“Tonight, then.” Nick frowned at her. “I won’t leave this restroom, or let you leave, until we’ve agreed a time to talk.”
“Fine. Tonight.” She ushered him toward the door. Nick turned the handle, then spun back, pulled her into his arms and gave her a quick, hard kiss on the lips. From somewhere beyond him, Crimson heard a click and a startled intake of breath. She wriggled free and peered past Nick’s broad shoulder.
“Oh, I am sowwy…” The small Japanese man who’d pulled the door open kept bowing as he scooted away with shuffling backward steps.
Nick winked at her and eased out, sweeping the flustered Japanese guest along with him. “Don’t worry about it,” Crimson heard him say to the man. “That’s what it is like, when you own a Constantine vehicle. Women throw themselves at you. You just can’t stop them.”
****
Crimson was blowing it. Nick watched her mingle with the guests as twenties jazz streamed out of the sound system. She was not a natural mixer. Suffering from the awkward manner of an introvert, she came across as brittle and anxious, and her nervousness impacted the mood in the room. Buyers grew uneasy when a seller appeared too desperate to sell.
The music faded. At the end of the showroom, Jorge got behind the podium. Unlike the other Constantine employees, he wore a suit today. With the thick, short moustache, he looked like a young, Latin version of Tom Selleck.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced. “Let us begin.”
Four men in Constantine Motors overalls wheeled out the first new Spur from the line of ten cars. Black and blue. Spur Sapphire. The men positioned the vehicle in an empty spot on the floor, in front of the glass wall at the end of the showroom. Outside, the winter afternoon was drawing in, and the bare trees made stark silhouettes against the sinking sun.
Patrick Letterman and Katsuro Yamada each picked up a telephone. Myrna Constantine stepped forward, elegant in a vintage Chanel in the Constantine Racing colors of green and gold. Pride filled Nick as he listened to his mother’s crisp, calm voice. “We have several advance bids. The highest, at $341,000, is from the United States.”
“Bidding starts at $341,000.” Jorge surveyed the room. “Do I have $345,000?”
A discreet numbered paddle rose and fell. Nick studied the crowd, the women in particular. In his experience, wives acted as a brake on spending, girlfriends encouraged it. For example, the redhead clinging to the arm of the tall Texan was rising on tiptoe, whispering at the man, no doubt telling him what she could do to him in the car if he bought it for her. And he did. The girlfriend bounced and squealed in delight.
The black and yellow Spur Citrine came next. Telephone bid from California secured it for $376,000. Nick considered the time zones. Three p.m. on East Coast. Close to midday in the West. Evening in Europe. Four a.m. in Japan, not so good for the Far Eastern trade.
The next car, black and white Spur Nacré, for mother of pearl, was bought by David Ballard, bidding on a webcam. He had told Nick he wanted it as a baby present for Marcela, for their vacation home in Spain. When the convent where Marcela had been educated closed down, David had bought the medieval abbey for her, saying it was to compensate for having married him instead of becoming a nun, as she’d wanted in her teens.
Spur Emerald went at the reserve price of $300,000.
Alarm filled Nick as he felt the interest in the room wane. If the next car didn’t sell, that would be it. The spirit that drove an auction was competition. Behind her, he could hear a female voice with a southern accent speak in a bored, petulant drawl. “Ah thought she would dance. Ah wouldn’t have come if Ah’d known there was no ballet.”
“Do you want to leave?” a gruff male voice replied.
Nick eased forward. “I think we could all use a pit stop,” he called out. “Restrooms are in the lobby past the cafeteria, or next to the stairs in the office block. Have a cup of coffee. Have some more champagne. Snacks are served in the cafeteria.” He flashed the audience a smile. “I recommend the chocolate cake. But make sure to be back in fifteen minutes, because Crimson has a surprise for you. A little hint. It’s connected to the tiny figurine that stands on the hood of the Spur.”
Crimson hurried up to him. “What are you up to?
Nick glanced around to make sure the people milling about had drifted away, beyond hearing distance. “The room’s going cold,” he told her. “Some of the ladies expected to see you dance. Get your costume on. I’ll sort out the music.”
“You can’t just barge in here and—”
“Shut up, Crimson.” Nick gripped her by the upper arms and held on to her until she looked up into his face. He frowned down at her. “If you don’t take my advice, in half an hour you’ll be left with no customers and six unsold cars.”
He could see rebellion in the grim line of her mouth, in the flare of her dainty nose. “I’m not just barging in blind,” he reminded her. “I’m pretty well informed. You might have stopped talking to me, but Hank and Jorge and Peter haven’t. They’ve kept me up to date.”
Crimson hesitated. “Where am I going to dance?”
Nick surveyed the space. “There. Outside.” He pointed at the patio through the glass wall. “We’ll prop the doors open. You’ll be able to hear the music, and the fresh air will revive the crowd. Go on. Get ready.”
With an angry mutter, Crimson hurried off to change.
By the time the crowd trickled back into the showroom, Crimson was warming up in the factory and the soundtrack to the advert was playing on the speakers. One of the two all black cars, Spur Onyx, stood in front of the doors leading out to the patio.
Nick settled to lean against the vehicle. Two mechanics propped the doors open. The lights dimmed. Peter hurried to alert Crimson in the factory, and she ran across the lawn toward the showroom, huge gumboots protecting her ballet slippers.
On the flagstone patio outside the showroom, she kicked off the gumboots and assumed her reclining starting position. Keeping still, she waited for the soundtrack to loop back to the beginning, and then she started dancing. Like a fantasy creature, she spun and circled, the trail of her gossamer gown streaming behind her in the cold winter breeze. At the final crescendo, she darted in through the door and collapsed into Nick’s arms.
“Good girl,” he whispered into her ear.
“I’m bloody freezing and covered in grit.”
“Sorry. We should have swept the patio.” Nick pushed Crimson up to her feet. “Do a pirouette or something. Play to the crowd. Sell. We both know you’re good at it.”
“You bastard,” she muttered at him, but there was laughter in her voice. She tiptoed off, arms flowing in a graceful flutter, and she twirled and spun, dancing around the car. When she slowed down again, Nick reached out, grabbed her hand and flung her against him in another romantic pose. Her body felt warm and supple in his arms, warm and vibrant and full of life. Reluctantly letting her go, Nick called out for Hank to turn the lights back on.
“Bravo! Encore!” the southern belle shouted into the applause.
“You’ll see more before the bidding starts on each car,” Nick promised.
The party atmosphere returned. Spur Onyx sold to a trendy New York playwright. The southern lady’s husband bought her the pink and black car, Spur Ruby. The black and gray car, Spur Graphite, went to a football star. The three right-hand-drive cars, Spur Ivory, Spur Jade, and Spur Jet, were sold in a frenzy of bidding. Spur Jet, the last car to be auctioned, went to the small Japanese man who’d barged in on them at the restroom. Nick hoped the car would live up to his boasting that it would make women fling themselves at him.
****
Nick had been keeping an eye on Peter Tomlinson, who sat quietly at his laptop, entering the price achieved for each car into a spreadsheet. The outcome was evident in the normally unruffled finance director’s fraught expression, even before Peter gave a signal to Crimson. Nothing as crude a thumb down. Merely a faint, sad shake of his head.
A sense of defe
at settled over Nick. So, this was it. Months of hard work for nothing. He inhaled a long, calming breath, held it, exhaled slowly. Plan B, he told himself. Just move on to Plan B. He saw Crimson walk over to Peter, still in her ballet costume, a navy wool overcoat draped over her shoulders to keep her warm.
After a brief, whispered conversation, the pair hurried out of the showroom, into the glass corridor. Nick followed, leaving behind the soar of exited voices as the new owners sat in their stationery vehicles, surrounded by a crowd of envious onlookers.
He caught up with Peter and Crimson in the lobby of the office block.
“No good?” he asked.
Peter turned around. “We’re short by two hundred thousand dollars.”
Crimson stared up at Peter with the pleading look of someone who wants to cling to hope in the face of an adverse truth. “There’s a month left. We’ll sell more cars.”
Peter spoke with patience. “That’s taken into account in my projection. We know what we’ll sell them for. The revenues can’t go up. Costs, on the other hand, may go up, if there are unforeseen expenses.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Nick said to Crimson.
“Of course it matters,” she burst out, her anxious gaze on him.
“I’ve got the funding,” he told her. “I’ll buy Constantine Motors. We’ll keep the business, and we’ll hold on to Longwood Hall.” Something stirred in the back of his mind. “And that thing about setting up boxing academies for women is nonsense. It’s not in the will. The part about David Ballard buying the business wasn’t true either. It was just a way to push your buttons, and mine. I expect the proceeds will go to the Red Cross, or cancer research, or some other equally deserving charity.”
“But I wanted to…” Crimson curled her hands around the lapels of the wool coat, huddling deeper into it. “I wanted it for you…”
An odd, tender feeling curled in Nick’s chest. “You wanted it for me?” he said in a gentle voice. “Like a Christmas present?”
She gave a forlorn nod.
“It doesn’t matter, Crimson.” And, to his surprise, as soon as he’d said it, Nick knew it to be true. It didn’t matter. So, he would be in debt up to his eyeballs, instead of owning the stock free and clear, but he would deal with it. At least with his mother and Esmeralda making a go of their interior design business, he’d only have one female to support.
“I guess we could still…” Crimson studied the slate floor, as if the answers to the mysteries of the universe lay in the pattern. “We could still get mar—”
The front door swung open with a pang and a burst of cold air. “Here you are,” an irritated male voice announced. “I’ve been trying to call you all day. Both of you. And your mothers.”
Nick turned to see the gaunt features of Adam Andrews, the family lawyer. The newcomer swept his felt hat from his head and patted the thin strands of hair into place across his balding skull. “Did you not get my messages?” he demanded as took off his steamed-up glasses and wiped them on the sleeve of his coat. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get here earlier. I had to verify the signatures on the documents.”
“What documents?” Nick asked.
“You didn’t get my messages.” It was a statement, not a question. “There are new developments. I received documents and a video cassette by courier yesterday. It seems that your mother sent them.” The lawyer pushed the horn rimmed glasses back on his nose and shot a sour look at Crimson. “Highly irregular,” he muttered. “I’m afraid the situation has become quite complicated.”
Back to Contents
Chapter Fifteen
Crimson sat in front of the old VCR they had installed in one of the conference rooms while she researched the advertising archives. She balanced the padded, sealed envelope in her hand. “How do you know it’s a video tape?” she asked Adam Andrews.
“It said so in the accompanying letter.” The lawyer glanced at his watch in a manner no doubt intended to remind her that his time was valuable. “I’ll leave you to watch it. Let me know when you’re finished.”
“Don’t you need to stay?” she asked.
“The tape is for you. The contents have no bearing on the documents.”
“What documents?” Nick asked. He was hovering in the doorway, looking troubled. That, more than anything, filled Crimson with dread. Nick would be much better equipped to guess what was going on. If he appeared glum, she ought to be petrified.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss the topic until Miss Mills has seen the tape. Those are my orders. She has to watch the tape. Then I have to inform you of the details in the documents.”
She held out the envelope. “Nick, you do it.”
As impatient as a drunk uncorking a bottle, Nick tore off the wrapper, turned the machine on and pushed the tape into the slot. He picked up the remote control and pressed the buttons. After a few seconds of hissing static, a picture of Stephan Constantine came on.
“Dear Crimson,” he started, as if dictating a letter. She recognized the background, the conservatory at Longwood Hall. Behind him, the lemon tree was in full blossom. It must be the spring, perhaps a month before he died. Tired, emaciated, he’d combed his hair and dressed in a shirt and tie, making an effort to look neat.
“When you get this, you may be married to my son. If it’s going well, I rejoice for you. If not, you have my blessing to get a divorce. If, on the other hand, that stubborn boy refused to marry you, you’ll have spent six months running Constantine Motors. Yes, I know it will be six months, because it’s May now, and in a few days I’ll be dead. And not a minute too soon—”
He turned away from the camera, gagged into a handkerchief. From the way the tape jumped, Crimson guessed it had been stopped and started again.
“As I said, by the time you get this message, you’ll have spent six months running Constantine Motors.” A rueful smile hovered around the old man’s mouth. “Why did I do it? Why did I land you in this predicament? The answer to that question is easy. I did it for you, and I did it for Nick.”
He looked down. Crimson guessed he was adjusting a blanket across his knees. On the background, she could hear the budgerigars in the conservatory chirping, and a faint voice of someone talking. Of course. Someone must have helped him make the tape.
“I see fire in you,” Uncle Stephan said. “I see determination in you. But you lack confidence. Your mother has told me that you have to give up dancing. I fear that you’ll drift into some dead end job. Packing boxes in a factory, waiting tables in a diner. You’re capable of much more than that, Crimson. I wanted to make sure that you’d have to try.”
Looking exhausted, he paused to rest. The sound of the budgerigars filled the silence. “As to that son of mine,” Stephan Constantine continued. “His heart is encased in ice. I hurt that boy. It’s the one thing in my life I regret. If I had been a better man, I might have found a way of balancing two families. But I wasn’t. I backed myself into a corner and had to make a choice. And I made it. And I lived with it. And I’ll die with it.”
Someone spoke. “Shall I stop it, Sir?”
Soames, Crimson thought. It had been Soames.
Uncle Stephan flapped away the question and resumed talking. “You have fire in you, Crimson. Maybe I’m an old fool, but I feel you might do well with my son. Melt that ice around him. That’s why I fixed it up so that he’ll have to marry you, or hang around to help you. So sue me, if I did wrong.” He gave a wheezing burst of laughter. “All it has cost you is six months of your time when you’d be moping around anyway, trying to figure out what to do with your life. Am I right? Am I right?” He stared at her from the screen, sunken eyes still sharp.
Crimson found herself nodding, telling a dead man that he’d been right.
“I know, I know,” Uncle Stephan said. “You’ll ask, why in God’s name did I risk the future of Constantine Motors on a bit of matchmaking? And I’ll answer that it needed risking. The world’s changing. My grandfather and my father built tha
t company on testosterone. Toys for boys. And I kept up the same style of management. But the world is changing. Women have power now. Real power. Lots of it. Hell, Maggie Thatcher ran the UK, and now in Germany they have that woman who is smarter than all the men put together. I wanted to inject a bit of woman’s thinking into the business. I hope you did that, Crimson. And now we get to the difficult part.”
A sleeve appeared in the picture as Soames passed Uncle Stephan a glass of water. He drank a few sips, handed back the glass. “I’ll have one more bottle of whiskey before I die. But don’t tell your mother.” He winked at Crimson from the screen. “Now, to the difficult part. Of course, I couldn’t really risk the business. Not really. So, I’ve made a second will. My final one. I’m going to put it in a parcel with this tape and leave it with your mother to mail to my lawyer a few weeks before Christmas when your time running Constantine Motors is up. If she forgets…?” He let the question hang in the air. “Well, if she forgets, the final joke is on her, and the rest of us will never know.”
Appearing to tire out, he gave a small, careless wave. “Goodbye, Crimson. Sorry if I messed up your life. I had to try. I wanted to show Nick that I love him, and I tried to do it by fixing him up with a good woman, a woman like Tamara, who has so much love in her that she brightens up a man’s life, like a burst of sunshine. I’m going off to drink that whiskey now. Sorry about the obsolete technology. I’m about to die and Soames knows how to operate this old equipment. Over and out.”
The image on the screen faded into a hissing snowstorm.
“Son of a bitch.” Nick, who had remained on his feet, went to the door, opened it and called for the lawyer, who’d been standing outside in the corridor, talking on the telephone.
Ballet Shoes and Engine Grease Page 19
