The Trophy Wife Exchange

by Connie Shelton

  “It was fortunate I already had an appointment downtown,” she said. “The timing couldn’t have been better for me to present your name at our Monday board meeting.”

  “I’m happy to be considered.”

  He was glad he’d asked his secretary to stay an extra hour. Normally, Tamara wouldn’t have worked a Saturday at all, but he’d decided to pony up the overtime to be sure everything was in order, the details of his current strip-mall job done, before he left the country. Tamara offered beverages but Pen declined.

  “For the moment,” she said in that enchanting British accent, “I’m on a mission to collect the financial data to be used in narrowing our choices for bidders. You understand, I’m certain, that a project of this size must be handled only by a firm with the proper resources.”

  “Come on into the conference room,” he said, ushering her past a series of closed doors which were intended to make it look as if Holbrook Construction Inc. had a battalion of employees working out of the huge suite of offices. “We’ve got the portfolio all ready for you.”

  Before he handed over anything in writing, however, Clint wanted at least a few minutes to make his case.

  “Sure I can’t get you something—water, tea, some wine?”

  He pulled a chair away from the table for her, waited until she approached it and then took the seat at the head of the table for himself. A folder with the company logo in red and white sat on the table in front of his place.

  “You said Stan Piccard was the one who told you about our company,” he began. “I don’t know if he mentioned some of the projects we’ve already contracted.” He opened his arms wide to indicate the premises where they now sat.

  The Fitzpatrick woman merely nodded.

  “Yes, we’ve done a number of malls and quite a few office buildings.” Okay, so they were little five-tenant strips and the offices, so far, consisted of the refurbishment of two floors here. But the new one … now that would be a real high-rise.

  His phone chirped, the tone telling him it was Derek Woo. He’d been wanting to hear from Woo for two days now.

  “Can you excuse me for a minute?” he said. “My attorney. I really need to take this but it shouldn’t be long.”

  “Certainly,” she said.

  He pulled himself up out of his chair and went to the connecting door to his private office. Pulling it discreetly shut behind him, he tapped the button to answer the phone.

  “Yes? Have you got answers for me yet?” he asked.

  “Calm down, Clint.” The lawyer’s tone was his usual inscrutable one. “Here’s what you need to do.”

  Clint paced between the window and his desk.

  “It’s time to move some cash to the suppliers over there. Earthmoving is to begin on Tuesday and those guys have payrolls to meet. Write down this wire-transfer information.”

  “Right. But what about the extra? Am I going to run into trouble setting up bank accounts and all? I mean, they aren’t exactly known for being friendly toward American businesses.”

  “No problem,” Derek said. “I’m flying over tomorrow, paving the way for you.”

  “And I’m coming along Friday, me and my wife.”

  “She really needs to be there with you?”

  “Not technically, but I promised. She’s so excited about this trip, there’s no way I can back out on her now.”

  “Fine, but she does know you’re working this whole time?”

  Clint laughed. “Working—the way you said we would? Some visits to the ladies, a fishing trip or two?”

  “When I say ‘working’ that’s just what I mean.” Derek rarely showed humor; the small chuckle Clint heard was the extent of it.

  “And my paperwork is all in order, visas and everything?”

  “It’s in the works. Don’t worry.”

  Exactly the kind of man Clint liked to work with, the kind who handled things so he didn’t have to worry.

  Chapter 14

  Pen leaped away from the door to Holbrook’s private office only moments before it opened and Clint walked back into the conference room. She’d caught a glimpse of the name, Derek Woo, on his phone’s screen before he excused himself.

  “I was just admiring this painting,” she said, pointing to a large canvas on the wall. “Van Gogh?” Actually, a very cheap knockoff.

  He nodded vaguely. “Yeah, I think so. My wife’s the real decorator, actually.”

  Pen didn’t think so but she kept her mouth shut. She hadn’t liked the man from first sight—his oily smile, the overt salesman-like conversation. Twenty years ago he’d probably been a good-looking man but he’d let himself become jowly with a big paunch, and the way he combed his hair straight back from the forehead did nothing to lessen the disturbing way his eyes bulged and his meaty lips pursed. For someone as young as Kaycie Marlow, the attraction had to be all about the money.

  “So, are there any questions I can answer for you about Holbrook Construction?” he asked, reaching for the red and white folder on the table and handing it to her.

  Pen gave the most sincere smile she could work up. “As long as all the information is included here, I’m sure everything will be fine.”

  She stood aside while he opened the door to the corridor, noting when they passed Tamara’s desk that the secretary had left. The overhead lights were off, leaving two small lamps burning in the reception area. Holbrook showed her to the door and she rode the elevator alone. Her heart didn’t slow down until the elevator dinged at the ground floor.

  Interesting bits of the puzzle, she thought. It reminded her of plotting one of her books—take a lot of little, separate pieces and put them together until the whole picture emerges. She smiled.

  When she’d arrived in the lobby twenty minutes earlier, she’d been greeted at a large semi-circular desk by two uniformed guards who asked that she sign in and be issued a Visitor badge. She paused there now to return it.

  “So, the entire building houses Holbrook Construction?” she asked casually, as she signed out.

  “No, ma’am,” said the guard with the name R. Sanchez on his shirt. “Most of it’s a big stock brokerage company. Being the weekend, that’s why no one’s around.”

  “Holbrook?” the other guard said. “He only moved in here a year or so ago.”

  “But he built the building, didn’t he?” She feigned a naïve expression.

  Both men chuckled. “Don’t know where you got that,” Sanchez said. “This place was built at least ten years ago. The construction company you’re talking about, I’m sure they had nothing to do with this place being built.”

  Pen shrugged. “Obviously, I got the wrong impression somewhere.”

  Another puzzle piece, not a surprising one.

  She retrieved her Mercedes from the parking garage across the street and sat a moment, deciding what to do next. A quiet dinner at home had been her original plan, but she was eager to share the new information she’d gleaned with the Ladies. Would any of them be available?

  She phoned Sandy first.

  “It’s too soon to call everyone together again,” Pen said, “but I did gain a few interesting tidbits from my visit to Holbrook’s office. Would you like to meet for dinner somewhere or perhaps come to my house?”

  “If it’s not too far out of your way,” Sandy said, “come by my place instead. I just made a chicken dish with a tangy mustard and asiago sauce. There’s plenty for two.”

  While Pen would have loved to settle into her own home, out of her linen dress and jewelry, a glass of wine in hand, the idea of a ready-made dinner with Sandy appealed as well.

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “How did the book signing go?” Sandy asked when she opened the door.

  “Quite well.” Pen held up the bottle of wine given as a thank-you by the bookseller. “Thank goodness I’ve got past the days when two people showed up and I read chapters to a room devoid of interest.”

  “Now, you probably si
gn books until your hand has a cramp,” Sandy said, leading the way to the kitchen where the scent of the mushroom-chicken dish was heavenly.

  Pen laughed. “Sometimes. This new book seems to be well received. Good reviews in the press and nearly rapt attention as I read my sample chapters. Would it be all right if I stepped out of these shoes? I’m seldom in heels for more than a couple of hours nowadays.”

  “Be my guest. I’d be happy to provide a kimono if you want to really dress down.”

  “That’s all right. Pour the wine and over dinner I’ll fill you in on my visit to Clint Holbrook’s offices.” She pulled the proposal folder from her roomy bag and set it on Sandy’s countertop. “This might make for interesting reading. A quick glance before I left his office didn’t make sense to me, but you’ll have Amber’s findings for comparison.”

  “Should be fascinating.” Sandy handed Pen a glass. “Cheers.”

  Pen carried hers to the place Sandy indicated at the kitchen table. The chicken dish, buttered noodles and fresh broccoli looked wonderful; she hadn’t realized how hungry she’d become. They tucked into the meal without a word for several minutes.

  “So?” Sandy asked when Pen paused for a moment.

  “Well, the offices themselves are an interesting dichotomy. On the surface of it, the décor is tasteful enough, but something’s off. It’s as if he called Interiors R Us or something. I don’t get the feeling he had a hand in choosing anything in the place. For instance, I commented on one painting and he told me his wife had chosen it. It was one of those starving-artist things of a flower arrangement, and he thought it was a real Van Gogh.”

  “Seriously?”

  “The furniture, as well. It’s real wood and real leather, but so generic. All of it could be …”

  “Leased?”

  Pen brightened. “Exactly. There is nothing personal in the place. Something else—we walked down a corridor toward his conference room, closed doors the whole way, which he chalked up to its being a weekend so no one was working. Perhaps. But the place had a hollow feel to it.”

  “And yet his company occupies two full floors of the building.”

  “Oh, that’s another thing. I gossiped a little with building security at the front desk. They said there’s no possibility Holbrook Construction built the high-rise. It’s been there much longer than Clint lets on.”

  “Why would he do that?” Sandy pondered, offering seconds on the veggies.

  “Why indeed?” Pen turned down the offer of more food, although everything was cooked perfectly and tasted delicious.

  “There’s more,” she said. “While we were in the conference room, Clint received a phone call from his lawyer, Derek Woo. I saw the name on his phone. He went into his office to take it but the door is so cheaply made I could hear most of what was said.” She blushed slightly. “Of course, I followed him and pressed my ear up to it.”

  Sandy laughed at the image.

  “Mr. Woo apparently advised Clint to begin moving money somewhere. There were references to setting up bank accounts ‘over there’ and Clint wonders if that will be a problem.”

  “Over where, I wonder. We still don’t know.”

  “Actually, as of now, we do. There were little signs of evidence around the place, some travel brochures, a phrase book, and two letters on the fax machine on his secretary’s desk. They’re going to China.”

  “China!” Sandy looked dumbfounded.

  “I know. I’d assumed, if it wasn’t somewhere in Canada or Mexico, it might be Europe. But this explains the need for visas, which wouldn’t have made sense for most other places.”

  “The letter I saw most clearly was addressed to Shanghai.” Pen watched Sandy’s reaction.

  “I’m stunned. Construction in China is notorious for always being done domestically. It’s still a fairly closed society to outsiders. I can’t imagine why they would want an American contractor.”

  “A fairly new, inexperienced American contractor …”

  “Yes …” Sandy’s attention seemed focused somewhere in the distance. “There has to be more to it.”

  “It could possibly be a personal trip disguised as business so Clint can write off the whole thing.” Pen passed along the remarks, as nearly verbatim as she remembered, about fishing trips and the hint of seeing prostitutes. “Which is also strange. He’s taking his wife along. I distinctly heard him tell Woo that he and Kaycie were joining him at the destination on Friday.”

  “This coming Friday?” Sandy’s eyes widened. “That doesn’t give us much time.”

  Chapter 15

  Clint waved at the security guard as the automatic gate at Vandergrift Towers opened and he drove through in his pearl-white Escalade. He whipped the large vehicle through a couple of turns to his covered parking slot. He’d received their passports with the visas for China affixed. That was the good news. He’d also gotten a call from the client, Tong Chen Enterprises, and the conversation left him grinding his teeth.

  He picked up his briefcase and a rolled set of blueprints and tucked his phone into his shirt pocket as he got out of the car. His toe began tapping the moment the elevator doors closed, and by the time he reached the penthouse his body felt like a tautly pulled rope that could snap at any second. He took a deep breath before letting himself into the condo.

  “Honey Bear! You’re home!” Kaycie rushed him like some kindergarten kid. Couldn’t she just back off and smile a little less sometimes?

  “Our passports came through,” he said, hoping to distract her so he could think what to do. “So now you know the surprise—we’re going to China.”

  She squealed and it was all he could do not to grimace at the decibel level.

  “Here’s some brochures about Shanghai. Have fun packing—we’re leaving Friday.”

  She’d found the visa sticker in her passport. “Ohmygod, look! There’s my name in Chinese characters. Honey Bear, this is so cool.” Her eyes sparkled and the dazzle of her smile could light the room. He didn’t have the energy for this right now.

  “Yeah. Cool.” He dropped his briefcase on the coffee table. “Look, I got some calls to make. Can you—?”

  “Ooh, I gotta tell Mom. She’s been dying to know all about the trip. And you know what—I think I’ll need some different clothes for China.” She walked toward the bedroom, flipping through the brochures.

  She picked up her phone from the king-sized bed and punched a number. When her voice went all excited, talking to her mother, he gently closed the door between them. He went to the bar at the end of the living room and poured himself a generous single-malt Scotch. Half of it went down at the first slug, burning his gullet all the way.

  He sat at the kitchen counter and brought out his phone, going back through the texts he’d received this afternoon, first from Rudy Tong at Tong Chen Enterprises. He reread to be sure he understood what the battered English message meant. They wanted to draft several million dollars from his bank into the Chinese escrow account for construction materials, but their deposit to him wasn’t yet showing in his own account. Complicating matters was the fact that most of Clint’s money existed in small amounts in multiple banks.

  He logged onto his largest business account, entered a number and waited while the little circle whirled to indicate it was processing the information. After a frustratingly long time, a message popped up: This transaction is not allowed at this time.

  Clint growled at the stupid website and tried again. Even with a smaller amount, the transaction wouldn’t go through. Dammit—what’s with the rush from these guys? I like doing things the way I’m used to doing them.

  He took another gulp of the booze and called Derek Woo, wondering, not for the first time, whether it had been smart to get involved with the Chinese at his attorney’s suggestion. Well, it was a little late for that now. Once the funds landed in his account he would neatly shuffle the money around and no one would be able to simply draft what they wanted. He sat up straighter. Clint
Holbrook was no fool—he’d done plenty of business transactions and he knew his stuff.

  Woo didn’t pick up and the ‘leave a message’ voice came on.

  “Yeah, Derek, we gotta talk,” he said, leaving it at that. Let the other guy come to him.

  He drained his glass, feeling the muscles in his neck relax, and left his phone on the kitchen counter.

  In the bedroom, Kaycie was strutting around in a little one-piece thing that barely covered her, all pink lace and blond hair and shiny toenails. A suitcase lay open on the bed and she crossed the room, bringing a dozen garments from the closet.

  “I can’t decide what to pack.”

  “Let’s think about it later,” he said, scooping the clothes into the suitcase and setting the whole batch on the floor. He took her hand and spun her into his embrace. “I got other things on my mind right now, Babycakes.”

  She giggled. “I’m supposed to meet Mom at Fashion Square in an hour.”

  “Oh, baby, it’s not going to take that long.”

  Chapter 16

  Finishing her conversation with a banking client, Sandy hung up the phone and turned in her chair at the sound of a light tap at the partially open door.

  “Come in.”

  A woman stepped in, smiling and holding both hands out wide. She wore trim black capris, a slim-fitting bright pink T-shirt and pink and black bangle bracelets.

  “May I—?” Sandy’s jaw dropped. “Mary? Oh my gosh. Mary!”

  “What do you think?” Mary said, unable to contain her smile. “The hair—is it too much?”

  Mary’s formerly lank, blonde hair was now cut short, with soft spikes at the top and wispy ends hugging her ears, not to mention a fresh strawberry-blonde color and highlights. The adorable style suited her features and made her look twenty years younger.

  “I love it!” Sandy rose from her chair and approached, turning Mary to see the new style from all sides. “It’s just—I’m amazed at the difference.”

  “The women’s center had a free makeover day with some visiting beauty consultants. They showed us how to do our makeup, and the haircut is courtesy of discount-senior day at the beauty school.”