“SD9 releases you from your contract.” He took a deep breath, stinking salt water almost choking him.
“That’s not fair…”
If she’d made a grab for him then, latched on to him, pleaded with him, would it have made a difference? He’d never know. Instead, he watched as she built herself back up, shields locked and loaded, eyes refusing to leave his. Challenging.
“I don’t know how you can say that.” She turned to face the endless black, but not before he saw a single tear escape. “After today…”
Damn it all. Her sadness would not move him. She’d miscalculated. And lost.
They both had.
“You can’t spin this, Maggie. I’m playing golf with the senator tomorrow morning, and what am I supposed to say? ‘Oh hey, it looks like you’re getting my best girl.’ Or am I supposed to say, ‘Hey, since you’re getting my best girl, why don’t we iron out the details on this DOD contract in the event the acquisition goes through?’”
“Cruz, you promised!”
He stepped back, turned to rejoin the party, then thought better of it. “You’re right. I did. And at least my promise means something.”
Chapter 7
It was both a blessing and a curse that Wedding Weekend went full steam ahead. When she wasn’t sewed to Laurel’s side—and thereby Claire’s—Maggie was rolling up her sleeves and helping Mom and Helen direct the army of caterers and florists and some guys who looked like the Secret Service.
Of course the president was on the guest list.
Cruz had slept on the couch after they disembarked. He hadn’t made a big deal about it, hadn’t huffed and puffed or swore at her like a jealous boyfriend. He’d just changed into sweats and a T-shirt and said something about going downstairs to work in the kitchen.
And he’d never come back up.
Last night at the rehearsal, there were only a few eyebrows raised when Maggie walked in alone. What? There was barely enough room in the chapel for the wedding party itself, much less extra bodies. And once they were at the club for dinner, it had been easy enough to fade into the background.
Except when Mom had cornered her.
And Laurel.
And even sweet Ashton James had mentioned something about Cruz’s absence before leaving with the best man.
Maggie had sipped a steady stream of champagne like it had been her job and offered the same line about Cruz being called away on a business matter if pressed.
But now it was Saturday. D-day, or W-day, whatever. And Maggie hadn’t seen nor heard from Cruz since he’d gone downstairs to work Thursday night. She’d even valiantly tried to stay awake after the rehearsal dinner, just in case he wanted to talk.
It was like waiting for a ghost.
She’d walked back into her room and knew the moment she walked in that he’d been there—but wasn’t anymore.
He didn’t call. She had no texts. Not even from Claire.
Maggie took a scalding hot shower and was super proud of herself for not sniffing his shampoo like a lunatic. The same couldn’t be said for the bottle of aftershave in the Dopp kit on her vanity. One whiff had her sitting on the tile floor, cradling the bottle to her chest like an alcoholic contemplating a bender.
He was gone. They were finished. Before we’d even really started, she wanted to scream. And that was that. Over a decade of hard work—of heeding Hannah Kline’s sad advice and getting away from the Cove and making her own way in the world. And look what she had to show for it.
If only the repair to her heart—and career!—could be spackled over as easily as the purple smudges under her eyes.
“Oh, honey,” DeShaun said when their FaceTime finally connected. “Thank goodness for the pro hair-and-makeup team descending on the Cove this afternoon. Too much Wedding Weekend debauchery?”
She promptly burst into tears. Big, fat, sloppy ones.
The phone leapt out of her hands as she searched for a box of tissues. There were some in the bathroom, but that would require moving. Maggie thought she might never move again.
“Maggie. Pick up your phone. Pick it up now, or I’m going to get Zoë and Iz on a conference call.”
That got her moving. The phone was buried in the sheets on the trundle. Which meant that as soon as she retrieved it, she had to bury her face in the sheets on the trundle and only barely managed to not moan his name. “Oh, Dee, you wouldn’t believe what’s happened.”
“Try me.”
She took one look at his dear, concrete slab of a face on the screen, and the crying began anew. “It’s Cruz.”
“He sick? Fall off a yacht?”
“No. No. I don’t— I can’t…” She’d lost him, and how on earth could she convey that in words?
DeShaun implored her to pick up the phone—oh, she’d dropped it again?—so she did, obediently.
“This have anything to do with the boss calling MacAullife and having him call off the acquisition?”
She wiped the back of her hand under her regrettably snotty nose. “He did what?”
There was a long silence, and Dee’s face froze—it wasn’t a connection gone wonky.
“When? DeShaun, when?”
“Uh, a few days ago, babe. Figured you finally won him over and—”
It was the bridesmaids’ luncheon from hell. Only Laurel and Mrs. Ramsey seemed to be enjoying the festivities. Everyone else was a little on edge.
Maggie had gone over long, long ago.
After she’d signed off with DeShaun, washing her face and re-spackling her eggplant-purple under-eye circles had seemed a Herculean task. But she’d done it—and FaceTimed him back with visual verification that she’d pulled on her big-girl panties and was on her way to the party.
It was hard to be all rah-rah love when one was certain one had thrown away both career and a shot at love in one fell swoop.
Cheers.
“Want to tell me what’s going on?” Of course, she’d been seated next to her mother, whose only obligation today was to sniffle into her embroidered linen handkerchief and beam proudly at a job well executed. Mrs. R’s orders. And any other day she might have relished the forced closeness, if only because she knew it made her mom happy. “Maggie?”
If she told her mom, she’d worry. Besides, crying out “he killed a deal for me” probably wouldn’t seem like a declaration of affection.
“Just not really in the mood for lobster. Not used to eating it every day, and I don’t want to be bloated tonight. My dress is already tighter than I’d like.”
The lie went over about as well as she’d thought, but fortunately they were seated in a horseshoe-shaped configuration in the South Salon so Mom wouldn’t be tempted to pinch her under the pale linen tablecloths, lest someone see.
“Oh, you looked marvelous Thursday morning at the last fitting, and you’ve got hours and hours before cocktail hour. You should try to eat something.”
“Mom.”
She patted Maggie’s hand. “Now, what time is it, Maggie? I thought they’d be doing the remove about now. Where’s your phone? Bits forbade me from even wearing a watch today.”
Maggie had purposefully left her phone in her handbag. Turned off. That way she wouldn’t choke herself on expectation each time a text buzzed through. She surreptitiously turned it on. “And for good reason. You’re a guest today, remember?”
Her mother started to open her mouth, but Maggie stopped her. “Don’t make me sic Claire on you.”
The threat worked, and Lucia Kennedy beamed over to where Mrs. R and Laurel sat huddled together, laughing. A thousand-months pregnant Janine looking on with a sour expression on her face.
The luncheon went on, and on. Rounds of toasts. Rounds of delicate salads and patisserie. Maggie was getting a little nervous the wedding party could make it through hair and makeup in time for pictures and the ceremony. Wasn’t her problem if they didn’t. Though Maggie was pretty proud of herself that she’d made it through the ordeal without once being mean to Claire, who for
some reason was sitting on her other side.
Her phone buzzed as the party seemed to be breaking up, and Maggie lurched for it like it was her lifeline. But it was nothing.
Fifteen minutes past the time when Maggie thought they needed to head to the “bridal suite,” they were standing around sipping tea with Kitty Stanton, nearest neighbor to the Ramsey compound. Claire caught Maggie’s eye. She smiled and continued her conversation—Kitty was starting up a women’s shelter in the area and was on a fishing expedition for Maggie’s support—but Claire would not be gainsaid.
Maggie watched her weave a path through the throngs of women in St. John bouclé and pastel Chanel. Stopping every so often to touch an arm or straighten a tablecloth at an empty table. Once she’d sidled up to them, Mom went poker-stiff next to Maggie but didn’t fail to perform the introductions.
“Kitty, have you made the acquaintance of Claire Portabella? She’s Laurel’s friend from school. And the wedding planner.” That last, she uttered through a tight grin, and Maggie felt the first genuine smile in days stretch across her face. Claire Mushroom. Ha! “Claire, this is Mrs. Kitty Stanton.”
“Of course,” she gushed. “Laurel is beyond thrilled your peonies saved her bouquet.”
Crap. Naturally Claire would take the opportunity to get a dig in. Mom and Mrs. R had been despondent when Dad’s prized peonies had suffered Phytophthora blight and had to be cut back after the wet spring.
“If I could borrow Margaret here for a moment? Bridesmaid duty calls.” Claire stared up at Maggie with fake, faker eyes. “The list?”
Like the florist wouldn’t have plenty of light green floral wire. But Maggie just grinned and beared it. “Not the dark. Got it.”
She turned to leave the sunroom, and though she would never admit it to anyone, she was a bit relieved Claire was sending her on some nonsense errands. Going days without seeing—or talking to—Cruz wasn’t something Maggie was used to. Not being able to talk through strategy with him? The worst. And it was chipping away at her.
But how could you talk strategy about someone with the person in question?
Impossible.
Cruz hadn’t wanted to abscond with the rental and leave Maggie afoot, but getting a ride into town the morning of the wedding was proving pretty tricky. It seemed every car-for-hire service—and all the fishing boats, too—were booked solid for the wedding guests. The Secret Service had the helipad on lockdown, and it was imperative he be off the compound before he did something foolish.
Like punch someone in the face.
Or kidnap Maggie again and set up a barricade in her room until she gave him the answers he wanted to hear. Because he still couldn’t believe she would leave like that. He’d been over it a million times in his mind. Had replayed every conversation of the months leading up to the wedding week. Maybe he’d misunderstood the current between Maggie and Cinco on the beach that day. Surely she couldn’t have—
But the most damning of all had been her own strident insistence that he not talk business with anyone. Namely, Senator Ramsey. And that was that.
No one stopped him when he walked up to the main house; although, a suit with an earpiece and Aviators gave him a thorough once-over. Maybe it helped that he went in the servants’ entrance. More likely, they had some kind of facial-recognition software.
He knew Maggie and all the women would be at some tea or lunch something, the men having left for a solid eighteen not long after breakfast. Cruz was desperate enough to see if he could hitch a ride with one of the delivery vans.
If he could just get to Boston, he could get Carol to work on changing his flight, chartering a jet—hell, he’d rent a car and drive back down to Austin if he had to.
Yeah, but he’d still have to walk into their office eventually.
Alone.
His cell buzzed and he ignored it. Like he’d ignored the many other calls DeShaun had lobbed his way. He wasn’t interested in hearing Maggie’s BFF’s side of the story. Was gonna be hard enough to tell the guy he was out of a job, since Maggie had defected. His wife and two kids were cute.
“No holes for you this fine morning?” Of all people to come to his rescue…
Cruz refused to let the revulsion show on his face, but turned to greet Cinco as he wandered down the main staircase. The dark wood had been suffocated with pounds of fresh flowers and green crap. The whole place had transformed, overnight, into a greenhouse.
“Got in a good game with your father and Matthews yesterday. The senator trounced me pretty good, so I decided to lick my wounds in private today.”
“Looking for Maggie?” The other man’s perma-smirk was strained. Cruz would like to think Cinco looked guilty, but more than likely he was just hungover.
“Nope. She’s at that fancy lady lunch with the rest of the girls. Actually”—and it pained Cruz to say it—“I need a ride into town. Got a deal breaking and need to be in the city.”
“And it wouldn’t be the gentlemanly thing to do to leave Maggie stranded at the Cove if you took that red can for a spin, would it?”
“It would not.” The one thing they agreed on.
“You’re in luck, pal. I’m on my way to the links—got a little late start this morning. Give me ten minutes and we can be on our way.”
Cruz swallowed his pride, his disgust, everything, and returned Cinco’s handshake. “Meet me back at Maggie’s parents’ place? My luggage…”
“Sure thing.”
“And just what are you two boys conspiring down there?” Senator Ramsey came creaking down the stairs, an unlit cigar in his teeth, his smartphone in hand.
“Nothing important. Don’t let Mother catch you smoking in the house today.”
“And don’t you let Mother catch you diddling Cassie Anne Taylor in the pool house. She’s decided to come up with her mother today after all.”
Cinco gave his father a blank look and turned on his heel. “Ten minutes, then we’re gone,” he called over his shoulder.
Cruz couldn’t quite meet the senator’s eye, but refusing his command to follow him out to the garden for a smoke was impossible.
“I didn’t take you for the leaving type, Griffin.” He worked to light the cigar to his satisfaction, and the grey-blue smoke took Cruz back to another world. Across the ocean that even now he could hear in his sleep.
“Sir?”
“Now don’t play that old deference game with me. Not when I know you’d just as soon punch my oldest as look at ’im. Feel that way myself, half of the time, but his mother seems to like him, so what can you do?”
Cruz could sit on the stone bench and stare out at the garden and the beach below, was what he could do, knowing that Cinco wouldn’t wait the full ten minutes, and any chance he had of leaving the Cove today would dissolve like the foam on the shore.
“Humor an old man and allow me to give you a word of advice, son. I hope you don’t think I’m an ass for bringing it up, but I know your father isn’t here to smack some sense into you—and even if he were, you probably wouldn’t listen to him. Wasn’t much for the practical, was he, your dad?”
“You knew my father?” Wouldn’t surprise him. Senator Ramsey had a squeaky-clean image, but Cruz’s parents had a way of bringing out the seedy side of people. Or so he’d heard.
“Who alive didn’t know of your father? Even Mrs. R sings ‘Careful, Baby’ to her dogs. But no, I didn’t know him personally. May he rest in peace.” He offered Cruz a drag.
With a shake of his head, he declined.
“Now Bits, there’s a handful of a woman. Love her to distraction, but there was a time when we were young I thought it wouldn’t work. Balancing love and success can drive a man wild until he learns there’s no balancing to it. One’s always gonna tip over and spill out. But which one…”
He trailed off, the cigar smoke and words ringing around them, both threatening to choke Cruz.
“Proud of you for not bashing in my head with a nine iron yesterday, but damn,
you should’ve brought it up.”
“Sir, I—”
“None of that business. It’s Auggie.”
“All right, Auggie.”
“Not that I wouldn’t love to steal her away from you, mind you, but Maggie’s determined to stand on her own two feet.” Puff puff. “Girl’s got a brain on her that would make our friends at the Pentagon weep. She’s a canny one, yes, but she’s not devious.” Puff puff.
Auggie let the smoke speak for him. But Cruz couldn’t be sure, could he?
“I like you, Cruz Griffin. But you’re a bigger jackass than Cinco if you can’t see you were played. And not by our Maggie.”
“She’s not…”
“No.” A single plume of blue-grey smoke lifted into the breeze.
Cruz tried to backtrack in his mind. To convince himself all signs pointed to the fallout from the yacht-party disaster. She’d been withdrawing in the months before the wedding. And since she’d gotten here, she’d been acting kind of jittery.
Which could all be explained, you idiot, by being forced to confront your past. And being forced by your controlling boss to bring him to a wedding. And then falling into some kind of tornado of emotions and physical chemistry—Jesus, the chemistry!
“So you’re telling me your son is not—”
“Hell no. And now he’s long gone, and so is your escape route.” Auggie laughed. Coughed. Then wheezed out another laugh. “I expect you to make things right today. Maggie’s special and deserves to be happy. But don’t screw this day up for my Laurel. Now,” he said, extinguishing the cigar on the stone bench between them, so close to Cruz’s hand he felt the pop of a lone ember, “I expect you to call on me in the future if you need anything. Understood?”
They stood, shook hands, and Cruz began putting the pieces of his life back together on the walk back to the house.
And there, at the edge of the garden, a shimmering apparition in a golden dress, was Maggie. Like he’d dreamed her up.
Like she’d vanish like so much cigar smoke.
Oh, God. She’d heard.
“Now why aren’t you enjoying yourself with the girls, pretty Maggie?” Auggie caught her up in an affectionate hug, and Cruz watched with eyes as sad and needy as one of The Dogs banished to the kennel. Come on, come on, come on, he shouted in his mind. Make your exit, senator, and leave us to work on repairing this merger.
The Last Plus One Page 12
