by Louise Clark
“Sure she will. You’ll convince her,” Roy said.
The twinkle was more pronounced now. Quinn decided he’d better leave before his father suggested he invite Olivia Waters and the mystery dad as well.
He picked up Tamara at her hotel as he had the previous day. He’d warned her about the venue and suggested she wear a dress for the dinner. She had chosen a simple cotton frock with a high neckline and three-quarter sleeves. The skirt reached to her knees and she wore flat sandals. The dress wasn’t ill-fitting, but it did nothing to enhance her thin figure.
As Tamara rushed out to the car, Quinn thought about how the dress would look on Christy, her curves filling out all the extra fabric, and how she’d walk with her head high and confidence in every stride. By contrast, Tamara’s movements were sharp and hurried and she moved with her head down. It made him realize that she wasn’t comfortable in the dress, which had him wondering why she wore it. That thought was swiftly followed by one that it might not be the dress that made her uncomfortable, but her own skin, which made him ashamed for comparing Tamara to Christy at all.
They arrived at Connoisseur five minutes early. The restaurant was minimalist chic with snowy white walls decorated with abstract paintings in jewel tones. The tables were covered by starched white linen and the cutlery was designed with clean lines, but was heavy in the hand. The centerpiece was a crystal sculpture, different on every table, set on a platform that shone light through the crystal, making the statue glitter with embedded color.
The maître d’ guided them to a private room at the back of the restaurant. It was decorated in the same understated way as the main dining room, but the windows that made up one wall provided a spectacular view across False Creek. Olivia was standing by those windows holding a wine glass when Tamara and Quinn arrived. The table, Quinn noted, was set for five.
For five? What the hell?
Olivia was dressed in a silk creation that flattered her figure and shouted out that she was an individual of stature, even as it emphasized that she was all woman. She offered them the choice of white or red from the already uncorked wine bottles on the table. Quinn chose red.
Tamara shook her head as she eyed her birth mother’s outfit and seemed to sink a little deeper into her own discomfort. “I lived as a Muslim for almost three years. I no longer drink alcohol.”
Olivia raised her eyebrows, but didn’t press. As she poured Quinn’s red, she said, “I asked you here a few minutes early so I could tell you a bit about your father, Tamara. I … ”
There was a stir in the outer dining room. Olivia’s gaze snapped toward the door and the dining room beyond. Her eyes narrowed. Quinn looked in the same direction. From where he was standing, he could see an average-sized man with impossibly golden hair, dressed in a bespoke blue suit that fit his trim body perfectly, striding through the dining room.
Headed their way, his entourage trailing behind him.
That nasty feeling that this was not a good idea came back with a vengeance. He should know by now to listen to his gut.
The man paused in the entrance to the private room. Olivia’s smile was warm, but there was an edge of annoyance in her voice when she said, “Fredrick, you’re early.”
Fredrick waved a hand in response to this as he walked into the room. Behind him, his entourage shook itself out into two muscled men who positioned themselves at a table just outside the room and a thin man with a harassed expression, who followed him inside.
Olivia turned to Tamara. “This is Fredrick Jarvis—”
Tamara’s expression was shocked, disbelieving, horrified. “I know who he is.”
Of course she did. Everyone did. Fredrick Jarvis was a Canadian politician who’d begun his career working in the oil industry, first in management, later as a spokesman debunking global warming, before he entered politics as a member of the Dogwood Party, the most right wing of Canadian right wing parties. He was a talented speaker and he had a way of making people listen to him and consider his arguments, even if what he was saying was far out of their comfort zone. The Dogwoods were the current party in power in British Columbia and Frederic Jarvis was a provincial minister.
He was also one of a dozen people vying for the leadership of the federal wing of the Dogwood Party. If he won, he could one day be prime minister of Canada.
This, then, was Tamara’s father. Quinn was having a hard time visualizing Olivia Waters with Fredrick Jarvis. While she wasn’t politically active, the causes she did involve herself in benefited those without influence or money. But maybe their personal and political differences were why they had split up all those years ago.
Fredrick Jarvis scrutinized Tamara for a minute, then he nodded. “She has the look of my father’s family. She could be mine.”
“What do you mean she could be?” Olivia was staring at him as if he had just grown horns and a tail. “She is yours, Fredrick.”
Jarvis raised his brows, but he smiled at Olivia in a way that was almost caressing. “We talked about this all those years ago, Olivia. You promised me you would do the sensible thing and terminate the pregnancy.”
Tamara made a little sound of pain. Quinn put his arm around her waist and pulled her close. Olivia glanced their way, then refocused on Jarvis. “I put her up for adoption, Frederick. Wasn’t that enough?”
There was anguish in her voice and Jarvis responded to it. He raised his hand to cup her cheek. “Dear Olivia. Such a strong moral center.” The murmured words were as tender as his touch.
It was a performance that was riveting, Quinn thought, as they all waited for Frederick’s next move. Olivia Waters, the cyber guru whose brisk, no nonsense style was legendary, was looking up at him with a beseeching vulnerability that exposed raw emotions she couldn’t control. It was clear to Quinn that she had never gotten over Frederick Jarvis. Even now, as she was introducing the child he had never wanted to him, she desired his approval.
“I’m a prominent man, Olivia,” Jarvis said gently. “Women have been known to lie about this sort of thing to gain a foothold, so to speak.”
She paled. “I’m not just any woman, Frederick.”
His thumb stroked along her cheekbone. He moved slightly and Quinn thought he was going to lean in for a kiss. Instead, he hovered, tantalizing, promising without providing. “No,” he murmured. “You are my special one, Olivia. My beautiful computer genius. You know I couldn’t do without you.”
Her expression said she loved hearing those words, that Frederick Jarvis’ approval was important to her, but she didn’t get a chance to reply.
Tamara said loudly, “Stop!” Then more quietly, “Please.”
Jarvis looked over, his brows raised. Twin patches of red blazed on Olivia’s pale skin.
Tamara looked at her father. “Why did you agree to meet me?”
His hand fell away from Olivia’s cheek. She reached up and put her hand to his face, as if touching him would bring his focus back to her. It didn’t. He ignored the touch and Olivia’s hand drifted away as he walked over to Tamara, moving with a sinuous grace that was as mesmerizing as his smooth, mellow voice.
He stopped a few feet away from her. After a quick assessing glance at Quinn, he focused on his daughter. He smiled in a tender way that was completely parental. “I didn’t know about you before Olivia called.”
She nodded jerkily, but didn’t say anything. Waiting.
“I had Cowan … ” He turned his head to half look at the thin man with the harassed expression who had followed him into the room. “Mr. Cowan is my chief of staff. I don’t know what I’d do without his brilliant ability to strategize.”
Cowan perked up, buoyed by the praise.
“Cowan did some research for me,” Jarvis continued. He was focused on Tamara now, watching her reactions. Assessing her response. “You have a fine reputation in medical circles.”
Tamara stared up into his eyes. Her expression didn’t change, but Quinn could see that she was completely fixated on
Jarvis, drinking in every word he said.
“The work that you do in war zones, helping those who have done nothing but be born in the wrong place at the wrong time, shows not only a remarkable courage, but a compassion that is noteworthy. I applaud you.”
“Thank you,” Tamara said hoarsely.
“Your captivity. It must have been horrible.”
“It was.” She didn’t elaborate.
Jarvis smiled. There was a world-weary understanding of the crimes people do to one another in that smile. A sadness for what his daughter had endured. “I am sorry,” he said gently. The smile was gone, replaced by studied seriousness.
She nodded jerkily and said again, “Thank you.”
He smiled in response to that, but this time the smile held hope, had a flare of optimism. “Of course, good can come out of tragedy. Cowan’s research showed that your rescue and return is trending very nicely on social media.”
Quinn was so deeply involved in the emotional intensity of the scene that it took him a few moments to process that statement. Trending nicely? What the hell?
Tamara was frowning, her eyes searching her father’s face. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Frederick, no! Not now.” Olivia sounded anguished.
Tamara glanced at her, then back at Jarvis. Her brows were raised in question. Quinn was very much afraid he knew where this conversation was going. His gut clenched as he anticipated Tamara’s pain, and anger bloomed.
Jarvis shot Olivia a direct, steady look. “Don’t interfere.” He turned back to Tamara, his gaze warm again. “Your timing is excellent, my dear. With your approval rating, acknowledging you as my daughter will give my campaign the kind of push it needs to send me into the lead and leave my competitors in the dust.”
“That’s why you wanted to meet me?” Tamara said. There was no inflection in her voice. Her expression was frozen. Her gaze remained locked with her father’s. But Quinn could feel the tremors wracking her body. Jarvis had dealt her an agonizing blow and she was feeling it, even if she wasn’t showing her pain.
“I wanted to meet my daughter, of course,” Frederick said. “To see if she was all her reputation proclaimed.” The warmth of his smile invited Tamara to smile back. She didn’t. There was the briefest of hesitations, then tenderness shone in that smile. He said, “And she is.”
Tamara’s expression didn’t change, but Olivia looked relieved. Quinn could still feel Tamara shaking in the shelter of his arm and outrage seared through him at the way these two people who had made her were treating her. “Her name is Tamara, and she’s your daughter, Jarvis, not a campaign ornament.”
Jarvis blinked and frowned as he refocused on Quinn. “And you are?”
Quinn savored the moment. He figured Frederick Jarvis was about to go ballistic. He was going to enjoy the show. “I’m Quinn Armstrong.”
It took a moment for Jarvis to place him, but Quinn knew the instant he did. Fury leapt into the man’s eyes, then he turned on Olivia, his action the swift dart of a predator. “You invited a reporter to this meeting?”
She flared back. “I didn’t. He’s Tamara’s friend. Besides, you love reporters. What’s the harm in this one?”
“What’s the harm? This isn’t just any reporter, it’s an Armstrong!”
Yes, Quinn thought. An Armstrong. The Armstrongs and Fredrick Jarvis went back a ways, and the relationship wasn’t a good one.
“He’s Roy Armstrong’s son!”
Olivia’s eyes opened wide. “Roy Armstrong, the author? The crazy guy who led the protests against the oil pipeline to the coast?”
“Yes! The man who almost cost me my career!”
Olivia put a hand to her lips. Her eyes were wide, her expression stricken. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
Jarvis drew himself up, pulling back and putting a lid on his anger in a way that was almost visible. “Too late now,” he said. His tone was harsh, the words clipped. His gaze swept the room and settled on Tamara. “He will have to go.”
Her gaze locked with her father’s. “No.”
“No?” He sounded amused, as if her response was just a silly attempt at rebellion.
Tamara bit her lip, then she dragged her gaze away from her father and turned so she could look up into Quinn’s face.
What he saw in her eyes chilled him. There was betrayal, desolation, despair.
“Quinn,” she said. “Can we leave?”
“Sure.” He slipped his arm from her waist and took her hand protectively.
“You can’t go yet,” Mr. Cowan, the campaign strategist, said suddenly. He’d positioned himself just inside the doorway, an observer of the scene, not a participant. “The press is waiting outside. If they see her coming out without Mr. Jarvis, they’ll get the wrong impression.”
“You notified the press?” Olivia said. Shock and dismay had her voice winging upwards as she finished.
“Of course,” Cowan said. He nodded, apparently not at all disturbed by the emotions zinging through the room. “The check I did shows that people sympathize with her. They see her as a heroine, victimized by irrational and violent thugs. That’s why we’re at this meeting tonight. The public is sentimental, you know. What could be more touching than having a man discover his long-lost daughter, especially a daughter who has lived a nightmare, but who is now able to return to her loving family?”
“I’m not his daughter,” Tamara said suddenly. Her hand tightened in Quinn’s.
“But I thought … ” Cowan turned to Jarvis. “If the girl is correct, we’ll look like fools. The press will have a field day.”
“You’re not?” Frowning, Jarvis looked from Tamara to Olivia. “What is going on, Olivia? You swore to me that this girl was mine.” His expression hardened. “Are you trying to undercut my campaign? I expected better of you. I thought you were on my side.”
“Of course she’s your daughter, Fredrick! And I don’t give a damn about your campaign.”
Tamara’s voice cut through the argument that threatened to turn into a battle. “You may have donated the sperm that created me, but you are not my father, Mr. Jarvis. My father is Todd Ahern and he is a good man who has spent his life selflessly caring for others. He’s a man I respect and a man I love. He is not you and he never will be.”
“That’s right. He’s a clergyman, isn’t he?” Jarvis said. At Tamara’s outburst, he had shifted gears. Now he sounded remarkably mellow, as if this was just normal get-to-know-you chitchat. He turned to his assistant. “You checked him out, didn’t you?”
Cowan nodded. He fiddled with this phone, then said, “He’s a United Church minister with a congregation in downtown Toronto. No record, but he’s protested a time or two over perceived mistreatment of the poor and destitute. He’s also volunteered for his local MP, who is a Liberal.”
“You made up a dossier on my father?” Tamara’s voice was low. It shook with emotion, anger at the forefront. There were two spots of color on her cheeks. She dropped Quinn’s hand and advanced on Jarvis, her eyes blazing.
Cowan hurried away from his post by the door and managed to slip between them. A big man, dressed in chef whites, surged into the opening. He was smiling. “Good evening, Minister Jarvis! It is a pleasure to have your patronage this evening. As per Ms. Waters instruction, I’ve prepared a special menu for your party. Antoine, my head server, will be caring for you tonight.” His voice tapered off as he absorbed the charged scene before him. “Is everything all right?”
“No, it’s not!” Tamara snapped.
“Everything is fine,” Frederick said. He raised his eyebrows and smiled. “You’re Jackson Vining, aren’t you?”
Vining nodded. The owner of Connoisseur, he was a chef with international reputation for excellence. He looked around, clearly wondering if the emotional scene would somehow rebound against him and his restaurant.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, sir.” The new voice came from the doorway. One of the security detail was standing t
here and his expression was impassive.
“Yes, what is it, Beck?” Jarvis said. The phrase was clipped, impatient.
“Your voices can be heard in the restaurant. People are taking notice.”
Olivia rolled her eyes. “Now you’ve done it, Fredrick. You didn’t have to notify the press to show up. We’ll be all over the news before we even sit down to dinner.”
“Not quite,” Quinn said. “Chef, do you have a backdoor Dr. Ahern and I could use?”
Vining looked from him, to Tamara, to the others, then he nodded. “Come with me.”
“You can’t go! We have to sort this out,” Cowan said. He sounded distraught, as if his world was collapsing around him.
Jarvis scrutinized Tamara’s features. After a minute he said quietly, “Let her go. This has been a lot to take in. She needs time.”
Quinn edged Tamara toward the doorway.
Cowan tapped his phone. “Perhaps she isn’t worth cultivating. It was a long time.”
“What are you talking about, you stupid little man?” Olivia demanded, sounding fraught.
Cowan looked up. Blinked. Said loudly, “Her captivity. She was held by radical terrorists for almost three years. In addition, she was brought up by a family with left leaning beliefs. She could have been turned.” He shrugged. “She’s probably some kind of fundamentalist spy.”
Tamara stiffened. She turned toward her father, her eyes seeking his reaction. Jarvis looked thoughtful, apparently considering his strategist’s comment.
It was not the right response. Fury blossomed in Tamara’s eyes. Quinn decided he’d better get her out of there before she did or said something she’d later regret. He took her hand and led her to the door. Chef Vining, who had been watching this with an impassive expression, but narrowed, cautious eyes, indicated that they follow him.
As they hurried through the restaurant toward the kitchen and the rear exit, it was clear to Quinn that most of the diners had heard at least parts of the uncomfortable little scene. The press was going to be all over this. He needed to get Tamara away, now.
This was bad. Very bad.
