by July Hall
Shut up, she scolded herself. Don’t be a jerk, just enjoy your boyfriend’s present. Why should she be a wet blanket if Bradley wanted to do something nice for her? He’d seemed so happy about it yesterday. This might even get Sandra’s head out of the sky and back in the real world, with her real relationship.
The package didn’t include a note. Maybe she’d missed it? Curious, she turned over the box’s red lid and saw a square of paper affixed to its underside. She plucked it out.
It was a note card engraved with the Magister Enterprises logo. She blinked. What a weird detail for Bradley to include. He hated his job.
She flipped the card over to find a message printed there.
You left your hair clip at my home. I have since mislaid it. Accept this substitute with my apologies.
C. M.
Sandra’s hand went nerveless and the note fluttered to the floor. She almost dropped the barrette, too. “Oh, shit,” she breathed.
Her head spun while she looked at the perfectly wrought gold again. The emeralds were as green as his eyes. Oh, no.
Arnaud was waiting for her. She snatched the note from the floor and dropped it back in the red box. Then she stuffed the box in her desk drawer and slammed the drawer shut.
She had to give it back. It was far too extravagant. The original hair clip had cost twenty-five bucks. It wasn’t that Mr. Magister couldn’t afford it; he could probably fill ten Phantoms to the brim with emerald barrettes without feeling the pinch. But she couldn’t accept it. It would piss Bradley off. Unless you hide it from him, she thought.
And the fact that she thought of such a thing—that it even occurred to her—was reason enough to return the gift immediately.
She hurried into Arnaud’s office, wearing her most helpful smile. Arnaud gestured for her to sit down. “Was it something for work?” he asked.
“Oh. No. It was a personal delivery. Sorry about that—I wasn’t expecting—”
“None of my business, then,” he said. “We need to discuss your latest job.”
“Mrs. Harvey?” Sandra asked, eagerly seizing on something else to think about. “I spent last night looking over everything. I was going to call the warehouse about those Italian accent tiles this mor—”
“Not Matilda. I think I’m going to have to take you off her job.”
Sandra blinked at him. “What? Why?” Arnaud had said Mrs. Harvey might not have wanted a junior employee. But she’d seemed so pleased during their initial meeting, and the follow-through had been fine too.
“Because I received a call shortly before you arrived. You’ve got another job, by special request. I imagine it will require a fair bit of your attention.”
“Special request?” Sandra asked, more and more baffled. She wasn’t well known enough around town to get special requests. And who could be important enough to boot a client like Mrs. Harvey?
Then her breath caught and her eyes widened. No. No way.
“I guess the party must have gone well,” Arnaud said. “It looks as if you’ll be redecorating Charles Magister’s home.”
She had to take one deep breath, and then another, while she waited for the room to stop spinning around her.
“See?” Arnaud added. “Surprise.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Not the apartment,” Charles clarified, pouring himself some Perrier. “The North Shore house.”
“You can’t be serious,” Stephen said.
It was just past ten. His brother had been in his office for an hour while they went over the details of that afternoon’s board meeting about the Hong Kong situation. The meeting would be more or less a formality. Because Magister Enterprises was not publicly traded, Charles was accountable to few shareholders, and no board member in his right mind would make a fuss. Still, formalities must be observed.
Stephen had asked if Charles had anything interesting planned for this week outside of work. The news of Miss Dane’s employment had obviously come as a shock.
“Why can’t I be serious?” Charles asked.
“The North Shore house? Charles, the girl’s spent her very brief career in the city. She does studio apartments and lofts. There’s no way she’s ready to take on a mansion in Long Island.”
“I spent part of yesterday morning looking over her portfolio on Diallo’s website. I liked what I saw.” He had also done a cursory Google search on Miss Dane. He’d found two pictures of her on the studio’s Facebook page, enough to prove she was as lovely as his memories painted her, and his heart had begun to race. He’d immediately forced himself to stop looking.
“Rosalie’s been going on for years about updating the house,” he added.
“That’s because Rosalie wants to update the house. She’ll pitch a fit if you hand it over to some child.”
Charles clenched his hands into fists before he could stop himself. “Miss Dane is not a child.” No indeed. He’d had ample evidence of that. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll start her on a room and we can see how it goes.”
Stephen looked slightly mollified. “That seems more reasonable. But why now? And why her?”
Charles glanced toward his window, at the view over the East River. At the Brooklyn Bridge. “Bradley’s serious about her,” he said. “We should encourage that. And we take care of our own.”
“She’s not one of our own yet,” Stephen pointed out.
Charles shrugged. “It’s only a matter of time,” he said over the sudden ache in his chest. “Bradley’s rich, handsome, not without charm—she’d have to be a fool to let him get away. And she’s no fool.” She was naïve, perhaps. Idealistic. But certainly not stupid.
Yes, it would be only a matter of time. Though he hadn’t spoken to Miss Dane for the rest of the evening, not even to bid her good-bye like a proper host, he had watched her depart with his nephew. Bradley had thrown his arm around her shoulders and led her to the private elevator that would take them down to Charles’s own car (because there would be no more wrecks, no more accidents, not ever again). They had looked quite natural together.
Which made it even more ridiculous that Charles had kept her hair clip. Perhaps someday he would return it to her, claim that the staff had turned it up from whatever spot he’d “lost” it in. In the meantime, on Saturday he’d called Violet and instructed her to find a substitute that would ensure Miss Dane never missed the original.
“Any instructions?” Violet had asked, all business as usual, even when disturbed on a Saturday. “Size, style?”
All Charles could think to say was, “She’s got red hair.”
Now Stephen said doubtfully, “Well—let me know how it goes. And if you don’t, Rosalie will.” He chuckled. “I don’t envy you that conversation.”
“Why should there be a conversation?” Charles asked, bewildered. He couldn’t fathom why Rosalie’s fits of pique should ever influence any decision he might make. Her temper had been getting her into trouble since childhood, her hormones had gotten the better of her in high school, and not six months after her divorce from a philanderer he’d had to drive away a fortune hunter who refused to leave her alone.
Sometimes running his family was more like wrangling a three-ring circus. With their mother dead, he and his siblings had found from an early age they couldn’t rely on their father for guidance, and then Rosalie had gotten herself knocked up while Charles was off in college. It had taken Stephen years to admit why he was a confirmed bachelor, as if Charles hadn’t guessed. Bradley had been trouble since the moment he hit puberty. And Eleanor had died, leaving Charles to manage all of them without her support.
He hoped he wouldn’t have to manage Miss Dane as well. She seemed like she could manage herself.
“Right, never mind,” Stephen sighed. “In different news, Craig was still talking this morning about how you slaughtered him at squash on Saturday.”
Charles felt his face warm. He’d had a lot of frustration to work out on Saturday.
“You’re killing
his ego,” Stephen added.
“Then he needs a tougher ego.” Though perhaps that wasn’t fair. Charles had been determined to win, even more than usual, because who said eleven years had to make a difference? He was in the prime of his life.
“No doubt,” Stephen said. “I’m thinking about taking him to Gstaad next month. Maybe the slopes will rebuild his confidence.” He waggled his eyebrows. “It’d be good for both of us.”
“Ah,” Charles said, hoping his discomfort didn’t show. It wasn’t that he didn’t support Stephen in his preferences, but he would prefer not to think of anyone in his family having sex.
Especially not Bradley, who had left the party with Miss Dane and her enticing lingerie. Charles was normally a sound sleeper, but he had lain awake for hours that night, staring at the ceiling and wondering—are they? Is she?
Had her long legs been wrapped around another man’s waist, her red hair spread across his pillow? Or had she gone home alone?
Maybe she had. Bradley had been drunk. Very drunk.
He cleared his throat. “Let’s get back to work,” he told Stephen.
Thirty minutes later, however, his blissful ignorance was compromised when Violet buzzed his intercom. “Mr. Cliffe has arrived, sir.”
Oh, hell, he’d forgotten. Bradley was on the schedule. Charles glared at his watch. Not that he wanted to speak to Bradley today of all days, but the boy was nearly twenty minutes late. He’d probably just arrived at the office. “Send him in.”
Moments later, Bradley pushed open the two heavy wooden doors that led to Charles’s inner sanctum. “Uncle Charles, Uncle Stephen,” he said, glancing nervously between them. “Good morning?”
“Morning, Bradley,” Stephen replied with his usual cheer.
“We have business to attend to, Bradley,” Charles said, with his.
Bradley still looked apprehensive as he closed the doors behind him. Why couldn’t he ever stand up straight? “Uh, okay. Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” Charles snapped, and then modulated his tone when Stephen gave him a surprised look. “No, we merely need to discuss the statement you’re giving to the board this afternoon about Ms. Chao’s dismissal from Hong Kong.”
Bradley went pale. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, that.”
“Don’t tell me you forgot?” Stephen said, appalled.
“No! No, I—of course I didn’t forget,” Bradley said with a shaky laugh. “I just, you know, thought I’d wing it.”
“Wing it,” Charles said.
“Yeah. Sure. Be spontaneous. Get the feel of the room.”
“It’s a board meeting, not a comedy club,” Charles said through his teeth. “You need to start participating in the executive process, and you need to take it more seriously.”
Bradley stuck his hands in his pockets and studied his shoes. “Right, of course. When’s the meeting again?”
“Two,” Stephen said, with far more patience than Charles had ever possessed. “Do you think you can have something ready by then?”
“Yeah, sure, of course I can. Uh—what’s the sort of thing I ought to say? Like, I’m sad she’s leaving?”
Wordlessly, Charles flipped open the manila folder resting in front of him, withdrew the document he’d asked Violet to type up this morning, and passed it to Bradley.
“What’s this?” Bradley asked, taking it.
Charles gave him a wintry smile. “Your remarks. Try to have them memorized by two.”
Bradley turned tomato red, but still said, “Okay. Sure. Thanks.”
Radiating pity, Stephen said, “You had a lot to think about this weekend. Did you enjoy the rest of it?”
Bradley relaxed in the face of this pleasantry. “Oh, yeah. Sandra and I met for brunch yesterday. She had a good time at the party. I told her you liked her,” he added, glancing at Charles.
Charles’s eyes widened. “You what?”
Now Bradley looked alarmed. “Wait. You did, didn’t you?” He glanced at Stephen. “I thought you said…”
“He likes her perfectly well,” Stephen said soothingly, “don’t you, Charles?”
“She seems acceptable,” Charles managed, taking a quick sip of Perrier to cover his confusion.
“There, you see?” Stephen said. “In fact, he just—” Charles cleared his throat and glared. Stephen corrected his course. “He just told me that, ah, she seems very professional.”
I have plans, Miss Dane murmured in Charles’s memory. They matter.
“Oh, she is. She totally is,” Bradley said, looking anxiously at Charles again. “When I met her, I thought—I mean, I wasn’t sure, but I thought with a little work, she could fit in.”
“Fit in?” Charles asked, raising his eyebrows and banishing the memory of the girl’s soft voice. He put down his glass and reached for his Tibaldi fountain pen, needing something in his hands that wasn’t cold and wet.
“Yeah,” Bradley said, looking down at the document in his hands. “You know, she’s not like we are, but her family’s pretty good, and I was so sick of all the girls I knew. She’s different.”
“Different?” Stephen repeated, looking intrigued.
But Charles knew Bradley better than his brother did. He didn’t mean different, he meant lesser. Sick of the girls he knew? Bradley didn’t want an heiress who came from his own circle. He wanted someone he could lead around the show ring, who would never look down on him, or perhaps would never even see herself as his equal.
He was in for a surprise.
“Yeah,” Bradley said. “Different.”
“Do you love her?” Charles asked, and then wished he hadn’t spoken, or better yet, that he’d never made an appointment with Bradley in the first place. Stephen looked at him in astonishment.
So did Bradley. “It’s only been six months,” he said. Only six months? After realizing his feelings for Eleanor, Charles hadn’t wasted a single day before beginning his campaign to marry her. He’d been younger than Bradley, too. “I like her, though. She’s good for me.”
“How so?” Charles asked, wondering what was wrong with him. Maybe he was a latent masochist. He tapped the nib of his pen against his desk.
Bradley looked at him querulously and said, “What is this, a test?”
Yes, Charles thought, but Stephen rushed to say, “Of course not. We’re glad you’re happy. Sandra seemed very nice. A little reserved, I thought,” he added, glancing at Charles.
Blue satin, black lace. “Yes,” Charles said. “Very…decent.”
“Not as much as you might think,” Bradley muttered as he skimmed over the document.
The back of Charles’s neck prickled. He squeezed the pen. “What’s that?” Perfect shoulders, rounded breasts—
“Nothing.” Bradley glanced back up and gave Stephen a conspiratorial half-grin.
Stephen chuckled, leaning back in his seat and folding his hands over his belly. “So you are having a good time, then?” he said. “I hope so, at your age.”
“Oh, yeah,” Bradley said. He tipped his head to the side, looking cocky. “Back at my place, yesterday? She wanted me to stop being such a gentleman, if you know what I mean. She—whoa!”
“Charles!” Stephen said.
Charles looked down at the black ink oozing all over his blotter. He’d crushed the gold nib of his pen into his desk. Stephen was saying something else, but that was secondary to the buzzing in his ears, the fury that would not let him unclench his fingers from the pen.
Miss Dane didn’t want a gentleman? She wanted, preferred—?
“…get some paper towels,” Bradley was saying.
“Did you get any on you? It’ll be impossible to wash out,” Stephen added, rising to his feet and leaning over the desk to survey the damage.
Yesterday, Bradley had said. It didn’t really matter what had or hadn’t happened on Friday night, did it? Just yesterday—perhaps even at this very time yesterday, she’d been—
Stephen took the pen by its cap. Charles w
as startled enough to let it go immediately. “Damn,” Stephen said. “Well, the nib’s gone, but the pen’s fine. Rosalie gave you this one, didn’t she?” He reached for the box of tissues on Charles’s desk, plucked out a few, and used them to absorb the ink while he removed the broken nib.
“I’ll be right back,” Bradley said, heading for the doors.
“No need,” Charles said, his voice sounding hollow in his own ears. Neither Bradley nor Stephen appeared to notice. “Get back to work.”
“We’ll see you at two,” Stephen added, dropping the nib into the trash.
“Sure thing,” Bradley said, but he hesitated. “Oh, um—just one more thing. Not now, I guess, but maybe we can make time to talk about it later?”
His voice was turning into fingernails on a chalkboard. “Yes?” Charles asked, gritting his teeth.
“My dad called me before I came into work today.” Bradley licked his lips nervously. “He needs some help. I said I’d ask you about it.”
Charles could think of no topic less to his liking, especially now. His jaw set until it ached. He wondered how many ways he could tell Bradley that Robert Cliffe could fuck off and die.
“Later!” Stephen agreed, giving Charles a quick look. “Definitely later.”
“Right, sure. Thanks,” Bradley said, looking relieved, and made his escape. Charles watched the heavy doors shut behind him with a thud.
“Steady on,” Stephen said, and sighed. He looked down at Charles’s blotter. “My, those things hold more ink than you’d think they would. What a mess. Anyway, do you want to kick the shit out of Bradley?”
“Yes,” Charles said immediately, and then blinked, staring up at his brother. “Wait. What?”
“I said, do you want to finish working on the details for the board?” Stephen frowned. “You look a little pale. Are you all right?”
“Fine, of course. A headache.” He wanted nothing more than to be left alone. “I need to look over the earnings report from L.A. We’ll reconvene about the board after lunch.”
Stephen folded his arms. “I knew Hong Kong was stressing you more than you wanted to admit. At least consider taking the rest of the morning a little easier?”
