Brilliant

by Kellogg, Marne Davis

  As I’ve mentioned before: Once I’m set, I’m set. There isn’t anybody more rapt than I. And once my mind’s made up, that’s it. Well, usually. I know I’ve been equivocating about France, but that turned out for the good, didn’t it? I was in this deal with both feet and I drank in and evaluated and analyzed every single moment and feeling. Was this what love was? Was this what I’d been resisting all my life? (Should there be more? Did I feel a little disappointed? No! Absolutely not.)

  And how did I feel about his being in my shower? Making himself at home in my bathroom? I tried to be generous with my feelings, but I really didn’t like it much. In my opinion, there are just certain things that should not be shared. Or seen in bright lights. I used the guest bath.

  I glanced down at my finger and the twelve-carat, flawless, D Colorless, square-cut diamond ring. It was very close to what I would have selected for myself. He did a pretty good job. I would have preferred a brilliant cut because I think when stones get this large, and are this good, a brilliant cut shows them off best. But for someone who didn’t appreciate the niceties, went for surface area instead of perfect proportion, he did all right.

  But then again, on the plus side, once we were dressed, we rode to work together for the first time. I felt like a princess. I felt like Grace Kelly with Cary Grant. I felt every silly, schoolgirl emotion—pretty: the prettiest girl in the world, and special: the girl all the others envied. And smug. Just as smug as the cat who swallowed the canary.

  It was one of the most beautiful spring days I’d ever seen in London. Maybe ever, anywhere, in my life. Flowers seemed to burst from everywhere—daffodils blanketed Green Park like a bright yellow carpet. The carriage horses had little bouquets tied to their harnesses. Window boxes bloomed before my eyes. I had turned into a cornball.

  The top was down on the car, and the bright morning sun bathed our faces. The radio blared—Pink Floyd.

  Owen said something and patted my hand.

  “What?” I yelled back.

  Whatever it was, he said it again.

  “I’m sorry,” I yelled, “I can’t hear you over the radio.”

  Thank God he turned it down.

  “I said I’m happier than I’ve ever been, because you’re mine.”

  “Get over yourself, Owen. It’s just a beautiful day, okay?”

  “You are such a grouch.”

  He took the long way, down Constitution Hill to the Queen Victoria Memorial in front of Buckingham Palace. We circled the roundabout three times.

  “I swear to God, Kick, I feel like such a kid, if there were a drive-in movie around here, we’d be at it and I’d be trying to feel you up. I feel bigger than Elvis.”

  Okay, I was thinking Grace Kelly and Cary Grant. But I could be Grace Kelly with Elvis. I’m sure I could. I can. I will. I am.

  We zipped all the way up the Mall to Trafalgar Square, over to Pall Mall, and back down past St. James’s Place to a little private garage behind the hotel. He rented the space from a broke aristocrat.

  I had to get out before he put the car in, the space was so tight. “You could save the world for the insane amount of money you pay this guy,” I said, watching him tug the garage doors closed and attach a formidable padlock. “At least he could put in an automatic opener.”

  “I don’t care how much it costs—no one touches my car but me, and there aren’t any other cars on either side of it that can ding my doors.”

  “You are so neurotic.”

  “Come on, babe.” He put his arm around my shoulder and squeezed. “Let’s get some breakfast.”

  Babe.

  I grinned.

  Babe. Wow.

  F I F T Y - E I G H T

  While he changed out of his casual weekend clothes into regular business attire, I studied the room service menu. His two-bedroom penthouse suite at the Dukes felt more like a country house. There were windows on three sides of the sitting room, faded-chintz-covered sofas and comfortable chairs, a wall of bookshelves packed with first editions dating from the 1940s, a working fireplace, and a small terrace, the door to which was open, letting in the crisp morning air upon which floated a bit of ocean.

  “What do you want?” I called into his bedroom. “Orange juice? Eggs? Muffins? French toast? Sausages?”

  “You know what I like—something high-protein, low-fat. Order for me. Why don’t you get us some protein shakes?”

  I felt at sea, as though I’d never met him before. I knew what he liked for breakfast at Cliveden, and at the office, but this was a different Owen. What if he liked something else at home? This sounds crazy, I know, especially at my age, but the fact is, this was the first time I’d ever been in a man’s private quarters. I’d been in hotel rooms with Sir Cramner—even after he’d bought me the Eaton Square flat, he still liked to spend a night or two, every now and then, at Claridge’s.

  “I think we need a little Pink Champagne Holiday, Kick,” he’d say. “You’ve been working too hard.” And off we’d go for a jolly little escape.

  Owen and I had stayed numerous times at Cliveden. But here’s the deal: Hotel rooms are neutral ground. They are their own independent reality.

  So now I find myself in Owen’s rooms, with him dressing and talking on the phone, and me wandering around his living room, not too sure what to do with myself. It all seemed incredibly intimate. Opposite from the physical and romantic intimacy earlier that morning, this made me feel far away. I noticed little personal, private touches of Owen—a few photographs: him on a ski lift, him on a yacht, him lying nude on a snow-white beach next to an emerald ocean. A different girl was with him in each picture and in all of them, he was the same: laughing, smiling, having a ball. There were no pictures of me, or us. Yet. There was a stack of personal letters that hadn’t come via the office. I made a point of giving them a wide berth, just in case anyone was watching; one of his sweaters lay tossed casually across the arm of a chair; his well-used running shoes sat behind a door. I felt like an intruder.

  I picked up the phone to call room service a couple of times but put it back without dialing. I was acting like a simpleminded fool, a teenage girl doing something naughty. Finally, I placed the order.

  His cell phone rang, and for a moment I wasn’t sure what to do about that either. Was this business time or personal time? If I answered, would I be doing my job or prying? There was no caller ID.

  “Owen Brace’s line,” I answered. Whoever it was hung up.

  He talked on conference calls throughout breakfast, which was fine with me. I read the paper and returned a couple of personal calls, including one from Howard Beauchamp, my trust officer at the Private Bank of London.

  “Miss Keswick, I’m so glad you rang me back. This is strictly a formality, no need to worry, but by law we’re required to inform our clients when something irregular has happened.”

  “Irregular?”

  “Yes. Nothing to affect you, but over the weekend, our computer was invaded, second time in six months. It’s all been related to the UBS/Barkley’s takeover—someone trying to find out the size of the UBS war chest. But I am obliged to let you know, in case you may wish to move your trust elsewhere, since we cannot guarantee total anonymity at the moment. Naturally, we hope you’ll choose to remain with us, after all we’ve looked after you for many, many years, and hopefully have earned your trust.”

  “Completely, sir,” I said. “I wouldn’t consider moving.” Mr. Beauchamp was the man who represented me at the Ballantine board meetings. His strict formality toward me, even after so long, gave me a sense of continuity and confidence, as though Sir Cramner were sitting at his desk watching over me.

  “Very well. I’ll await your further direction.”

  “Thank you for calling.”

  “Who was that?” Owen said when I’d hung up.

  “A realtor. Everyone’s always trying to buy my flat.”

  “I don’t blame them. It’s in a class by itself. You might want to reconsider, though, on
ce we’re married. We’ll need to have something bigger.”

  The thought gave me a start. Me? Give up my flat? But by the time we walked down the street to work, back into terra cognita, I had settled down. I was so glad I’d come back from France—I could now see it would have been a mistake to stay and not see this through. If I was ever going to get anywhere in terms of a relationship, I needed to learn to trust. Owen would teach me.

  When exactly I intended to start this business of trusting eluded me. My entire life lay like the proverbial dead elephant in the middle of the floor, with me tiptoeing around it pretending it wasn’t there. My separate life in France. My safe-cracking, cat-burgling, stone-switching métier. The KDK Trust. I realized I hadn’t been truthful with Owen about anything. Not even once. These issues weren’t going to go away. If I really were going to marry him, I needed to start my new life with a clean slate. But it was a conundrum: What if he didn’t want to be married to a professional jewel thief and a consummate liar, no matter how elegant she was? Then what would I do with all my hiding places revealed?

  I decided I’d only show him one piece at a time, then, if that felt right, I’d show him another. Which one should I start with?

  Clearly, Monday morning wasn’t the time to start with all this truth stuff—the second he walked into his office he was on the phone again, and he was in a lousy mood all day. We quarreled over everything.

  Hell.

  He slept in his bed that night, and I slept in mine.

  F I F T Y - N I N E

  Next morning, hearts and minds refreshed, attitudes adjusted, bodies rejuvenated, and ready to begin again, we sat comfortably ensconced in the Bentley’s backseat, Michael at the wheel, cruising down the highway for a meeting at the Panther plant.

  “I’m starting to think about getting a helicopter,” Owen said. “It would save one hell of a lot of time.”

  There was always something bigger. Something more to want. Part of Owen’s success was because nothing was ever enough, but it interfered with his business judgment, something I had in spades. A sign, it seemed, that our partnership would be a strong one.

  “Ummm,” I said. “I’d put that right up there with the fishing gear store on the list of things you need to invest in at the moment.”

  “Are you going to argue with everything I say? Have you heard one good idea I’ve had, or are you just going to nix everything unilaterally? Don’t you have any vision?”

  “Well, I . . .”

  “Know how you get places? You imagine the possibilities, then you head in that direction. Know what’s wrong with you, Kick? You’re acting your age. You’re really turning into an old fuddy-duddy.”

  I opened and closed my mouth. Tears stung my eyes.

  After a moment or two, he reached over and took my hand. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean that.”

  “Look, all we’ve done is fight for the last twenty-four hours. It’s not worth it.”

  He shook his head. “It’s nothing to do with you. Sometimes the pressure gets to me.”

  “I understand.” That was the truth, and I tried not to let my voice betray the hurt I felt from his attack. I know I’m getting older, but I’m not exactly old, except compared to the girls he was used to hanging around with. And what’s wrong with acting one’s age? That’s the point, isn’t it? To grow up. If you haven’t grown and learned, you can’t get anywhere, can’t make anything happen. I worked to keep my emotions under control.

  Okay. This is not about me. This is about him and his own strengths and weaknesses. I could never withstand the pressures he carried, and so what if he had to blow off a little steam every now and then and I was the closest target. I could take it. For better or for worse, wasn’t that one of the promises? I could take it.

  Owen stared quietly out the window and toyed with my fingers, lacing them absentmindedly in and out of his. “You haven’t asked much about Project Caruso. Aren’t you even a little curious?”

  “I guess what I don’t know can’t hurt me.”

  “You really think it’s going to bomb?”

  “No.” I answered carefully. “I’m sure it will be a huge success, but I’m not a big risk-taker. I’m a big chicken. Maybe it’s because I’m acting my age.” I jammed my elbow into his side. Hard. As hard as I could. “Maybe you should try it sometime.”

  “Ouch! God, I’m so sorry I said that. I take it back.”

  “Good. You should. The fact is, I’ve been giving the project a wide berth because I had a dream a few days after you showed me what you and Gil were up to, and it was about my trial.”

  Owen laughed.

  “Not your trial and not Gil’s trial. My trial. And no one was there speaking for me, but me.”

  “That’s terrible. I’d never leave you in the lurch—if you go on trial, I’ll come every day.”

  “Gee, thanks. You’re a heck of a guy, Owen. A real gentleman.”

  We smiled at each other. The storm seemed past.

  “I’d like to go by the workshop and take a look after we wrap up out here, if you don’t mind. I hear it looks like Carstairs Manor.”

  “Not at all.” The mention of Lady Melody Carstairs agitated me all over again. I could see her clearly, first welcoming him and Bertram at the door, lively and gay, and then, an hour later, sitting bolt upright on her sofa, a frightful look on her face, dead. I glanced at Owen.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” I smiled. “I was just thinking about Lady Melody. I’m sorry she’s gone. I loved her books so much.”

  “Happens to all of us.”

  I nodded. The question is not if, but when. And how. Thomas’s notions had firmly embedded themselves in my mind. I knew they were bogus, but they were also persistent, popping up at inappropriate moments. It was right at the tip of my tongue to ask Owen exactly how she’d died, ask him to tell the story again, about how he’d turned around long enough to pop the cork and pour the champagne and when he turned back, she was dead. But I didn’t do it because I didn’t want us to get into another squabble. It wasn’t worth the brain damage. She was dead, and that was that. Case closed.

  Okay, how about this one: A wife can’t be made to testify against her husband.

  “Oh my God!” I blurted out of the blue.

  “What?” Owen jumped.

  “Nothing. Sorry. I just had a little pain in my side. A little crick or something.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Fine. Fine. It’s gone now.” Oh, Commander Thomas Curtis, I could kill you for this seed you planted in my head.

  I shoved Thomas and his congenial demeanor out of my mind with all my strength.

  Comfort was for fogies, fuddy-duddies.

  Comfort was not for me.

  I was hip. I was a hottie.

  I defended my love for Owen to Thomas as though I were already on the stand. Our relationship was difficult, but intoxicating and honest. Edgy. That was good though, wasn’t it? Yes. It kept me on my toes. Our differences were our strengths. I never liked Elvis, much. Not at all, actually. But I could. I would. I would change myself, because Owen was melting me like an iceberg, my heart would open like a flower. I would hold his hand and jump off the cliff. Just look at how he had unlocked my body, bringing me pleasures I couldn’t have imagined. I’d struggled not to confuse sex with love, but now I knew love and sex were the same thing after all, if they were with the right person. A meeting of the minds and hearts would follow. How could they not, when the bodies were so in tune? So addicted to each other. It was inevitable. I would change a little, he would change a little. We would become one. I would bury my independent self, along with all of my past, and, for better or for worse, become Mrs. Owen Brace. Number four. Out of left field, Flaminia Balfour’s remarks about the new Mrs. Conroy drifted in: “It’s kind of sad, but these wives are interchangeable. Hostesses never even have to change the place cards. Mrs. X is Mrs. X. Their first names don’t make any difference.” And then she al
so said, “It all depends on what you want out of a marriage.”

  A wife can’t be made to testify against her husband.

  Oh, shut up.

  S I X T Y

  That afternoon, when we arrived back in the city, I was greeted with a bouquet of three dozen long-stemmed ivory roses. The arrangement almost took over my desk, and their fragrance filled the landing and reception area.

  “Please forgive me,” the card read. “I love you, Owen.”

  “What are these for?” I followed him into his office. “Forgive you for what?”

  “For calling you an old fogey.”

  “Fuddy-duddy.”

  “Okay. Whatever it was, I’m sorry. I hurt you, and I didn’t mean to.”

  “I know.” When I looked at him, I still couldn’t believe he was mine. And, God forgive me for saying this, but, deep down, even if he was mine, I still wasn’t sure I wanted him.

  Twenty minutes later he stuck his head out his office door. “Kick, I left last night’s Credit Suisse faxes at the hotel. Do you mind getting them? They’re on the coffee table—I don’t want anyone else to see them.”

  “Absolutely. I’ll be right back.”

  I greeted the front desk staff, took the lift to the fifth floor, and let myself into Owen’s suite. The coffee table was piled with correspondence and beneath the stack was a personal computer, a small titanium Portegé, like mine. I didn’t know Owen had one. I couldn’t resist. His passwords were predictable and within seconds I was into his e-mail—dozens of communications between him and Gil about the state of the corporation detailing the looming likelihood of bankruptcy and new rescue schemes. Then suddenly I found myself looking at a months-old message from Mr. Hiller, the hacker in Vermont. The subject was Query and the message read: