Dear Diary

by Nancy Bush

  The air was heavy with exotic perfumes, and the women’s dresses floated before him like a moving rainbow, each more elegant than the last. Con felt as awkward as he had when, at seventeen, Tricia Wellesley had made fun of him in front of her spoiled, debutante friends.

  Fleetingly he thought about putting on his coat and readjusting his tie, then decided he didn’t care enough to try to impress Joshua Forsythe. Instead he lifted a glass of champagne from a passing silver tray, saluted the waiter, tossed his jacket over a rose-colored divan and sauntered into the main room.

  The Christmas tree was dazzling. A good twenty feet high, it took up one corner of the room and was covered with sparkling ornaments that shot prisms of colors around the room. Beneath it were stacks of lavishly wrapped gifts. He should have been impressed, he supposed, but all he could think about was that he was sweating.

  He saw Joshua Forsythe standing at the bar, pouring drinks for the guests. He, too, had shed his coat, but instead of a plain white shirt like the one Con wore, his chest was decorated with red suspenders, one of which said Merry, the other, Christmas.

  As if telepathic, Forsythe looked up and saw him at that instant. “Connor!” he boomed, beckoning him over.

  Con saw heads swivel his way. They probably wondered what he was doing here as much as he did. Curiosity might’ve brought him to the Forsythe door, but nothing was going to convince him to stay. He would give his regards to Joshua Forsythe, then hightail it to some cool, secluded bistro in downtown Lake Chinook.

  Forsythe signaled to the bartender to take over for him, then pushed his way toward Con and extended his hand. The man’s handshake was enough to break all the bones in Con’s hand, but Forsythe’s smile was warm. “Glad you could make it. It’s an annual event, y’know.”

  “The party?”

  “You bet. Comes around once a year.”

  “Like Christmas?”

  Forsythe laughed. “Well, Forsythe and Company has gained a reputation for its Christmas-in-July party. I’ve got an image to maintain.” He shrugged. “Need a drink?”

  Con lifted his champagne glass to let him know he’d already taken care of that, then looked beyond him to stare at the steaming mug of hot buttered rum sitting on the bar.

  “Not too many takers for those,” Forsythe admitted wryly, following his gaze. “Too hot. Come on. Let’s go find a quiet place to talk.”

  “Here?” Con’s brows lifted.

  “There’s always my den.”

  His white-haired host held the door to the hall open, and Con was led away from the merrymakers. The air was slightly cooler here, and Con gratefully swept in a deep breath. Unlocking the room at the end, Forsythe motioned Con inside.

  Floor-to-ceiling windows covered the entire south wall, and a massive desk reigned in the center of an enormous white and gray Aubusson carpet.

  Only the best.

  “You probably wondered why I sent you an invitation,” Forsythe began, perching on the edge of the desk and folding his arms over his chest.

  “It had crossed my mind.”

  Forsythe eyed him critically from head to toe. Con could just imagine what the man was thinking about his wrinkled shirt and loose tie. But then the man waved him toward a chair, and Con gingerly lowered himself into it.

  Forsythe cleared his throat. “You work for Pozzer, Strikeberg and Carmen. A fine firm.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I was wondering if you would like to come work for me.”

  Con had figured his invitation must have something to do with a job offer. What other interest could the man have in him? But Forsythe’s reasoning escaped him. “I’m not much of a corporate lawyer. I tend to go for more personal cases.”

  “I know that. That’s precisely why I want you. Forsythe and Company has gotten too removed from the personal. We need someone with your talents on the staff.”

  “Well, I’m pretty happy where I am.”

  “Small potatoes for a man like you. Where’s your ambition? I don’t have to tell you what a move like this could do for your career.”

  Conner eyed him steadily. He couldn’t decide whether he should be insulted or flattered. What Forsythe didn’t know was that Con had taken a good hard look at his own ambitions a while back and hadn’t liked what he’d seen. He’d made mistakes – too many to count – and he’d be damned if he would make the same ones again. He was fully satisfied being small potatoes.

  A knock on the door prevented his answer. With a scowl, Forsythe demanded, “Who is it?”

  The door opened a crack, and a man’s head appeared. “Ben Morrison, sir. Er… I think you should come out here. It’s your daughter.”

  “She can take care of herself.”

  “She’s been, uh, asking for you.”

  The deference in the younger man’s tone made Con uncomfortable. Had he been like that once? Intimidated by the boss? Not in the same manner, he supposed, but there had been a time when he’d made certain the boss liked him. And then, of course, there had been Linda, the boss’s daughter, Con’s own ex-wife…

  “Damn it all to hell. What’s she done now?” He waved the man away, then called after him, “Tell her I’ll be there in a minute.”

  The man nodded deferentially as he left. Forsythe turned back to Con and said, “Morrison’s a good attorney, but he hasn’t got the element we’re talking about. You have.”

  “I’m still not interested.”

  “I’m not through persuading you yet. Stick around until I get back.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “No, never mind.” He changed his mind with a curt shake of his head. “We’ll meet for lunch on Monday. This party’s a damn fool place to conduct business. Enjoy yourself, and I’ll see you then.”

  With that, he climbed decisively to his feet and left the room. Almost against his will, Con smiled. The old tyrant hadn’t even waited for a reply.

  Standing, Con stretched and walked to the window. It was a relief to know he didn’t feel that pressure anymore – that need to fight his way to the top. As far as he was concerned, the Joshua Forsythes of the world overrated their importance.

  But it wasn’t always that way, he reminded himself. There was one senior partner in that L.A. firm whom you wanted to impress pretty badly. Remember him? Your father-in-law?

  The air-conditioning was more effective in the office then in the front room, and Con stood in front of the vent, letting the chilled air rush across his face. He knew he wasn’t going to take Forsythe up on his offer. Someone else could be the man’s bleeding-heart lackey. It was a little late for a man like Forsythe to acquire a conscience.

  Not that Con had anything against Forsythe’s business acumen. He was sharp as a tack. Cleverer than most. Certainly powerful enough. He was just a little too used to getting what he wanted.

  Con didn’t know how long he’d been standing there before he heard footsteps in the hallway – a woman’s footsteps. He turned, and his gaze fell on the door just as a woman in a silver dress walked in.

  “Oh,” she said, stopping dead upon seeing him. It was the woman from the ledge.

  Her hair was blond and came down in soft waves. Beneath the fringe of gold-tipped lashes, a pair of green eyes regarded him uncertainly.

  “I was just leaving,” Con said.

  “No, don’t. I was just looking for… somewhere cooler.”

  He had the impression she’d been about to say something else. His gaze traveled downward; he couldn’t help himself. The rest of her was sleek and curved. A pair of beautiful legs peeked from beneath an uneven silk hem. Light glimmered on smooth skin, and Con had to admit she was the most elegant woman he’d seen in a long, long time. He realized she didn’t know he was the man who’d called out to her.

  “There must be three hundred people in the other rooms,” Con said. “It’s really hot.”

  “Sweltering.” She glanced around, as if she didn’t quite know what to do now that he was here.

 
“Are you a client or an employee?” he asked.

  “Of the firm?”

  “Of the firm.” Con smiled back, but her gaze shifted away, and he sensed she was thinking about something else.

  “None of the above.”

  “Really. And here I thought you had to be one or the other to get an invitation.”

  She gave him a swift, upward glance. “Which are you?”

  “Potential employee, I guess.”

  It was as if he’d said exactly the wrong thing because she stiffened. “Well, I guess I’m cool enough,” she said with a faint smile, backing out the door.

  “Wait a minute. Where you going?”

  Con followed her. He just caught the gleam of her silver dress as she turned the corner at the end of the hall. Like a schoolboy struck with puppy love, he kept after her, seeing her disappear into the crowd. Between the main room and the foyer. He hoped she wasn’t leaving.

  The champagne tray came by again, but he shook his head, searching the room. He’d always been a sucker for mystery. And beauty, he thought wryly. The woman from the ledge had both.

  He caught glimpses of her through the crowd, but like quicksilver, she never stayed long in one place.

  “You’ll have to stand in line,” said a voice at his ear, startling him.

  Glancing around, Con recognized the man who’d come to pull Joshua Forsythe back to the party. “For what?”

  “For Candace,” he answered with a knowing smile. Thrusting out his hand, he added, “Ben Morrison.”

  His handshake was smooth and curt, a message in itself. Con gave him a careful once-over. Morrison was the epitome of smooth, from his baby-soft face to his knife-creased suit to his polished black shoes. And he was hungry. Hungry for power. Hungry for success. Con knew those feelings only too well. Some part of himself that still regretted the past took an instant dislike to the other attorney.

  Inclining his head in Candace’s direction, Morrison said, “Her dance card is filled, pal.”

  “With your name?”

  “Something like that.”

  The one thing Con could never resist was a challenge. “I imagine the lady probably has a mind of her own. Let’s let her make it up.”

  He strode into the crowd.

  Candace was standing by a glossy, black baby grand, in the process of placing one empty champagne glass on a forgotten tray and lifting another. She still had that distracted air about her, as if her body had come to the party but her mind had strayed somewhere else.

  Con leaned against one of the pillars near the front door, watching her. From this vantage point he could see her without being detected.

  “More champagne, sir?” A black-coated waiter inquired.

  “I don’t suppose you have Scotch? Or beer?” Con added hopefully.

  “We have imported beer, sir.”

  “That’ll do.”

  He felt his gaze on the woman again. Candace.

  He became vaguely aware that the group of women huddled nearby was interested in her, as well. They were watching her sympathetically, and Con leaned closer to them, hoping to find out more about her.

  “… It’s so unfair. I don’t know how she can even stand to be here. She’s been floating around like that all summer.”

  “I can’t believe Jeff was really seeing Renée Southfield. Renée must be more interested in advancement than any of us guessed.”

  “Advancement… and other things.” This last voice was scornful.

  “It’s too bad about Candace, though. There is a lady with class…”

  A lady with class, Con thought idly. Yes, that was what she was.

  The women’s conversation petered out, and they moved away, one of them giving him a dark look for eavesdropping. Con winked at her, then laughed as a wave of color rode up her neck.

  The imported beer was brought with a frosted glass, but Con just lifted the bottle. His eye on Candace, he wove his way across the room toward her.

  She gave him a slight smile of recognition as he approached.

  “I hate to see a beautiful woman drink alone,” he said, leaning against the piano.

  “I don’t mind being alone.” She took a sip of champagne. “Sometimes I even enjoy it.”

  “Is that a polite way of saying ‘get lost’?” She didn’t answer, but Con was undaunted. Her lack of response only fueled his desire to know more about her. “You’re really a mystery, you know that? Not an employee or a client…” he added musingly. “That must make you some kind of friend of the family.”

  “Some kind of friend,” she allowed.

  Her eyes were shadowed, as if her thoughts weren’t particularly pleasant ones. Con was searching his mind for something else to say when she suddenly looked directly at him.

  “Want some free advice?” she asked.

  “Sure.” He half smiled.

  “You won’t get far with Forsythe and Company dressed like that.”

  Con glanced down at himself in surprise. “Dressed like what?”

  “Like you are.”

  “What makes you such an expert?”

  “You don’t have to be an expert to know the Forsythe image,” she said. Then, apparently hearing how cynical she sounded, she lowered her eyes and murmured, “Excuse me. I’m still too hot.” In a swirl of silk and shivering silver, she headed out the French doors to the balcony.

  Connor had experienced the brush-off a few times in his long career with the opposite sex, but never with such icy polish. She was a lady who knew her own mind, he decided, wondering why he felt compelled to change it. Grimacing, he followed her outside. She was right about one thing, it was too damn hot.

  On the balcony he was greeted by her stony stare. He held up his hands. “Look, I give up. You want to be left alone – fine. But I needed some air, so you’ll have to share the balcony for a few minutes.”

  Her eyes glanced down, then at the wrought-iron railing, then across the lake – anywhere but at him. Finally she emitted a soft sigh. “I’m not usually so rude. It’s just been a – a terrible day.”

  He remembered the papers she’d tossed into the lake. “Bad news?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s just that I saw you outside, on the cliff ledge.”

  Her intake of breath was audible.

  “You threw something in the water. It’s no big deal. I just couldn’t help noticing.”

  It hadn’t been his intention to back her into a corner, he’d only wanted to find out more about her. But she suddenly looked stricken.

  “It’s not something I want to talk about.”

  “Hey, it’s none of my business, anyway. Look… Candace… I’ve gone about this all wrong. Let me start over. The name’s Connor Holt, and I just wanted to…I don’t know…” In lieu of an explanation he gave a self-deprecating shrug.

  She was waiting for him to finish, so Con struggled on, “It’s not every day I see a beautiful woman standing on a ledge looking like she’s going to throw herself off. It got to me. Then I saw you in Forsythe’s den, and, hell–” he raked his hand through his hair in frustration “– I just wanted to talk to you.”

  The sound of the piano warming up came floating through the open door. A chorus of voices burst into the first verse of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.”

  “It’s all so ridiculous,” she suddenly burst out, and to Con’s amazement her eyes were glistening with tears.

  She swayed and he reached for her, but he wasn’t quite quick enough. She slumped against the railing. Con’s hand inadvertently grazed her hip as he tried to pull her into his arms. A moment later he was uncomfortably aware of the pressure of her breasts against his chest.

  “Get me out of here,” she said, somewhat desperately, “before I make a complete fool of myself.”

  “Where’s your car?”

  “Across the bridge.”

  He could see the golden strands at her crown in the slanting light from the windows. He didn’t know what her pr
oblems were, but he knew he wanted to help. Gently he helped her toward the back steps that led to the grounds, but the evening’s silence was shattered by a voice behind their heads.

  “Candace! Where are you rushing off to?”

  She tensed, and Con turned to see the newcomer. He groaned inwardly when he recognized Ben Morrison.

  “Hello, Ben,” she said warily.

  There were undercurrents here Con didn’t understand.

  Morrison came over, the same false smile plastered across his face. “I see you’ve met Mr. Holt,” he said.

  Con was a little surprised the man knew his name.

  Candace’s face flushed, and she pulled herself away from Connor. “Er – yes.”

  “Did he tell you about Joshua’s job offer? He’s our new left-winger. Out to save the little people.” Envy was written all over the young attorney’s face.

  “Watch yourself, Morrison,” Con warned, unable to stop himself.

  He feigned surprise. “I didn’t know I was stepping on toes.”

  Con’s smile was a thin line. “I hope you have more tact in the courtroom, for Forsythe and Company’s sake.”

  As Morrison’s lips tightened, Candace turned swiftly to Con. “You took the job?” she asked, her green eyes wide and vulnerable.

  For some reason, his answer seemed extremely important to her. Because Morrison was listening avidly, he said ambiguously, “Not yet.”

  “But you will.”

  “Is that a crime? I haven’t actually–”

  Con didn’t have a chance to explain before Morrison shifted position, sidling closer to Candace. “We haven’t had a chance to dance. Don’t leave yet. You owe me one.”

  Con didn’t like the man’s moves one bit. He was gratified, therefore, when Candace leaned closer to him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Maybe next time.”

  Morrison’s hand was on her forearm. “One dance. That’s all.”

  She was no longer leaning – she was pressed against Con. Cutting through the thick atmosphere, Con squeezed her shoulder and said briskly, “You ready?”

  When she nodded, Con practically muscled Morrison out of the way as he guided her down the stairs. They were halfway across the bridge before she let out a shaky breath. “Thanks for the rescue.”