London Tides

by Carla Laureano

  “Smart woman. Hit up the bar before you’re subjected to the inquisition.” Henry leaned past to order a Scotch on the rocks and then turned back to her. “You ready?”

  “I was. You know, I’m usually the one asking the questions.”

  “So ask the questions.” Henry took his drink and gestured with his head for her to follow. “Come, I’ll introduce you round.”

  He led her back over to where Asha and Jake stood conversing with the man from earlier. Grace handed Asha her drink and put on a friendly smile as Henry made introductions.

  “Grace, this is Kenneth DeVries, the vice president of communications at CAF.” And my boss, his significant look said.

  “A pleasure to meet you. I’m Grace Brennan.”

  “I know who you are.” His eyes rested briefly on the tattoos exposed by her pushed-up jacket sleeves before he grasped her offered hand. “I’d venture to say everyone knows who you are. Henry tells us there’s already some Pulitzer buzz about you.”

  “This is the first I’ve heard of it,” Grace said. “But Henry stays much better connected in the journalism world than I do. I’m just a photographer.”

  “Grace is far too humble.” Henry’s message was clear: she needed to play up her experience with the man so he thought he was stealing her away to work with CAF. While she appreciated the thought, the idea still went against the grain. Either DeVries shared her editorial vision, or he didn’t. Whether or not she’d been shortlisted for a Pulitzer nomination—a long shot if she’d ever heard one—was irrelevant.

  But it didn’t seem to matter. Mr. DeVries gave her a knowing smile. “I’m far more familiar with Ms. Brennan’s work than she probably thinks. Henry, I see a few board members over there by the door. Introduce her, will you?”

  “My pleasure. If you’ll come with me, Grace. Dr. Issar, Mr. Hudson, it was nice to see you.” Henry pressed a hand lightly against her back.

  Grace shook Mr. DeVries’s hand once more before Henry steered her toward another group of tuxedo-clad men. “I take it that’s his tacit approval?”

  “Absolutely. I mentioned you to him this week, and while he knew your name, he wasn’t familiar with your work. I’d say he’s done his research.”

  “Who are we impressing now?”

  “Board of directors, at least a few members. They’ll be the ones who have the final vote on your hire. Assuming you decide you want the job, of course.” He put on a smile and injected himself into the conversation with the ease of a politician.

  Henry quickly made the introductions, and Grace repeated their names to fix them in her mind. Dr. Philip Vogel, director of international programs. Dr. Leonard Cho, medical adviser. Harvey Kinlan, chairman of the board.

  Kinlan cut straight to the chase. “Symon here says that you’re giving up fieldwork and coming back to London.”

  “It’s a possibility, yes,” Grace said carefully. “I’ve spent ten years covering conflicts, though. It’s not an easy thing to leave behind.”

  “I imagine it isn’t,” Kinlan said. “Yet there are advantages to a steady, less dangerous job, as Symon will tell you.”

  “What I’ve appreciated,” Henry said, “is that I’ve been able to spend time with program coordinators and local volunteers. Being based out of London doesn’t mean being handcuffed to a desk.”

  Henry knew her far too well, neutralizing her number one objection before she could voice it. “I imagine in addition to the creative director position, you have a director of photography.”

  “We do,” Vogel said, “along with staff photographers and freelancers. But I imagine Henry would want you to spend some time in the field if that’s where your interest lies. He tells me you’ve freelanced for other NGOs over the years.”

  Grace shot Henry an amused look, which made him grimace. Those experiences had been exactly why they said they’d never work for an international nonprofit. Apparently, he’d left that part out. “I’m curious to hear how you administer your programs locally. Far too many organizations stop at relief, and any further rehabilitation or development fails because they are too arrogant to learn from and understand the local culture.”

  Eyebrows raised at her bluntness, but Vogel answered easily. “We’re well aware of the problems, and I think you’ll find CAF very sensitive to these issues.” His eyes flickered to a point over Grace’s shoulder. “Ah, MacDonald, there you are. I want you to meet someone.”

  Immediately, all her incisive, intelligent questions fled, her attention focused to one single point. Surely it couldn’t be. MacDonald was a common Scottish surname. She was being paranoid. When she turned to prove it, though, the smile slipped from her face, turning instead to a grotesque twitch.

  Ian seemed not to notice her discomfiture, or maybe he was enjoying it. “Grace and I know each other already,” he said. He took the hand that she didn’t remember offering, and his piercing blue gaze collided with hers. She went cold in an instant.

  In the past week, she’d managed to convince herself that her brief impression of him at the river had been flawed, that he had to have changed in the last decade. And he had—for the better. If he’d been good-looking before, maturity had made him even more appealing, the fine lines at the corners of his pale-blue eyes and the hint of early gray at the temples adding interest to his handsome face. He also seemed taller and broader than she remembered, his perfectly tailored tuxedo emphasizing both the breadth of his shoulders and his impressive height. No matter which way she considered him, he was heart-stopping.

  Only then did she realize she had gaped at him for a full minute without saying anything. She opened her mouth and still nothing came out. He smiled coolly at her as he released her hand, then looked past her to the men. “I’m very familiar with her work, in fact. She would be quite an asset to CAF. I’m sure the rest of the board will agree.”

  The three men leveled curious looks at them. Say something, she commanded herself, but shock washed away coherent speech. What was he doing here? Why hadn’t anyone told her he was involved in this charity? Had Asha known they would run into him, or was this all a big coincidence?

  Fortunately the ballroom doors opened at that moment, and the hum of quiet conversation escalated to a roar. Vogel smiled in her direction. “We’ve an empty seat at our table. Please, you must join us.”

  At last, Grace’s voice made a reappearance. “Thank you. I’d be honored.” And yet, instead of drawing her off with them as she’d hoped, he and the other men moved into the crowd themselves, leaving Grace standing there dumbly with Ian.

  The slight twist of his mouth said he wasn’t any happier about the arrangement than she was. “Shall we?”

  Grace moved automatically, even though the light press of his hand at her back sent a tingle straight up her spine. She needed to get a grip on herself. “Wait, what did you mean ‘the rest of the board’?”

  “I was elected to the board of directors a couple of years ago. I assume you didn’t know, or you wouldn’t be considering the position.”

  A spark of anger finally burned through the glacier that seemed to have formed over her on his arrival. “This has absolutely nothing to do with you. Henry Symon recommended me for the job, and if I’m coming back to London for good, there are far worse career directions.”

  “Are you?”

  “Am I what?”

  “Coming back to London.”

  She blinked at him. “I don’t know yet. I guess that still depends.”

  “On the job?”

  On you. The words surfaced in her mind and were halfway to her lips before she arrested them. But from the searching look he gave her, she wondered if she’d voiced them aloud.

  And then the wondering expression vanished, replaced by the perfect, polished composure he wore with as much pride as his tuxedo. He nodded toward the ballroom. “After you.”

  Ian let out a long breath as Grace passed through the ballroom doors. Thirty more seconds alone with her, and he’d make a comp
lete fool out of himself in front of her, his colleagues, and half of London’s elite. When he’d glimpsed her holding court among the rapt members of CAF’s executive staff, he’d flown through dread and anger to something he didn’t even want to name. Considering how the attention of every other male in her vicinity had obliterated his determination to avoid her, it certainly wasn’t the indifference he’d been hoping for.

  Not that anyone would really blame him. In a sea of conservative wool and sequins, she looked like a rock star, from her short-cropped blonde hair and sultry eye makeup to her form-fitting tuxedo, the sleeves of which were pushed up to show the tattoos on her right arm. He’d always pictured her as she’d left him—young, wild, and avant-garde—but now he had to add beautiful, sexy, and unapproachable to the list. He certainly hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her.

  Which was the entirely wrong thing to be thinking as he escorted her to a table full of his colleagues, especially when her mere proximity made his mouth go dry.

  Grace faltered just inside the double doors, her brows furrowing as she took in the opulence of the expansive room. Glass chandeliers dripped light from above, while roses and crystal decorated the white-robed tables.

  “Seems strange to have all this luxury to raise money for children who are dying of disease and starvation.”

  He dipped his head to speak low into her ear. “You don’t think this food actually costs five hundred quid a person, do you? Besides, it’s always good to show donors the lives of the less fortunate when they’re wearing four-thousand-pound suits.”

  “Like you?” Grace raised an eyebrow, taking him in from head to toe in a way that didn’t at all feel complimentary.

  Ian rested his hand on her back long enough to steer her toward a table near the front of the room. “You know, Grace, we aren’t all heartless corporate raiders. Some of us actually feel our success gives us an obligation to those without the same opportunities.”

  Grace looked embarrassed. “I’ve lived lean for so long, all this makes me uncomfortable.”

  “I know. That’s why CAF needs you. I meant what I said, Grace. You would bring something valuable to the organization.”

  Surprise lit her expression, but he purposely didn’t look at her as they approached the table. Of course, the only two chairs left were next to each other. She unbuttoned her jacket when she sat, and he automatically helped her out of it, hanging it on her chair. The back of her sequined top revealed a pink-and-white peony inked above her right shoulder blade. That was new. He barely restrained himself from brushing a finger across it. Given Grace’s propensity for symbolism, what did the image represent?

  Artfully shaped eyebrows lifted at the sight of Grace’s tattoos, but the women quickly masked their expressions. He wondered if that was the reason she’d chosen to remove her jacket in the chilly ballroom, a sort of litmus test for the board’s tolerance for unconventionality.

  Ian settled beside her and made the introductions of the wives and daughters sitting with the board members she’d already met. When he got to the man sitting on Grace’s other side, a French doctor named André Marchal, he realized he should have switched their seats. Marchal immediately took Grace’s hand with a brilliant smile.

  “Enchanté.”

  “Tout le plaisir est pour moi,” Grace replied immediately with a nod.

  “Ah, you speak French so beautifully. Do you spend much time in France?”

  The doctor’s gaze never wavered from Grace. The slow flicker of irritation built in Ian’s chest. Marchal was always charming—and perpetually bored, it seemed—so the intense interest in his expression was doubly disturbing. Ian casually laid his arm across the back of her chair as he leaned forward. “I understand Grace lives part of the year in Paris. Is that right?”

  She gave him a puzzled smile. “I’m based in Paris, yes, though I spend very little time there. Most of this past year I worked in the Middle East.”

  “Ah, very nice.” Dr. Marchal gave a vague smile and a nod toward Ian, as if to acknowledge that he’d made his point. “I hope you spend the best part in France. Our winters can be so dreary.”

  Ian leaned back but he didn’t remove his arm.

  Grace reached for her water glass and took a sip before she murmured to him, “Are you quite done?”

  He leaned over to whisper in her ear, “Not even close. Marchal is—”

  “I know what Marchal is. I live in France, remember?” She pulled away and gave him an amused smile as if he’d said something funny. Oh, Grace might pretend like she didn’t fit in with this group, but she played the game better than any of them.

  “So, Ms. Brennan.” Kenneth DeVries caught her eye over the elaborate centerpiece. “Henry tells me you’ve had the chance to look over our most recent publications. I’d like to hear what you think.”

  “They’re very well produced.”

  It was a diplomatic answer, and DeVries’s smile said he knew it. “I get the impression you don’t believe that’s a good thing.”

  When Grace hesitated, Ian finally dropped his arm from the back of her seat. “Please, go ahead. We’d like to hear your opinion.”

  She shot him a look that told him exactly what she thought about his interference, but then she leveled her gaze at DeVries across the table. “Quality is always important, and there’s no doubt you have that. But they come across as impersonal.”

  “We don’t wish our communications to be manipulative,” Vogel put in from Ian’s left.

  “I understand that, but there’s an element of manipulation in all art and commerce. It’s as much your job as it is mine to elicit an emotional reaction from donors.”

  “As fund-raisers,” DeVries said.

  “As human beings,” Grace countered. “We relate to each other as individuals, not statistics. A single person can’t help 900 million hungry people. Even the figure is too much to comprehend. But a family of seven children, two of whom may not survive past age five, simply because they lack access to food and clean water? That’s something everyone can feel.”

  “And that’s what you do with your photos.”

  “Exactly. It’s one thing to look at people as a colored region on a map, but another to see them as mothers, fathers, brothers, sons. That’s what journalists do, and that’s what CAF needs to do as well.”

  As the conversation veered into more specifics of how she would overhaul the organization’s creative branding, then into Grace’s own work, Ian couldn’t help but be impressed. The woman he remembered would never have been able to hold her own at a table full of suits, let alone talk philosophy, art, and politics with equal confidence. Like the others, he found himself hanging on every word, rapt at the thoughtful conclusions she’d come to in over a decade of photographing the world’s war zones. She had changed drastically from the twenty-four-year-old he remembered.

  Twenty-four. Had either of them ever really been that young? For the first time it struck him how laughable it was to have carried a flame for this woman for the last decade. They were not remotely the same people they had been. He’d been a cocky athlete, she as much a thrill-seeker as a humanitarian. This Grace Brennan, as impressive as she might be, was a complete stranger to him.

  “Didn’t we, MacDonald?”

  “I’m sorry?” He’d missed the shift in conversation, and Kinlan’s amused glance said he knew why.

  “I was telling Grace that her insights are exactly why we decided to hire someone with experience in the field, as opposed to a marketing director.”

  “Yes, indeed we did.” Actually, Ian only vaguely remembered that discussion, and when Henry Symon had pitched his vision to the board, Grace’s name hadn’t come up.

  Fortunately, the lights came up on the stage then, and the emcee for the evening’s event took the podium. Ian settled back in his chair to listen.

  As the evening progressed with speeches, videos, and a beautiful performance from the African Children’s Choir, Ian watched Grace work the
table. She’d been slightly aloof and awkward as a younger woman, especially around what she liked to call “posh society types,” and that had suited him fine. After all, he’d spent most of his twenties trying to outrun his association with his mum’s wealthy and powerful family. But like him, she’d seemed to come to the conclusion that it was useless to lump people into categories based on income or postcode. She chatted as easily with the jewel-bedecked wives as she had with their husbands, drawing out discussions of their own hobbies and charitable pursuits. He found his determination to stay cold toward her slipping in the face of her passion and enthusiasm.

  When the program ended and the attendees began to rise from their tables, Kenneth DeVries paused with his wife and handed Grace a business card. “Call me for an appointment when you’re ready. Between what I’ve heard tonight and Symon singing your praises, I’d like to talk with you more.”

  Grace turned over the card in her hand. “I’ll think about it. Seriously.”

  “Excellent. Good night, MacDonald.”

  Ian nodded to Henry and said good-byes to the others as the table slowly drained of people. Grace studied the card for a moment longer, then tucked it into her tiny handbag.

  “Are you really considering the job?”

  “Maybe. I’m intrigued. But it still depends.”

  As Ian repressed the urge to again voice the obvious question, he wasn’t sure what bothered him more: that he couldn’t bring himself to ask or that he actually might care about the answer.

  Grace’s nerves returned in force as the ballroom emptied of guests. The benefit had been grand—the food exceptional, the program moving, and the company surprisingly enjoyable. But she could no longer avoid the inevitable conversation that had been a decade in the making.

  Nor could she avoid the truth that a decade had not diminished her attraction to Ian. Never mind the fact that he’d become the polar opposite of her usual type, that had she seen the bespoke suit–wearing executive ten years ago, she wouldn’t have given him a second look. His observation while she tucked DeVries’s card into her clutch lit up every nerve ending and intensified the flutter in her chest.