Where the Heart Chooses

by Tinnean

  “Neither do I. I’ll have Callahan come take a look at your security and see about beefing it up. He owes me a few favors.”

  “Thank you, sweetheart.”

  “If Mark Vincent shows his puss around here again, I’ll be ready for him!” Gregor was taking this personally. He fisted his hands on his hips, the action moving aside his suit jacket.

  Which in turn revealed the .45 under his arm.

  Quinton’s lips twitched, whether to restrain a grin or a grimace, I was uncertain. “Gregor, I think you’ll need a bigger gun.”

  * * * *

  Chapter 25

  Allison had called to ask if I’d join her for lunch at the Café Montpelier on the lobby floor of the Madison Arms. I really hoped she wasn’t going to tell me she was about to divorce her present husband.

  I checked my lynx coat, and the hostess led me to Allison’s table. She rose and we kissed each other’s cheeks.

  “I really appreciate you meeting me. I had to get out of the house.” She glanced through the menu, then set it aside. “Did you want a cocktail?”

  “No.” I smiled at our waitress. “I’ll have grapefruit juice over crushed ice, please.”

  “Well, I’ll have a rumpletini.”

  “Yes, Mrs.—uh—Dashwood.” The waitress went to put in our drinks order.

  Allison sighed. “I have to stop getting married.” A slow flush covered her cheeks. “I must be out of my mind, Portia! Chance is two years older than Ian!” Who was her youngest.

  I wasn’t about to comment on that. “‘Rumpletini,’ Allison?”

  “It’s an apple martini made with rum instead of vodka. Chance’s sister suggested I try it.”

  “Chance has a sister?”

  “Yes, unfortunately. She moved to D.C. about a month ago, and she’s staying with us until she gets a job and finds a place of her own.”

  “I see. You don’t sound overjoyed about it.”

  “I’m not.” She didn’t elucidate, and I didn’t pressure her to.

  “It’s your home. Tell her to leave.”

  “I’m afraid if I force Chance to choose, it won’t be me.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Excuse me?” She stared at me. “What do you mean, ‘what can you do?’”

  “I could find her something through one of my charities, if you like.” I wasn’t about to tell her I could do a background check on them—Allison didn’t know what I’d done during the late ’50s and early ’60s. In addition to that, I was a firm believer in leaving well enough alone. She was a grown woman, and the last thing she needed was an interfering friend. “They’re always in need of office help. What kind of training does she have?”

  “Do you know, I have no idea? But I’ll bring it up with Chance. Darling, you’re a lifesaver!”

  “That’s what friends are for.” I smoothed my napkin on my lap. “I’m glad you called me, Allison.”

  “Portia? Is something wrong?”

  I met her gaze. “Quinton’s no longer seeing Susan Burkhart.”

  “The young woman from Justice? Thank God!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “She’s a…she wouldn’t be good for him.”

  “No, she wouldn’t.” From the information I’d gathered, she was more interested in marrying into the Sebring clan, and the fact that she no longer was—never had been—on the inside track, was bringing out her spiteful side. “I’m curious as to how you came to that conclusion.”

  “Somehow she learned I’m Quinton’s godmother. She came to see me and complained about his treatment of her. I told her if he treated her that poorly, she should be thankful they were no longer a couple. She wasn’t pleased, and seemed to feel I wasn’t taking the situation seriously enough. I told her not to let the door hit her on the ass on her way out.”

  “Thank you.” I bit back a laugh. Allison was a lady until she didn’t want to be. “I appreciate your support. I ran across a number of acquaintances who had the temerity to question his behavior.”

  “Did they really? And of course you cut them to ribbons with your icy words.”

  I gave her a cool smile. “I’m the ice queen, aren’t I?”

  She laughed and shook her head, but then sobered. “Portia, Quinton is thirty-seven. How do you feel about the fact that he won’t be giving you grandchildren any time soon?”

  “To have Nigel’s grandson or granddaughter…I can’t begin to express what that would mean to me. But this is Quinton’s decision, and I wouldn’t dream of pressuring him to become a father if he has no desire for that.”

  “How did Nigel react when you told him you were pregnant?”

  “We had a quarrel over whether the new stove I wanted should be stainless steel or avocado.”

  “Avocado, Portia?” Allison shuddered.

  “You have to remember this was 1964.”

  “Still…” She shook her head and sighed. “I’m sorry Quinton is alone again, although I suppose it isn’t surprising.”

  “Given who his parents are?”

  “Don’t be silly. Remember, I knew you when you were a girl. And I saw the way Nigel would look at you.”

  “Oh dear. Father wouldn’t have been pleased.”

  “He was a grumpy old man.” Having stayed at Shadow Brook a few times when he was there, she would know his temperament. “Let’s talk of something else.” She reached for her handbag and withdrew a small gift. “For Quinton’s birthday.”

  “Thank you! We’re having a dinner for him tonight, and I’ll give it to him then. Would you care to join us?”

  “It’s kind of you to invite me—”

  I took a flower from the small vase at the center of the table and threw it at her. “Don’t be an idiot!”

  She smiled. “Seriously, thank you. However, Chance and I are meeting a financial planner. He wants to start a catering business.”

  “Is he good?”

  “Yes.”

  “In that case, I’ll be more than happy to send some business his way.”

  “You’re a real friend, Portia. And I know, that’s what friends are for.”

  “Well, they are.”

  Our waitress brought our drinks and took our order, then left to put it in.

  Allison took a sip of her cocktail and grimaced. “I don’t know why I listened to Francesca.”

  “Who?”

  “Chance’s sister.”

  “Order something else.”

  “No, this will be my punishment. You know, I don’t usually react to someone in this manner.”

  “No, but aren’t we all entitled to times like that?”

  “I suppose.” Our meal was brought out, and she unfolded her napkin, placed it on her lap, and took a bite of her salad. “I…I have something else to tell you. It’s why I wanted to have lunch with you today.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “The thing is…” She worried her lower lip. “…I don’t know if I should say anything now.”

  “Allison, don’t be coy. Tell me!”

  “Ian and Grace are expecting. There, I’ve said it!”

  I jumped up, rushed around the table, and hugged her. “I’m so happy for you! And for them!” Her youngest son and his wife had been trying for a baby since their honeymoon six years before. “Now, tell me all about it!”

  * * * *

  Chapter 26

  The subject of Mark Vincent wasn’t brought up again until the end of February.

  It was a cold winter, too cold to take the horses on the trail, so we exercised them in the country club’s indoor ring, taking them over various jumps that the staff set up for us and working them in dressage movements.

  I could tell there was something on my son’s mind, but I waited for him to broach the subject himself.

  I wondered if it might be about another young woman. It was almost two months since he’d stopped seeing Susan Burkhart.

  “He’s got a dossier on me, Mother!” Quinton brought Testament arou
nd, and I reined Victory to a standstill.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Vincent!” He looked disgruntled. “It’s even more in depth than my file at the—” He changed what he’d been about to say. “At State.”

  “And he had more to add to it, because of me. Sweetheart, I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be, Mother. I found out some things regarding him, and took him to dinner for his birthday.”

  “But his birthday is in July.” I shook my head. “That isn’t important. Why does he have a file on you? It’s hardly likely that your department will come into contact with the WBIS.”

  For some reason he blushed, and I stared at him thoughtfully, remembering how personable I’d found “Harriman Patterson.” Did Quinton find him as personable?

  “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out!”

  “Of course, sweetheart. Just be careful.”

  Quinton returned home to have luncheon with Gregor and me, and after he left, I said to Gregor, “I want every bit of information you can dig up on Mark Vincent. I don’t care how old it is or how insignificant it might seem.” And I didn’t care how much it was going to cost. I’d bankrupt myself in order to keep my son safe.

  Gregor’s eyes lit up. “We’re going hunting?”

  “Perhaps.” There was someone who I knew would be more than willing to assist.

  He rubbed his hands together, and while he began making phone calls in the kitchen, I went into my office and used a disposable cell phone to contact Folana.

  * * * *

  Gregor’s people couldn’t learn anything more than I already had, but Folana dug up some very interesting information. There were people Vincent denied caring about—young men who had to sell their bodies to survive—but who he made sure had a decent security system in their home. There were men who had been kind to him years ago. He paid the rent, anonymously, on the room one lived in. For another, who was a Boy Scout leader, he made sure the troop had enough money, again anonymously, to go to the Jamboree. A third was given a Seeing Eye dog when he lost his sight, and a fourth, whose HMO covered a fraction of his medical bills, received expensive chemo and radiation therapy periodically for the last six years of his life.

  “I don’t like it, Portia,” Gregor growled over dinner one evening. “What’s he doing with all that information he got about Quinn?”

  “We haven’t heard anything about what happened when we were in France in 1980.”

  “Huh? I mean, excuse me?”

  I met his eyes across the table.

  “You know why I refused to deal with M. Bauchet after that.” The man was a chauvinist, both nationally and sexually, and while I’d allowed him his perception of me as an American socialite who dabbled in wines, the hurt he’d caused my son when he’d forbade the friendship between the two boys put him beyond the pale.

  “He believes that French boy was his one love.”

  “Still? I’d hoped…” I sighed. If that were so, it was no wonder why none of his relationships with women over the years had lasted longer than six months at the most.

  However, none of what I learned led me to believe that Mark Vincent intended to put my son’s life in danger, and so I filed it all away.

  If it turned out I was wrong, if anything happened to Quinton because of the WBIS agent, I would have no qualms in using what I’d learned to destroy him. And then I would take apart the WBIS, one brick at a time.

  * * * *

  Chapter 27

  Gregor handed me the phone. “It’s Allison.”

  “Hello, Allison. How—”

  “Please tell me you’re free on March twenty-third!”

  “—are you?” I couldn’t remember hearing her so distracted. “What’s going on?”

  “Sorry, sorry. State is sponsoring a reception and ball for the ambassador of Bosnia and Herzegovina.”

  “And?”

  “It’s at the Anthony Wayne Convention Center, and they’ve hired Chance for the catering service. If they’re happy with his food—and they should be, he’s amazing!—this will help get his business off the ground.”

  “Why do I need to attend?”

  “I’m hoping you’ll use him for your next charity event. You said you’d consider him…” She was silent for a moment. “So, are you available?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am.”

  “And you’ll come?”

  “For you, Allison? I’ll be there.”

  “God bless you! I’ll e-mail you all the details, darling, but now I have to make more phone calls.”

  “Allison.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t forget to breathe!”

  She laughed and hung up.

  Fortunately, Madame Rosa had created a wonderful silk gown for me in a shade of gray she called smoke, which she insisted would bring out the color of my eyes.

  Nigel would have loved it.

  * * * *

  As it turned out, Gregor was unavailable to drive me to the Center. However, Quinton was free, and he volunteered to accompany me.

  * * * *

  It was a long evening.

  In spite of my sincerest hope, Senator Wexler was there at the ball, deep in conversation with a man Quinton informed me was DCI Edward Holmes.

  The first time I’d met the officious senator had been some years before, but earlier this year, at a charity event his wife Elizabeth sponsored, he’d asked for a dance.

  He spent the next five minutes spouting platitudes and inanities, holding me so tightly that afterward I’d wondered if he’d left fingerprints on my ribs.

  The next morning the most ostentatious arrangement of flowers was delivered by Carnations and Roses and Orchids, Oh My. The note with it was even worse. Meet me for a little rendezvous at the Madison Arms.-R

  I sent the flowers to one of the women’s shelters I supported and slid the card into a plastic bag. I had a little cedar box where I kept billet-doux from questionable “admirers.” Interestingly enough, it was Mother who had advised me of the expediency of such an action.

  The next time the delivery van from the flower shop arrived at the curb, I asked the young man to wait while I looked up the senator’s D.C. address.

  “Please take these flowers to this address.” I removed the card—as little as I cared for Elizabeth Wexler, I saw no need to rub her husband’s indiscretions in her face—and handed the young man thirty dollars. “This should make up for the inconvenience.”

  “Yes, ma’am! Thank you!”

  Gregor was aware of what was happening—I could hardly keep something like this from my bodyguard—and he took to screening my calls. However, the senator apparently realized I wasn’t about to have an affair with him, and so the flowers stopped.

  Until this afternoon. Gregor took the arrangement to the shelter while I put the card in the box. This one read, Looking forward to seeing you at the ball this evening, my dear Portia, and I hope you’ll save a dance for me.

  Not if I had to spend the entire evening in the ladies’ lounge.

  * * * *

  Allison had fronted her husband the money to buy into a catering business, and somehow he had gotten the contract for the reception preceding the ball. I wasn’t going to be so snide as to ask whose palm he’d used her money to grease, but…

  I was going to wonder.

  People would go up to the buffet and sample a bite. Their faces would become blank, or twist into a grimace, and then they would hand their plates with what was left on them to the waiters and waitresses who circulated.

  If Allison wasn’t one of my oldest, dearest friends, I would have walked out.

  Quinton approached me. “Mother? You look…concerned.”

  “I am. I don’t know whether I should inform Allison about this debacle or if silence on the matter would be kindest thing. I’ve never seen her so…so besotted.”

  He gave me an angelic smile, which I knew better than to accept at face value. Sure enough, “Sorry, Mother, but bett
er you than me. I’d hate to be the one to break Aunt Allison’s heart.”

  I tipped my head and observed him. “Which would you prefer?”

  “I’d rather know, but that’s me.”

  “Yes. I think I’ll—”

  “Portia!” Margaret Davis, one of the society matrons who worked on various charities with me, hurried up to us. “This food is such a disappointment! I know you were considering using this caterer for the affair we’re planning for the shelter for homeless veterans, but really, we’d be better off with At Your Service.” She turned her gaze to my son and smiled at him. “Hello, Quinton.”

  “Mrs. Davis. You’re looking lovely.”

  “Thank you. You’re looking quite handsome yourself!”

  “Thank you.” He brought her hand to his lips. “It sounds as if the orchestra has finished tuning up, so if you’ll excuse me, ladies? Mrs. Davis, I hope you’ll save me a dance?” The people here knew Quinton only as the assistant to an undersecretary at State, and so he would be expected to dance with every woman and converse with every man.

  “Of course.” She reached up and pinched his cheek.

  He turned to me. “Mother, may I have the first foxtrot?”

  “Certainly, sweetheart.” I pinched his other cheek.

  He laughed and left the reception area to claim his first partner.

  “Such a dear boy!”

  Yes, he was, wasn’t he?

  Meanwhile, I needed to mingle. I spoke with women who were on the same charities as I or who would be useful for them, and danced with their husbands, for much the same reason.

  * * * *

  “So that’s Mark Vincent.” I stood next to Quinton and watched as the tall, dark-haired man strode away. I’d had to tip my head back to meet his eyes, which were hazel, but a lighter shade than my son’s.

  “Yes, it is.” A faint smile curled his lips.

  “The voice is different.” As were the looks.

  “He’s been called a forensic artist,” Quinton murmured.

  “You sound…proud of him.”

  “Oh, er…”

  If I’d known Vincent was going to be here, I would have brought a bottle of eye drops with me. I thought of how I’d distracted a photographer years ago. I could just as easily distract Mark Vincent and slip a few drops into his drink—a little payback for using me to obtain information about my son.