Marriage, Manhattan Style

by Barbara Dunlop

  “The SEC. What if Reed has a secret life? What if his wealth really is from shady deals with the underworld?” Her mouth went dry and her voice shook ever so slightly. “You know, he’s got an awful lot of money.”

  Hanna enunciated slowly and carefully. “Round the bend, Elizabeth. Reed is a husband and a businessman.”

  But there were too many inconsistencies lately. He was being far too secretive for this to all be nothing. “Not that much of a husband,” Elizabeth pointed out. “He’s fooling around with the coconut woman.”

  “You don’t know that he’s fooling around with the coconut woman.”

  “He lied about her. And I know she was in our suite.” Elizabeth warmed to the theory. “You know, my parents warned me about rich people. They said they were sly and untrustworthy. They were rich for a reason, and it wasn’t hard work and fair trade practices.”

  “Elizabeth.”

  “What?”

  “You disagree with your parents on that, remember?”

  “I was wrong. And look where it got me.”

  Hanna fought a grin. “You mean with the imagination of a conspiracy theorist? Forget being a script girl. You might want to consider scriptwriting as your future career.”

  “What future career? I’ll probably be killed in gangland crossfire before I can ever get a career off the ground. I might know too much already.”

  “This is insane,” said Hanna, picking up her phone. “What’s his name?”

  “Reed Anton Wellington III.”

  Hanna shot her a look of dark disbelief. “I mean your driver.”

  “Oh. Joe Germain. What are you doing?”

  “I’m calling Bert Ralston. You give an investigative reporter an hour, and you’ll be amazed what he can find out.”

  Elizabeth plunked back on the couch. That wasn’t a half bad idea. At least then Hanna would believe her. At least then Elizabeth would know if she was in any danger from Joe.

  How could Reed do this to her? She’d been an innocent young college graduate from New Hampshire when he met her, wooed her, enticed her away from the safe bosom of her family. She never should have borrowed that red dress, or gone on the harbor cruise. Then she never would have met Reed.

  Hanna hung up the phone. “You know, you were a lot more fun last night when you were drunk.”

  “You’re not taking this seriously enough,” Elizabeth accused.

  Hanna rose to pour the tea. “I’m taking this exactly seriously enough. You want vanilla cookies?”

  Elizabeth’s stomach gave a little lurch of protest. “How come you’re not hung over?” she asked Hanna, rising to follow her into the kitchen area.

  “Because you outdrank me. How are you feeling by the way?”

  “You mean other than facing imminent death by either criminal gang wars or by annoying my driver?”

  Hanna carefully poured two cups of steaming tea. “Yeah.”

  “Bit of a headache. Reed left me some aspirins on the nightstand.”

  “Yet more evidence of his evil cold-bloodedness.”

  “He didn’t want me to suspect anything.”

  “Well, that’s not working out so well for him so far, is it?”

  “That’s because of my brilliant, deductive mind.”

  “It’s because of your pickle-brained paranoia.”

  “I heard the lies. I smelled the coconut.”

  Hanna’s telephone rang and Elizabeth cringed.

  Hanna picked it up. “Hello?” She looked at Elizabeth and mouthed Bert Ralston. She listened for a moment. Then her brows shot up. “Really?”

  “What?” Elizabeth demanded in a stage whisper. Her heart rate deepened in her chest.

  “Okay,” said Hanna. “Thanks. I owe you one.” And she hung up the phone.

  “Well?” asked Elizabeth, easing into a chair, because the feeling had suddenly left her legs.

  “Joe Germain isn’t a driver.”

  A loud clanging grew inside Elizabeth’s head.

  “He’s a bodyguard.”

  “What?”

  “He’s a bodyguard, Lizzy. He works for a national agency called Resolute Charter. Reed’s not trying to hurt you, he’s trying to protect you.”

  An instant rush of relief shot through Elizabeth’s body.

  For a split second, it masked all the other questions.

  But then they percolated back. “Protect me from what?”

  “I’m guessing reporters. With Hammond and Pysanski’s involvement, this SEC thing is heating up.”

  Elizabeth had no idea who Hammond and Pysanski were. But Reed wasn’t a member of a criminal gang. And her life as she knew it hadn’t just ended.

  “It doesn’t explain the coconut woman,” she pointed out.

  Hanna slid down into a chair beside her. “If you give it a little time, I’ll bet the coconut woman explains herself.”

  “Dad called here looking for an explanation.”

  Elizabeth was delighted to hear her brother Brandon’s deep voice on the other end of the phone.

  “Why didn’t he call me?” She crossed the living room to curl up in her favorite wingback chair next to the bay window. The clouds were still gray, but the rain had turned to drizzle.

  “He thinks the FBI has your phone bugged.”

  “It’s the SEC, and they don’t bug phones.”

  Did they?

  If they did, maybe she could get her hands on the tapes and get some information on coconut woman.

  “You holding up okay?” asked Brandon.

  Elizabeth traced a zigzag pattern on the smooth leather arm. “I’m fine.”

  Truth was, the SEC was far from her biggest problem at the moment.

  “So, you’re not worried?” asked Brandon.

  “He’s got a good lawyer, and they say it’s going well.” As she finished the sentence, she realized that Reed hadn’t in fact said a single thing to her about the case since their initial discussion. In truth, she had no idea how it was going.

  “How are things in California?” she asked brightly.

  “I hired another vet last week,” said Brandon. “And we’re advertising for two technicians.”

  “Business is booming?”

  “The practice is definitely growing. We’re not in your tax bracket yet, but Heather has her eye on a little house up the coast.”

  “You’re selling the condo?”

  “With a growing family-”

  “Heather’s pregnant again?” Elizabeth hated the pain that filled her chest at the thought of Heather having another baby. She would be thrilled to be an auntie a second time. Babies were nothing but good news. Even if they weren’t hers.

  “No, Heather’s not pregnant. Lucas isn’t even a year old.”

  “Right.” Elizabeth was ashamed of her reaction.

  “Lizzy?”

  “Uh-huh?” She promised herself she’d do better when her sister-in-law really was pregnant.

  “I’m sorry you’re not conceiving.”

  Everything inside Elizabeth went still, and a lump instantly formed in her throat. “How did you…?”

  Brandon’s voice went low and protective, and suddenly they were teenagers again, sharing secrets, laughing and conspiring. “I saw it in your eyes when Heather was pregnant. Then again when you held Lucas. And I hear it in your voice every time we talk about children.”

  “We’re trying,” she managed.

  “I know. And I assume you have the best medical care money can buy?”

  She nodded, then uttered a weak, “Yes.”

  “It’ll happen, Lizzy.”

  “How long-” Elizabeth stopped herself. It was none of her business.

  “Did Heather take to conceive?”

  “Yes.”

  “A couple of months.”

  Elizabeth reflexively wrapped an arm across her stomach, leaning slightly forward in the chair. She and Reed had been trying for three years.

  “I predict,” Brandon said into the silenc
e, “that not too long from now, you’ll be sitting in my house with a plump, smiling baby wrapped in your arms, and you’ll be saying to me ‘Thank goodness it took so long. Otherwise we wouldn’t have Johnny or Sally or Mary or Tim-the most perfect baby in the world.’”

  Elizabeth’s throat was so tight, she couldn’t speak.

  “Lizzy?”

  “Three years,” she moaned, saying it out loud for the first time, feeling the weight of all those failed cycles pressing down on her shoulders.

  “It’ll happen.”

  “And what if it doesn’t?”

  “It’s way too early for contingency plans. Trust me. I’m a doctor.”

  “You’re a veterinarian.”

  “And I spend an enormous amount of my time consulting on breeding issues-dogs, cats, horses, goats.”

  “I’m not a goat.”

  “Principle’s the same.”

  There was a muffled rustle on the other end of the phone.

  “Elizabeth?” came Heather’s breathless voice.

  Mortification flushed Elizabeth’s body. “You heard?”

  “Yes. And I’m about to kill your brother.”

  Brandon’s protest was faint in the background. “I wasn’t saying she was a goat.”

  “Shut up,” Heather instructed Brandon. To Elizabeth, she said, “There are plenty of choices.”

  “I really didn’t want this to become-”

  “Since you’re still trying, I assume Reed’s not sterile?”

  Elizabeth worked her jaw, but no sound came out.

  Heather’s voice went muffled. “Of course we can talk about it. We’re family. You go check on Lucas.”

  Her voice came back on the receiver. “Have you tried in vitro fertilization?”

  “Uh…no,” Elizabeth admitted.

  “Artificial insemination? With Reed’s sperm, of course.”

  Once she got past the shock, Elizabeth realized there was something strangely comforting about Heather’s matter-of-fact approach. “I’ve been taking my temperature.”

  “That’s good. Elevate your hips, and don’t move for half an hour afterward.”

  “Right,” said Elizabeth, wondering just how far this conversation would go.

  Heather’s voice went low. “Brandon doesn’t know it, but I took my temperature for six months before we tried for Lucas. I knew exactly when I was ovulating. I mean, why take chances?”

  “Did you hold off on sex?” Elizabeth could hardly believe she’d asked the question.

  “We did. For a little over a week. Of course, Brandon didn’t know what I was up to, so he got a little frustrated and confused.” Heather laughed. “Never had so many headaches in my life.”

  Elizabeth smiled, finding the knot in her stomach easing off. “And it worked.”

  “Like a charm.”

  “It hasn’t for me.”

  “Nature is fickle,” said Heather. “It might take time. And, as for contingency plans, if nothing else works, we’ll take your eggs and Reed’s sperm, and I’ll grow a baby for you.”

  “What?” Elizabeth coughed out, certain she couldn’t have heard properly.

  “I’ll be your surrogate mother,” said Heather with conviction. “We already know I grow the best babies in the world.”

  Elizabeth’s chest filled with emotion, and her eyes welled up with tears. “I don’t…You couldn’t…”

  “Oh yes, I could. And I will.”

  Elizabeth’s sob was audible. She was completely beyond words. Heather had just made the most generous, kind-spirited offer a human being could make.

  “Lizzy, you’re my sister, and I love you. And I want you to know that you’re a million miles away from exhausting your options.” She paused. “Okay?”

  Elizabeth nodded, still unable to speak.

  “I’m going to take that as a yes.”

  “I love you, too,” Elizabeth whispered.

  “Can you come to visit? Is Reed allowed to leave the state?”

  The question surprised a laugh out of Elizabeth. “Yes, he’s allowed to leave the state.

  “Good. Let’s make some plans.”

  “Sure. Yeah. Okay.”

  “Oops. Lucas is crying. Looks like Daddy’s blowing it in there. Bye for now. We’ll see you soon!”

  Then Heather was gone. And Elizabeth sat staring numbly at the telephone. Her sister-in-law was an angel. She was a saint. And somehow her strength and kindness made Elizabeth feel pathetic.

  Elizabeth had once been strong. She’d once had the world at her feet. She was fit and attractive. She had a college degree and a husband to die for. She’d had confidence and energy, and a sense of optimism that told her everything was going to turn out well.

  But it hadn’t.

  And now she had no children, no career, and potentially no husband.

  She pictured Reed, wondering what, or who, he was doing right now. Then she banished the vision, remembering Hanna’s advice instead. It wasn’t reasonable to assume he was having an affair.

  It was reasonable, however, to wonder if he was coming home for dinner. She pressed the on button on the phone and dialed his office number.

  It rang four times before Devon picked up. “Reed Wellington’s office.”

  “Hi, Devon. It’s just me.”

  “Oh. Hi, Elizabeth.” Was there something in her voice? “He just left for a dinner meeting.”

  A dinner meeting? Was that suspicious? Was he with her? “Do you know which restaurant?”

  Devon hesitated. “I…”

  Damn. It was suspicious. “Never mind. I know I wrote it down this morning,” Elizabeth lied. “I think it was Reno’s…maybe The Bridge…”

  “Alexander’s,” Devon put in.

  “Oh, yes. Alexander’s. Thanks,” Elizabeth said as cheerfully as she could manage, then she hung up and pulled a business card out of her blazer pocket.

  Reasonable or not, she dialed Joe Germain’s cell phone.

  “Might as well make yourself useful,” she mumbled while it rang through. It was impossible to get a parking spot near Alexander’s at this time of day.

  Joe was at her door in less than a minute.

  “How’d you do that?” she asked, letting him into the foyer while she slipped on a coat.

  “Do what, ma’am?”

  “Get here so fast.”

  “I was in the lobby.”

  “Lurking?”

  One corner of his mouth flexed. “Pretty much.”

  She hooked her purse over her shoulder. “Is that what you do?”

  “Excuse me, ma’am?”

  The door closed behind them, and she pulled out her key to lock the dead bolt. “When you’re not driving. Do you simply lurk in the lobby?”

  “Sometimes I wash the car.” He followed her toward the elevator.

  “And shoot the bad guys?”

  He reached out and pressed the elevator button but didn’t answer.

  “I know you have a gun,” she told him.

  “I do have a gun, ma’am.”

  “Call me Elizabeth. Why do you have a gun?”

  “Because this is New York City.”

  The elevator car arrived, and he gestured for her to go first.

  “I know you’re not a driver.”

  “I am a driver, ma’am.”

  “Elizabeth.”

  He gave her a look that said her first name wouldn’t be passing over his lips anytime soon. “Mrs. Wellington.”

  “I know you’re my bodyguard.”

  Again, he didn’t answer.

  “I take it you can neither confirm nor deny you were hired as my bodyguard?”

  They started across the lobby.

  “Where would you like to go?” he asked in a cool, professional voice.

  “I’ll pretend I don’t know,” she offered. “But I think you and I should be straight with one another.”

  “Am I taking you to dinner? To run errands?”

  “Isn’t there some k
ind of special bond? Bodyguard and protectee? One that calls for complete honesty? Considering you may be throwing yourself in front of a bullet for me?”

  Joe gave a small sigh. “Visiting a friend?”

  “Spying on my husband.”

  Joe stopped dead.

  She took two more steps and then turned and fluttered her lashes. “Is that a conflict of interest for you?”

  “No.” He started walking again.

  “Good. Alexander’s Restaurant, please.”

  Reed paused in the foyer of Alexander’s, grateful that Selina’s informant had been right.

  Third booth past the wine cellar, partially screened by a white, marble pillar, there was Senator Kendrick. He was flanked by two gorgeous young women, and there was an open bottle of Romanée-Conti on the table. No surprise there. The senator was a fairly infamous womanizer. Not that Reed cared one way or the other. The senator’s personal life was his own business.

  Reed strode confidently past the maître d’, rounded the end of the polished bar and came upon Kendrick before the man had a chance to spot him.

  “Good evening, Senator.” Without waiting for an invitation, Reed slipped into the burgundy velvet booth, sliding up next to the blond woman, helping himself to a breadstick.

  The senator’s expression faltered, but the woman immediately curved her red lips into a welcoming smile, and she draped a long-fingered hand on Reed’s shoulder.

  A waiter appeared at the table. “Would you care for a drink, sir? Some wine?”

  “Macallan eighteen-year-old,” said Reed. “One ice cube.”

  The waiter nodded and withdrew.

  “Reed,” Kendrick finally acknowledged with a nod.

  “Back from Washington?” Reed asked.

  “This afternoon.”

  “I’ve been trying to get hold of you.”

  “I got your messages.”

  “And?”

  “And my lawyers have advised me not to speak publicly on the matter.”

  Reed cracked the breadstick in half. “Where my lawyers have advised me to convince you to speak publicly on the matter.”

  Kendrick’s bushy-browed eyes narrowed.

  “I was surprised to read about Hammond and Pysanski.” Reed let his gaze bore into the man he’d known and trusted for a dozen years. Not that Kendrick would be the first politician to go bad.