more time on your hands, you could so something about those dark rings under your eyes.” Mom’s tone grew softer, edged with that false concern that always got Cam’s back up. ‘Find a new style for that mop on your head. You could join a gym. You’ve got such a beautiful face, sweetheart. If you’d just drop a few pounds, I’m sure you could find a man in no time.”

  Here we go, right to the heart of the matter. “I’m not looking for a man, Mother.”

  “Oh, come off it, Cameron. You don’t want to spend your life alone.” She made goo-goo eyes at Mr. Ellison. “Why, I’m grateful every day I ran into Andrew at that gallery opening two years ago. He’s made my life infinitely richer.”

  Mr. Ellison picked up her mother’s hand and kissed her fingertips. “I was the lucky one that day, darling.”

  Good thing the food was bland after all; that way, it wouldn’t burn coming back up.

  “I’m happy for you both. Honestly. But there’s a big difference between living alone and being lonely. I choose to live alone, without a man I have to answer to if I work late or need to fly to Atlanta at a moment’s notice, or if I decide I want to order a pizza for dinner because I don’t feel like cooking.”

  Mom pointed with her fork. “That’s your problem right there.”

  “What problem?” Oh, she knew what problem. After all these years, she’d have to be dense as a cinderblock to not understand Mom thought she had a problem with food. Every six-year-old who began an annual jaunt to fat camp each summer for over a decade understood exactly where Mom and/or Dad found them lacking. “I’m comfortable with my life the way it is. I have a lot of friends, a career I love—”