Listening to their confrontation penetrated her anxious thoughts. The older man was a real piece of work. What kind of father humiliated a son like that? She slipped closer to their center-stage drama.
Her turn to rescue.
Yet, would interfering feel invasive to her boss? At this party, William Harcourt didn’t feel like her employer; more like a Lancelot who rode in on a white horse bearing arms for her affectionate hand.
Maybe.
A girl had a right to dream. Witnessing him riled up to where his neck bulged made him just hunky enough to keep the human race going, in her opinion; a task she’d love to volunteer for.
Iris touched her arm. “Something interesting to you?”
Lucy swallowed the rest of her champagne. “Should I intervene?”
“Do you think you should?”
“I’m more worried about what he’ll think.”
More yelling permeated the air and turned heads. Lucy had no tolerance for rotten fathers. Despite the surge of adrenaline, she had never once fainted and wasn’t about to now. She felt an overpowering need to defend William Harcourt against his brute of a father. It was the second time she saw him look smaller.
“It’s not really our business,” Lucy said to Iris.
A twinkle lit up in sweet golden eyes. “Or, is it?”
Through Bibi Roquette’s eyes, William Harcourt was no ice-fish. The real William was warm and kind with a nostalgic heart for holiday movies and Children’s literature. It was hard not to see the wounded boy.
One longing for approval.
The shouting increased enough for his father’s posse to chuckle with amusement. People scattered just as the music grew louder. Nat King Cole now. Maxwell Harcourt waved off his son with a severe tone. “You’re acting like a child.”
“And you’re a pompous narcissistic pig.”
“You’d be nowhere without me. How ungrateful can you be?”
Lucy smoothed down her dress and stomped right up to the man. “Excuse me.”
They looked her way as people nearby scattered.
She goaded, “I think you’re incredibly rude.”
The older man looked around in confusion.
“This is a Christmas party,” scolded Lucy, standing taller on her toes. “People are supposed to feel joyous and happy, and here you’re trying to drag people down with your high and mighty highness.”
His mouth curled on one side. “My dear.”
“Do you enjoy being a big, mean, bullying brute?” accused Lucy.
The older man with lovely silvering hair looked amused. His eyes shifted to his son and then back to Lucy before he put out a hand to her. “May I ask the pleasure of your name?”
“I’ll bet you don’t believe in Santa Claus either.”
“Should I?”
“A person who believes in the spirit of Santa is a truly sweet and kind person. It means they believe in love and hope and all of the amazing things in this world. You’re like the antidote to holiday exhilaration.”
“I’ve had worse said to me.”
“There’s no reason to be so mean to your own son. You’re like what the Grinch and Scrooge would produce in a one-night stand. You’re like the offspring of their Grinchy Scroogy naughtiness.”
William smirked, looking down at his shoes. “Lucy!”
Maxwell Harcourt cocked his head and ran his gaze over her front. Held it there, jiggling his eyebrows, before looking at his friends and back. “Yet, the only one worth taking home for the night is you.”
A blur shot past her face.
William blasted forward and slapped the champagne glass from his father’s hand so hard that when it exploded on the floor in a spray around them, it sounded like a head splat on pavement.People screamed.
Others ran off.
“Say that again, Dad,” raged William, grabbing up a wad of his blazer. “Because I’d love nothing more than to teach you a lesson right here in front of all these people.”
Lucy tugged him back, noticing blood dripping from his hand.
“I’m so sorry, this is my fault,” she said.
When he stormed through the crowd out of the penthouse, Lucy jogged after him, barely able to keep up. “Where are you going?” she asked, following him past elevators to another door. “Wait, you’re bleeding.”
“Oh well.”
“I never meant to goad him like that.”
She followed him into another unit that lacked the warmth and festivity of the old woman’s. William flipped on lights, leaving little blood drops as he walked the tile floor that smelled like lemon polish.
“You cut your hand on the glass.”
“I’ll live, and I don’t need a nurse.”
The large chef kitchen gave her a headache from the sterling silver appliances. She grabbed a dish towel hanging on the oven bar and found him collapsed on a living room chair. “Here.”
“I don’t need a nursemaid. Please, Lucy, don’t worry about me. I appreciate your kindness.”
How could he be so severe one minute and kind the next? His mood shifted like a female’s hormones. Not used to dealing with a grateful man, she stepped far out of his zone. He was her boss, after all.
And, in his house? It was more like a museum.
She pressed the cloth to his hand. “Hold this here.” Then, she wandered around the living room, stopping at an antique armoire. “What’s in here?”
He followed her direction. “Nothing.”
“It’s locked.”
When he offered no more, her gaze shifted to a book on a tall table next to a wingback chair. She ran her hands over it and gasped, “Oh, my word!” She picked it up like a fragile egg. “You have an original copy of The Hoobub and the Grinch?” She lowered onto the chair and looked through it.
“It was my mother’s.”
“Where did she get it?”
“An auction, I presume. Careful, please.”
“I know books, Mr. Harcourt. I wasn’t about to play a game of hopscotch on it.”
“The name is Will.” He came by and took it from her hands. “Sorry, I don’t like it handled.”
The curtness was back, but not the same kind as before. It was more like a flush of embarrassment that he tried desperately to avoid. He worked it back into the cover.
“I had a first edition of A Christmas Carol,” she shared, heart cracking a little.
He turned back; eyebrow raised. “Really, how did you manage that?”
“It was my dad’s. Well, his great-grandmother’s who was married to a man who worked at Chapman & Hall where it was published. She even knew John Leech, the artist. It was my favorite treasure.”
“Was?”
Just the thought of it made her teary-eyed. “Yes, well, I had to sell it.”
“That’s a shame, a real shame.”
“Medical bills, you know. Well, just life, I guess.”
Emotions shifted over his face like a battle raged within. Being alone with him suddenly made her think of Mark. What if she still needed him for her mom’s surgery? Her heart for Mark Roland was about as empty as Santa’s sack. Despite William’s hardened persona in times of business, she felt soothed from his rich and strong voice. In that moment, his stunning good looks made her legs feel like pudding cups.
“I should go,” she blurted, eager to flee. “This night will just get worse.”
“I’ll take you.”
“I’m fine.”
“Then at least let my driver take you.”
“The roads are bad, you said so yourself.”
“I’m not okay with you venturing into this weather.”
“We Irish can take care of ourselves.”
“Lucy, I’m sorry for what my father said to you.”
When he followed her to the door in protest, she spun around and held up a hand. “For the record, festivity and business don’t match. A party should be a party, not a board meeting.”
“I realize I’m not perfect.�
�
Drat.
It was just like him to say something genuine.
“You, Mr. Harcourt, are in need of serious revisions.”
Just like that, she turned her back.
She regretted the entire night, which was an obvious set up of Ms. Iris Connelly. Maybe when hell freezes over and Martians take over the planet, he’d be interested in her. Besides, he had Bibi.
Ugh.
He had her, but didn’t want her. Even though she was herself. Right? Just thinking about it made her brain cells die in droves.
Now, she really was a crazy person.
Chapter 9
“If you catch yourself in a pickle, jump into a swirly jar of whipped cream instead.”
With Love, Vivien
* * *
Lucy took one look at the man walking toward her and wished she’d been born a turtle dove. She spun around and leaned into the concierge booth. “Are there any private tables?”
“You’ve already been checked in,” the girl replied.
“Right, but is it a private table? Please say yes.”
“We don’t have private tables.”
“Please, you have to help me.”
“You can always leave, ma’am.”
The last thing Lucy needed was for somebody to recognize Heather. The fact that William Harcourt looked good enough to serve with a chocolate soufflé didn’t help her anxiety. Her hands trembled like crazy.
“Ms. Carpenter?”
She felt his breath on her neck. Forcing a smile, she twisted around. “Oh, you’re here.”
“Weren’t you just looking at me? I waved.”
“I’m waiting for Bibi.”
He smoothed down a sharp royal-blue dress shirt that outlined his abs, buttoning his suit blazer that accentuated a trim waist indicating he was one of those Keto Diet types. “So, this is the moment.”
“I guess so.”
“Have you heard from her?”
“She said she’ll be here. I think it’s best you don’t pressure her.”
“Why would I pressure her?”
“Maybe don’t ask her too many questions. Let her take the lead.”
He nodded. “Good plan, let’s not scare her off.”
They waited off to the side as another group checked in. Each time the door opened and bells rang, William shot an eager glance over her head. Lucy’s intestinal tract churned fast enough to need a bathroom.
“I’m excited!” he exclaimed, rubbing his hands. “Thrilled, in fact.”
Lucy shrugged off a crochet wrap with gold trim. “I can see that.”
“This woman is something else.”
“Because she wrote a book?”
“Because we’ve gotten to know each other on a personal level. I’d like to think there’s something there more than just a book contract. I just hope she looks as good as she writes.”
Her hope plummeted.
With Heather’s six-foot-tall frame, blonde locks and legs up to her nose, of course he’d want to be with her. On the other hand, her looks could be a distraction to book talks.
“She told me that she’s a blonde,” said Lucy, recognizing her envy.
His face scrunched at that just a little. “She did sound blonde on the phone.”
Another bell.
And there she was, Heather Crawford, aspiring actress and bleached bombshell in a cleavage-plunging, Valentino Haute Couture, Julia Roberts dress with white piping like Julia wore for her Oscar. Hair extensions added an extra foot to her hair that now cascaded down her neck and covered one breast.
William’s mouth fell open.
Lucy kept focus on her goal to find a way to sign the contract without breaking the law or revealing her hoax. She had no choice over the dinner in the first place, and now had to enact a strategy to survive it.
Heather put on a brilliant smile. “Mr. Harcourt.”
He took her hand. “Please, call me William.”
She blinked flirtatiously through thick-painted eyelashes. “And, you must be Lucy.”
Where was a potted plant to puke in when she needed it? Lucy managed a nod and gave a harsh warning look.
To William, Heather said lightly, “We’ve talked so much in email, that it’s like I already know you.”
“I feel the same,” he said with affection.
Two dozen tables with champagne tablecloths shimmered with a single candle dead center. As they entered, dishes clanked from behind a swinging kitchen door. The place was perfumed by garlic and fresh sage.
William pulled out a chair for her buxom friend, who clearly chose to use her pushup bra that night. Not for Lucy. Nothing like getting a blatant slap in the face.
No, she was just the Watson to his Holmes. The Robin to his Batman. The Bob Cratchit to his Scrooge.
They were seated near a corner Christmas tree with vintage candle lights. A waiter uncorked a bottle of wine and poured them each a glass. Heather made idle chit chat with William, laughing at everything he said.
They placed their orders.
Lucy zoned out as the two launched into social banter that had nothing to do with the purpose of their meeting. She couldn’t talk due to the anxiety thrumming out her ears. How far was she willing to go for this book thing?
“What do you think, Lucy?” asked Heather.
She snapped to attention. “About what?”
“You’re not listening.”
“I was thinking about this salad. I wonder what they use for the dressing?”
They both looked at what was on her fork. What bothered her the most was how William studied Heather’s every body movement as if assessing a candidate for a mail-order bride.
“What do you think of Richard Paul Evans’ Christmas book?” Heather repeated.
Lucy wanted to sock her one. Not like her friend knew authors or books or even words.
“Haven’t read it,” she mumbled with a full mouth.
“William recommends it, that’s what he was saying. The Christmas Box is a famous novel. It brought like some kind of inspiration to tons of people for some reason. As a Christmas author, I’ll be reading it next. I should know all of the good holiday books, right?”
Lucy had to force down a painful swallow. “I read manuscripts all day for work. It kills the drive to read for fun.”
Her boss eyed her curiously. “That’s a shame. Maybe a different genre?”
“I watch Netflix.”
Heather squealed. “Oh my gosh, I just love Netflix.”
“Do you have a favorite show?” he inquired of Heather. “I’m a fan as well when I find the time.”
“Oh, you know, that famous one with that guy who kills everybody.”
“That sums up half of their service.”
“Oh, there’s that one about the king that had like ten wives. That was good.”
“Eight wives,” corrected Lucy, annoyed that Bibi sounded more like a Barbie.
“The Tudors,” said William.
“Yes, that was it. That was something, wasn’t it? One lost her head.”
“She did at that.”
“I wonder why? Strange, I missed that whole part of the plot.”
Lucy smacked a palm on her leg. Wished it was Heather’s feeble mouth. When a fresh basket of rosemary bread was deposited, William stuck his nose in it. Lucy snatched one up. She could never resist the smell of warm crusty bread right out of the oven.
Heather waved it off. “I’d never fit into this dress if I ate that.”
Snorting under her breath while she slathered butter on her piece, Lucy realized that was another part of her acting role for the night. Heather was known for her binge-worthy girl nights of pizza and cake.
“So, Bibi,” said William, tinking his knife to remove excess butter. “Your last email amazed me.”
Lucy stopped chewing. If only he knew it was her compliment.
Heather leaned forward and giggled, “Oh, do tell.”
“I love that you shared
that story about Steve. Thank you for that.”
Heather glanced at Lucy for an explanation since she never heard the story of Steve. It was a painful memory from her past that was no business of anybody’s. Steve made an appearance in her book.
“I love telling stories,” announced Heather.
“How long did it take before you went back to school after that?”
“School?”
“Sixth grade, wasn’t it? Must have been hard.”
Heather’s lips split open as she scratched nervously at her neck. “It was hard for sure.”
“A few days, maybe?”
“Oh, no, like two months.”
“You didn’t go back to school for two months after you lost him? How was your mom okay with that?”
She glanced at Lucy, who held her breath. “Oh, well, Mom was too busy grieving.”
“Oh, interesting. But, didn’t she hate him?”
“Well, sure she did. I mean, he was a louse after all.”
Lucy dropped her fork with a clatter when she realized Heather thought Steve was her father who abandoned them when, in fact, he was Lucy’s trusty golden retriever who ran away.
Gone.
Two months after her father left, so did the dog she raised from a puppy. They had no witness to confirm, but Mary Carpenter suspected her useless ex-husband snuck back and stole him.
William looked perplexed. “You said he was the greatest creature of all time.”
“Well, he thought he was anyway. Narcissism, you know.”
Lucy stomped on her pal’s foot under the table.
“Ouch!” cried Heather.
“What’s wrong?” William immediately scanned her vicinity.
“She gets ice-pick headaches,” spieled Lucy, thinking fast. “In her head.”
“That doesn’t sound fun.”
Heather rubbed her temple. “They come out of nowhere.”
“Maybe from the wine,” Lucy said.
She took another sip of her own, careful not to have much. She needed to remain operational so that a loose tongue didn’t blow their cover. The aftertaste of rich cherry and oak lingered on her tongue.
William crunched on ice from his water glass. “I’ve planned something for your book.”
Lucy balled up her napkin when her pulse accelerated. Time to play the game.
My Christmas Darling Page 14
