by Mary Campisi
“Exactly. And what kind of business dealings are you having?” A faint smile slid across his lips. “I’m guessing they’re bringing in their kids for Investment 101 strategies or it’s a young couple trying to consolidate debt, or maybe even Vinnie Zaffino still looking for a loan to get his Bobcat going. I know you can’t tell me, client privilege and all that, but you don’t need to. Betty Rafferty, my very own reporter, fills me in weekly on the comings and goings from your office.”
“Betty’s spying on me?” She liked Nate’s receptionist. Betty with the sweet smile and cat-eye glasses who greeted her with high-pitched excitement whenever Christine called? Why on earth would the woman do such a thing?
“It’s not called spying in small towns. It’s known as information gathering.”
“I don’t appreciate that.” Not one bit. “Okay, I’ll give you that maybe the majority of my clients are currently fighting bad credit scores and high debt, but I’m trying to help them dig out. And maybe they are not investment savvy.” She paused. “Yet.”
“Uh-huh. Like I said, kids with bad spending habits.”
“Who will become conscientious, dollar-cost-averaging adults.”
His lips twitched. “So you say.”
Just because she had not been born into their small community did not mean she couldn’t be trusted by them. She had clout. She had credentials. She had been named one of the best businesswomen in Chicago. It was not about her. Christine narrowed her gaze on her husband and offered a tight smile. “I’ve come to the conclusion the reason I’m not seeing more investment money is that there isn’t any.”
Nate scratched his jaw. “Come again?”
“It’s obvious and it’s not something I can say to anyone but you, and maybe your mother, if the subject comes up. Magdalena’s residents don’t have extra money to invest. They’re living paycheck to paycheck, probably mortgaged out, and scraping to pay the utility bill.”
He scratched his jaw again. “You think so?”
She didn’t like the way he said that, as though he believed she were miles off track with her evaluation. “I do think so. They can’t invest if they have to worry about school clothes and orthodontia bills and repairing the family car.” Her voice softened as a new plan formed, took root, and spread through her. “I need to hold meetings in the town hall to educate the community as a whole. Debt reduction, that’s the key.” Her smile morphed into a burst of excitement and opportunity. “I’ll show them how to reduce debt, realign spending, and then we’ll talk about investment vehicles and retirement opportunities.”
Nate’s expression turned serious. “You think these people have no money because they drive ten-year-old cars, buy reduced produce, and haven’t made an appointment with you to talk about investment strategies? You are so far off base, you have no idea. This town has money, don’t think they don’t. That’s not your problem.”
“I don’t doubt your calculations on the community’s wealth, but I’ve seen no evidence of it, in any form, and if they were truly in tune with their portfolios, they would talk to me about increasing returns and making their money work for them.”
Nate shrugged. “Unless they didn’t trust you.”
“For heaven’s sake, do you have any idea what kind of deals I was involved with in Chicago?” Was he serious? “Megamillion ones, big companies.” She clenched her teeth and bit out, “Huge profits.”
“I’m sure.” He nodded his dark head and looked at her as one does a child who still doesn’t understand that a bee carries a sting. “But you aren’t in Chicago anymore. You’re in a small town where people want to know your word is good before they hand over their life savings.”
This was ridiculous. No one had ever questioned her integrity, and she resented the implication that she lacked it. “People trusted my father. Why can’t they trust me?”
Nate hesitated before answering. “They trusted him to a point. He was a spokesman for those who were taken advantage of by shady businessmen, and he did help people dig out from debt and get loans. But he did not invest their money.”
“But I can help them, I know I can.”
His voice gentled. “Sweetheart, maybe they don’t want your help.”
“Are you saying they don’t want to increase their wealth?”
“I’m saying they don’t want to hand over their money to someone they don’t really know.”
She supposed she could see the backward justification of this. Still, there had to be a way to gain their confidence. Christine studied her husband; he had the respect of the town, and their loyalty, too. He’d gone without so his employees could keep their jobs, and from the whisperings about town, most people knew the stories of his empty paychecks, long hours, and sacrifice. “If you let me help you get financing for the furniture business, it would send a message.”
He frowned and picked up his fork, twirled it between his fingers. “And what message would that be? Nate Desantro relies on his wife’s money to get ahead?” He shook his head. “I won’t do it. Besides, it wouldn’t matter. You need to partner yourself with someone who has a lot of clout in this town and get him to back you.”
“They really don’t trust me?” The notion was almost incomprehensible, but the solution was not. If Nate could point her to the town’s spokesperson, she’d convince him to support her. “Did you have someone in mind?”
He cleared his throat and looked away for a few seconds before meeting her gaze head on. What she saw in his eyes confused her. Concern and dread. A faint pink crept from his tanned neck and settled on his cheeks. “I do, but…”
“What? Tell me his name and I’ll call him right now.” She leaned forward. “Nate? Who is it? Do I know him? Or her?”
Her husband sighed and ran a hand over his face. “You don’t know him, but he’s heard all about you.”
“Oh.” And then, “Well? Who is it?”
“We call him The Godfather, but his real name’s Angelo Benito, Pop for short.” He twirled the fork again, studied the tines. Apparently a utensil was more interesting than looking at her. Or maybe he didn’t want to claim what was coming out of his mouth, and it was easier to look at a piece of stainless steel. “He just got back from California. His son lives there with his family, some big advertising guy. Pop took sick and then broke his hip, landed in rehab for too many months. Mom said the son tried to get him a condo near San Diego, but Pop said he wasn’t living anywhere that wouldn’t let him grow basil and sit on his back porch in his underwear.” He laid down the fork and slid his gaze to hers. “He got back four days ago.”
“He sounds like a character in a book. I’d love to meet him.”
Nate danced around the question and finally said, “He’s kind of got an interesting perspective on life and people, and he’s not afraid to say what he’s thinking.”
“A man who speaks his mind?” She threw Nate a pointed stare. “I know someone like that.” Pop Benito sounded like a gentle, grandfatherly type. The only grandfather she remembered was her father’s father, Randolph, founder of Blackworth & Company Investments, and she doubted anyone had ever seen him in his underwear.
“Yeah, well, when he speaks, everyone listens, and sometimes that’s a problem because it can stir things up around here.”
“Then I definitely want to meet him.” He might be just the person to give her his blessing and his approval. With him behind her, she could begin to earn these people’s trust and eventually their business, along with her husband’s. It was a solid plan, one she wanted to implement right away. She tried to keep the excitement from her voice when she asked, “Can you set up a meeting? Today?”
Nate picked up that darn fork again and twirled it three times. “Actually, he called this morning. He wants to meet you, but there’s something you need to know.” The twirling stopped. “He never liked your father. No matter how much good your dad did for the town, Pop called him a coward. I’m not sure he’ll be willing to help Charlie Blacksworth’s daug
hter.”
Chapter 2
Nothing compared to a bowl of penne pasta smothered with spinach, garbanzo beans, and chunks of beefsteak tomatoes. The crushed red pepper was the key, and if you didn’t add a healthy smothering of Pecorino Romano cheese, well you weren’t going to get Harry Blacksworth’s “keeper” vote.
Greta knew this dish was one of Harry’s favorites and made sure she brought him a side of it, no matter what he ordered. There was something to be said for anticipating his desires, and she’d done a good job of that since he opened the doors to Harry’s Folly last November and put her in charge. The woman was a natural: in the kitchen, prepping alongside the staff, taste-testing for improvement; in the dining room, chatting with the guests, welcoming them to the restaurant with a sincerity that could not be practiced or pretended. Greta was the real deal and he wasn’t the only person who recognized that. Men flocked to the restaurant, asking for her under the guise of a food issue and once she appeared, scrub-faced and natural, these men who expressed concern for an ill-prepared dish changed their tune and threw her compliments and phone numbers.
It was damned annoying and Harry had told her more than once that she needed to shut it down. Of course, Greta merely smiled and shook her head, insisting she had no interest in any of the men, her blue gaze meeting his a second too long when she spoke. What did that look mean? And dammit, why was she giving it to him? Hell, he knew what it meant, had been getting those kinds of looks for years. It was a green light to pass “Go” and collect whatever the hell he wanted.
Harry swore under his breath and sipped his iced tea. It had not been easy working alongside Greta these past months, pretending he wasn’t attracted to her wholesomeness, that he didn’t think about sex and lots of it when she brushed her arm against his. Granted, he’d done a bit of reforming since Chrissie packed up and headed to Magdalena, dumping the company on him. He hadn’t minded the extra work, though he missed Chrissie so much his chest ached when he thought about it. Still, what could he do? She’d fallen in love with a mountain man-turned-gentle giant who worshipped her and now they were married. Kids would be next, then the dog, or maybe the dog and then the kids. It didn’t matter which came first because Chrissie wasn’t coming back. Damn, there was that pain, right in his chest. He guessed poets and writers called it a broken heart. What a bunch of bullshit. Too many minutes on the rowing machine is what did him in and a hot stone massage would set him straight, or maybe he’d skip the hot stone and get straight to the massage, with Bridgett, his sex partner. Interesting term: sex partner. It implied a detachment that did not include emotion or feelings, and if Greta found out, she’d clock him over the head with one of her stainless-steel skillets.
He pushed the menu aside and waited for her to appear with his salad—iceberg and red onion—no radicchio, thank you very much. Why was he thinking of Greta and sex again? It wasn’t going to happen. Ever. She was a nice lady. Period. He was a deprived individual who didn’t know how to have a relationship with someone like her. End of story. Bridgett was convenient, young, undemanding. She had no expectations for a meet-and-greet with the family. If he got involved with Greta, he’d have to contend with that bird-eyed witch of a mother and those two kids who would rather puke than speak to him. And he’d have to clean up his act: no more swearing, though he had toned it down quite a bit, and scale back on the drinking. That would require work. And taking an interest in the kids and the old lady. Even conversation. How are you today? How was school? He almost gagged on his lettuce.
Who was he kidding? He could clean up his mouth and maybe sanitize the lustful thoughts that roamed his brain when he spotted Greta, but for how long? And for what? Greta would want a commitment, a curfew, a toothbrush at his place. Hell no.
“Hello, Harry.” Greta’s slight German accent spilled over him, hot and tempting, making him forget why he could never get involved with her. She stood before him in a red shirt and black skirt, a bit snug around the breasts and hips, just enough to emphasize her curves. He was positive the tight fit was not by design, more positive still that a nun should coordinate her wardrobe.
“Greta.” He tried to keep his voice businesslike because he noticed it had a tendency to slip into hunting mode if he weren’t careful. That occurrence perplexed him. He was not “hunting” Greta and why various parts of his body insisted he was proved a damn annoyance. One of these days, his body parts would have to grow up. All of them. Even the ones he wanted to remain youthful. Her smile spread, her eyes grew brighter than an angel’s on her way to heaven. Pure. Honest. Good. He cleared his throat, allowing enough time for a string of curses to pulse through his brain and transform him into the man with a reputation for debauchery and carelessness.
“I’d hoped you’d stop by today,” he said. “It’s been a while.”
Four days, that’s how long it had been. “I’ve been busy.”
Her smile faltered but she worked it back into place. “You have a lot of responsibility these days. It’s hard to go it alone without someone by your side.”
What did she mean by that comment? Was she talking about herself and this business, or was she referring to her personal situation? If it were the first, it required his attention. If it were the second, he’d jump into a freezing lake before he’d touch that one. “Is everything okay here? Jimmy working out in the kitchen? Produce and meat deliveries on time? New menus look good?”
“Of course.” She nodded and the blonde bun flopped on top of her head. He’d always had a fondness for that bun, had wondered many times what it would look like unraveled and wrapped around his hand. “I miss you, Harry.”
Shit. “Don’t start with that.”
“I know what you said.” She bit her bottom lip, probably to keep from crying, and nodded again. “It’s just that I see what’s inside you, even when you try so hard to keep it hidden.” Those damn blue eyes turned bluer, brighter. “The real Harry Blacksworth has a heart as big as this room.” She pointed toward the kitchen, then the dining area of Harry’s Folly. “Who else would give a young man with bad job references a second chance and make sure he had a ride to work every day?”
Harry shifted in his chair and shrugged. “Rocco makes the best linguine and clams with white sauce in the city. It was a self-serving move.”
Her voice softened. “And Leo? I heard you’re paying for him to take night classes at the community college. And you said if he did well, you’d hire him on as an intern.” Her voice dipped lower. “Is that self-serving?”
It was getting damn hot in here. Hadn’t he told Greta not to worry about saving on the utilities? Couldn’t she follow a simple direction and listen to him, even once? He threw her a cold stare and said, “Cheap labor.”
“Ah. And Diana? The singer you brought in when we have no need for one? And you bought her a piano and pay her a daily rate whether she sings or not? Is that cheap labor?”
He’d had enough. “Why is it I can’t come in here and have a simple bowl of pasta without you battering me about my hidden qualities? You think I’m a friggin’ god, but I’m not. I’m a selfish, manipulative bastard and the sooner you realize that, the better.”
The damn woman actually had the audacity to laugh. In his face. Not just a giggle, but a full out, teeth-showing laugh. “Of course you are. You are so big and mean and cruel that little children run and hide when they hear your name.” She laughed again. “One day you’ll stop being afraid, Harry Blacksworth. And when that happens, I’ll be here.”
He glared at her, for what good it did. “I’m not afraid of anything but starving.”
She smiled. “I’ll tell Jimmy to get going on the penne.”
“Light on the garbanzos, heavy on the spinach.”
Giant sigh. “I know.”
Damn right she did. Harry shifted in his chair, grinned. “And let’s take a look at the new menus.”
“Yes, boss.”
Boss. He liked that. Liked it even better when she slipped back i
nto Greta Servensen, manager of Harry’s Folly, instead of Greta Servensen, temptress extraordinaire. “All right. Hurry up, woman. I have a busy afternoon.” She saluted him, which made him laugh. Greta was good for his soul, what was left of it.
“Harry!”
His smile slipped. He’d recognize that voice anywhere, even attached to a body with clothes. “Your secretary said I could find you here.” His brain shut down, strangled by that voice that inferred carnal familiarity. He kept his eyes on Greta who had turned stone-faced still as the woman attached to the voice slid into the seat across from him with her jasmine perfume and suffocated the last few bits of logic that might help him out of this mess.
“Bridgett! What a surprise!” A disaster was more like it. He forced himself to look at her. Tall, leggy, killer tongue. “What are you doing here?”
She flashed him a smile and reached across the table to clasp his hands. French manicure. Diamonds. Bronzed skin glistening under the subdued lights. “I had to see you.” She ignored Greta as though she were part of the décor and pulled her lips into a pout. A practiced expression, he could tell by the perfection of it. This wasn’t his first rodeo with someone like her, a barterer of goods for services rendered. Women like Bridgett provided the sex and Harry provided payment in the form of fancy dinners, clothing, and jewelry. Occasionally, trips. A win-win situation for those with black hearts and empty souls—like him. Bridgett brushed her blonde hair behind her right ear and said, “I can’t seem to find one of my diamond studs? Have you seen it?”
“No.” Had Greta figured out who Bridgett was and what he’d been doing with her?
“Hmm.” She tapped a finger against her chin and sighed. “You haven’t seen it anywhere? Did you check the sheets?”
The gasp pierced his left ear. Harsh, painful, shocked. Harry turned to find Greta rushing toward the kitchen, head high, step filled with purpose and no doubt a desperation to get as far from him and his deceitful self as possible. There was no question Greta had figured out his relationship to Bridgett. Dammit. He grabbed his iced tea, drained it. Why did do-gooders always act like they’d had their heart gouged out when the person they refused to believe ill of disappointed them? Hadn’t he told her straight up he was no saint, didn’t even deserve a second thought because his soul was black and twisted and he was beyond redemption? Because that’s the way he wanted it? Hadn’t he been up front about it? And what had she gone and done? Believed in him. That was the worst thing she could have possibly done. He’d stepped up for Chrissie, but if people thought he was going to make a regular habit of it, they were going to be very disappointed.
