Perfect Timing

by Spinella, Laura

  “True. And here you are.” A hand reached across, grazing his. “I realize you’re still angry about my trip to Providence. But if we could just talk things through.”

  “Don’t give it another thought, Anne. I’m over it.” She relaxed, sinking into the plush seat. “Let’s move on. We’ll circle back around to us in a bit,” he said, smiling warmly. “Right now, I’d like to conclude my business with C-Note. Do you have the new contracts with you?”

  “Absolutely, just like you asked,” she said, holding up a bulging black satchel. “You’re going to be amazed by their proposal for expanding your image to the big screen. Maybe we could have a late supper, discuss the details. I know you had some questions. You can unwind, we can reconnect.”

  “Not necessary. I’m ready to sign. In fact,” he said, as the car rolled to the curb, “we’re picking up Fitz right now.”

  “Fitz?” she said. “You didn’t say anything about Fitz.”

  “Yes, well, you know he’s been in Europe. But he’s back, landed a couple of hours ago. Since we’re all here, I thought we’d take care of this.”

  “If that’s what you want. But why—”

  The car door opened. Outside was a stretch of Manhattan real estate that housed posh hotels. Currently curbside stood Fitz Landrey, the doorman and driver nearly colliding in an effort to assist him.

  “Aidan, what the fuck are you doing here?” he groused. “I get off a fucking plane from Paris and get a crazy call from Kai. He informs me you’re in New York and that you need to see me right away. You’re supposed to be in L.A. retouching the last tracks for your new CD.” As Fitz settled into his seat, Anne’s presence registered and his expression shifted from irritated to suspicious. “What’s going on?”

  “Glad you could join us,” Aidan said, as the car started moving. “How was your trip?”

  “My trip? My trip was a waste of time. European talent won’t sell in an American music market. Forget that. I want to know what we’re all doing here.”

  “My C-Note contract,” he explained. “It expires at midnight—or did you forget?”

  “Of course I didn’t forget. But your current contract includes an automatic grace period. I assumed we’d take care of it tomorrow, when I was back in L.A.”

  “Fitz, don’t be so cranky,” Anne coaxed. “Aidan’s here to re-sign. What difference does the location make?” She produced the thick contract, turning up the dim lights of the limo. “We can take care of it right now.”

  “Like Anne said, I’m ready to sign. I thought you’d be pleased. It’s the perfect opportunity since it’s paramount that I have my attorney present—somebody solely dedicated to my interests. Would you believe,” he said, speaking to Anne, “last time I did this there wasn’t a single person in the room representing me. Stacks and stacks of contracts, a sea of C-Note attorneys, and an overwhelmed nineteen-year-old kid.”

  “Seriously?” Her gaze jerked to Fitz, who was quick to reply.

  “And was there anything in our agreement that didn’t make you filthy rich and incredibly successful?”

  “Well, you’ve got me there.”

  “Aidan, I don’t know what kind of high-octane, rock star trip you’re on, but don’t pull this bullshit with me!”

  “Fitz, let’s try to focus,” Anne said, negotiating the tension. “Aidan’s just a little hyped up from the concert he did tonight.”

  “You did a concert tonight? Where? Why didn’t I know about this?”

  A puzzled look drew over Aidan’s face. “Didn’t you get my memo?”

  “No. But, clearly, you missed mine. It’s the one reminding you that Aidan Royce isn’t a person. It’s a conglomerate to which you, my overly talented friend, are merely the largest piece of many moving parts! You don’t own exclusive rights. Now, if Anne’s presence were a concern, I’ve no doubt she would have dropped everything and flown out to the coast.”

  “That would be great if it wasn’t for one thing.”

  “What’s that?” Fitz said, loosening his tie.

  “She’s not my attorney.” The car petered to a halt, pulling up to another hotel, more posh than the last. The door opened and a man carrying a valise slipped inside.

  “Aidan,” he said, sitting next to him, shaking his hand. Impeccably dressed, an aura of solid command surrounded him. “How did everything go?”

  “Fine, I think. I’ll let you know later, she was a little, um . . . stunned.”

  “Who was stunned? Who the hell are you and would somebody please tell me what the fuck is going on?”

  “Being left in the dark is a bitch, isn’t it, Fitz?”

  “I’m Aidan’s attorney.”

  “You’re his . . . Aidan?” Anne said, her eyes flicking fast between them. “I don’t understand. I’m your attorney.”

  His counsel held up a hand, as if advising his client to let him handle things. “Going forward, I’ll be representing Mr. Royce, including his new recording contract.”

  “Fitz?” she said, panic coloring her voice.

  Fitz’s narrow-eyed gaze never deviated from the attorney. “Aidan’s choice of representation is up to him. There’s nothing I can do about that—as long as he’s willing to sign.”

  “I am,” Aidan said, focusing on Anne. “Whatever your reasons, whatever your logic . . . whatever you thought you were going to gain, I trusted you. You broke that trust on every level.” As he spoke, Fitz reached over, removing the fat stack of contracts from her hands.

  “I’m guessing your new attorney is familiar with these?”

  “Actually,” the man said, taking out a pair of glasses from his breast pocket, “I’m not. But I’m very familiar with these.” From a sleek leather valise he produced a similar set of documents. “Everything’s in order. I’m assuming you’d still like him to be a witness.”

  “Absolutely,” Aidan said, accepting a pen. “I think it’s more than fitting that Fitz Landrey watch me sign my new contract with Sony.” With a rainbow of pages flagged, Aidan began the tedious process of signing his name, over and over.

  “What the fuck! You ungrateful bastard. After everything I’ve done for you!”

  Aidan stopped signing. “Don’t you mean after everything you’ve done to me?”

  “What are you talking about? I made you the most successful artist of your generation. Why the hell are you so pissed off?”

  “Seems you’re missing a piece of information; I believe we skipped the introductions. Fitz Landrey, meet Patrick Bourne.”

  “Patrick . . .” His mouth pursed, color draining. “I don’t fucking believe this.”

  “Believe it,” Aidan said, resuming his signature, Patrick observing.

  “Do you know him?” Anne asked.

  Patrick intervened. “We’ve never met, but I’m sure my name is familiar. Most recently, I was a special prosecutor for the United States government, Department of Immigration. More relevant to Mr. Landrey, I once represented Isabel Lang during her petition for divorce from Aidan—the one he blackmailed her into.”

  “The one that you what?” Anne said, incredulous.

  “That’s hardly the half of it, Ms. Fielding. Thanks to Mr. Landrey’s effort, it was also erroneously filed on her behalf.” From the same valise, he produced the decree, Fitz Landrey not offering so much as a tick.

  “Imaginative conjecture, counselor, but how could you ever prove it?”

  “I’m glad you asked, because the fact is I can. Seven years ago, there was a disturbing break-in at my home, the place left in ruins—particularly the study. The police, myself, my husband—we all attributed it to either homophobic vandalism or the dangers of my job. Sadly, both were plausible. It never occurred to anyone that a benign, albeit signed, petition for divorce was the real catalyst.” Fitz Landrey shifted slightly, an unaffected gaze trained on Patrick. “In additi
on to my legal expertise, my job requires an innate ability to retain faces and names. Sometimes the safety of a country depends upon it; sometimes it’s a more personal issue, like naming the messenger who turned up at my door not long before that break-in. Vince Ederly. Mean anything to you?”

  Fitz’s mouth bent to a frown, shaking his head. “Never heard of him.”

  “Really? Because the IRS has. Luckily, my position also affords me access to a wide spectrum of information, including tax records. C-Note Music reported paying a hefty bonus to Mr. Ederly seven years ago—particularly odd since he has no known musical talents. His job was listed as staff. From there, a thorough background check revealed a most colorful past.” He reached for one more folder, a mug shot paper-clipped to the outside. “This is a condensed history of Mr. Ederly’s background,” he said, handing it to Fitz. “It includes a petty-larceny career before he came to work for you. Apparently, breaking and entering was high on his skill set.”

  “So he worked for C-Note, lots of people do. The music industry attracts all types; that’s a well-known fact. Your paper trail won’t lead directly to me.”

  “Interesting, when we chatted, Mr. Ederly wasn’t quite of that opinion.” Patrick smiled, raising a brow. “Suffice it to say a petty thief who picks a good lock didn’t last one round in my interrogation room. In fact, he was rather quick to recall witnessing Ms. Lang holding that very document,” he said pointing. “Upon reporting his suspicions, he was contracted, by you, to find out more. And what an incredible jackpot he hit—not just a prepared divorce petition, but one bearing Isabel’s signature. More than you could have hoped for, I suspect.”

  “Fascinating, Mr. Bourne. A documented two-bit thief’s word against mine. Should make for titillating headlines, certainly incite a ravenous media frenzy.” There was no fluster in his voice, turning to Aidan. “I assume you’re ready to go public with this? You’re ready to have the media probe into every part of your past. Revisit your life and Isabel’s going all the way back to Catswallow, your arrest . . . the attempted rape by Rick Stanton. I’d imagine she’d love fielding those questions. It will come out, Aidan, every bit of it. The press will eat her alive.” There was a swelling pause. He snickered. “I didn’t think so.”

  “Well,” Aidan said quietly, “maybe not that scandal. But I might be willing to endure this one.” On his cue, Patrick handed the divorce decree that Aidan had signed, the one Vince Ederly delivered to Isabel. “Explain this to me. In exchange for the truth, I might reconsider your future. How the fuck did you get me to sign this?”

  Fitz took the second document in hand and put on his own reading glasses. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve never seen this in my life.”

  Aidan lurched forward, Patrick grabbing his arm. “He’s not worth it, Aidan. Let the authorities deal with him. He’s easily looking at charges of forgery, conspiracy, tampering with public records. It might involve you, but I should think the direct threat of jail would concern him more.”

  Aidan shook his head. “Just tell me how? Even at my worst, I was never that high.”

  Anne picked up the two documents, offering her opinion. “Having been lured in myself, I can tell you that Fitz is a master manipulator. Orchestrating a situation that included no representation would have put a younger Aidan at a serious disadvantage. But what I can’t fathom,” she said, turning to Fitz, who stared out a rain-streaked window, “is why? Why would you engineer such a thing?”

  “Because it was the only way he could keep Isabel from me and me from Isabel. And according to Fitz’s theory, our marriage was the only thing keeping Aidan Royce from becoming a conglomerate worth millions.”

  Fitz looked back, his voice dull and even. “I know my business, Aidan. It was no theory. It was always a fact, like it or not.”

  Anne, who continued to study the documents, glanced up at Patrick. “Wait. If neither one of them consented, then these decrees are invalid. I don’t care if Lady Justice herself filed them.”

  “Totally bogus legal maneuvering,” Patrick said. “Clearly fraudulent, definitely criminal. Charges I’ll be pursuing as soon as Aidan gives me the go-ahead.”

  Three glares trained on Fitz as the car arrived at its final destination. Aidan opened the door of the limo and stepped out, Fitz following. “Aidan, wait, I want to know what your intentions are! Don’t be impulsive. I can explain.”

  Aidan spun around, facing him. “Damn right you’re going to explain. But not to me.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  A HARSH WIND RIPPLED THROUGH AS THUNDER RUMBLED. Fitz looked around, adjusting to the destination. “What are we doing at an airport? Never mind. Aidan, if you would give me two fucking minutes . . .”

  His words petered out as the stairway to a small jet dropped; it sat nose-to-nose with a much grander version. Two men with a bodyguard vibe headed down, in between them was Isabel. The burlier of the two waited at the bottom, offering her a hand. Seeing Aidan, her perplexed expression burst into a wide smile. He took a few steps in her direction. Isabel rushed the distance. For a moment he just held on, forgetting Fitz and Anne and everything around him. For the first time since a crazy night in Vegas, Aidan held still as the center of his gravity locked into place. “You’re here. I know you are, but just say it. I need to hear you say it.”

  Leaning back, her fingertips fluttered over his cheek. “I’m here.”

  He turned a steely glare onto Fitz. “You’re going to explain it to her—all of it.” As Fitz and Isabel exchanged a curt glance, Anne emerged from the limo.

  Isabel looked between them, breaking from Aidan’s hold. “Anne.”

  “Isabel, listen to me,” Aidan said as her glance jutted from Anne to Fitz and, finally, onto Aidan. “Whatever she led you to believe . . .”

  “She said she’d just come from California. That despite what happened at that nightclub, your arrest, the two of you were working things out.”

  “Anne?” he said, turning toward her. “Would you like a chance to clarify?”

  Inching forward, she pursed finely painted lips, her tall frame pulling tight. “Well, perhaps my interpretation was more desirous than . . .” Her words faded, taking in his persistent stare. She sighed, forcing a culpable smile. “When I saw Aidan in California, he said he wanted time to think.” She cleared her throat, looking between Aidan and Isabel. “I suspect he was looking for a gentlemanly way out. The truth of the matter . . . well, the truth is he’s never been in love with anyone but you.”

  “For that much, I am sorry, Anne.”

  She sniffed the air, chin tipped high. “You only beat me to the punch. You were right, Aidan. Your life and mine, they would have never quite . . . jelled. Now, if it’s all the same to you, I’ve had enough revelation and reunion for one night.” Glancing at the limo, she started walking toward the airport terminal. “I do wonder what time the car rental counter closes.”

  In the distance lightning flashed, Aidan turning his attention to Fitz. “Now you. And move it along, the next bolt probably has your name on it.”

  A growl sputtered from Fitz as he retreated a few steps. “I don’t have to stand here and take this. You made yourself clear; I have no obligation to you.”

  “Well, I do.” A gasp pulsed from Isabel as Patrick emerged from the car. “It would give me great pleasure to tell Isabel the truth.”

  “Patrick!” she said. “What are you doing here?”

  He stepped to the center of things, hesitating. His fingertips reached toward her. “I’m sorry. These past few weeks have been . . . It seems like so long since I’ve seen . . . your face,” he said as her hand clasped his. “I’ve decided to take a leave of absence.” He smiled at her puzzled expression. “So much has happened. I thought it was the right time to explore new opportunities. In addition to some nonprofit work, I’m going to be handling Aidan’s business affairs.”

&n
bsp; “You’re working for Aidan? How did that happen? You—” She stopped, her green eyes flicking between the two men. “Patrick, you’re, um, you’re not exactly an Aidan Royce fan.”

  “He’s growing on me,” he said. “I’ll share the details later, there’s something more urgent right now. Isabel, the petition that was served to you on Aidan’s behalf was a fraud—”

  “A fraud?”

  “Everything, Isabel, including the letter from him. It was all cleverly manufactured to make sure you were under the impression that Aidan wanted to end the marriage. And the divorce complaint I drew up—the one you signed—it was delivered to him, unbeknownst to me.”

  “But how? You never filed it.”

  “No, I didn’t. Nonetheless, circumstance was crafted to hand both of you a very unfair reality. As for my part, I’m not blameless. My influence, some of my decisions, only facilitated things. Isabel, I can’t tell you how sorry I am. Had we both listened to your father . . .”

  “Patrick, you couldn’t have known.”

  “Still, Eric was a wise man. I’d give anything for him to know how right he was, how sorry I am.”

  With her thumb to his cheek, she caught the tear at the edge of his eye, hugging him tight. “He knows, Patrick. He loved you so much. I’m sure he knows.” He backed up, reclaiming the quiet poise with which he was most comfortable.

  “Of course, both decrees are null and void. It will take some legal maneuvering to have them overturned, but I’m confident I can get the job done.”

  “Null and void?” she said, looking between Aidan and Patrick. “What does that mean?”

  “It’s exactly what I wished you at the concert,” Aidan said. “In fact, to celebrate, I bought you a sheep farm in Ireland.” His smile widened as her confusion deepened. “Seventh wedding anniversaries . . . Wool? Come on, Isabel, it is the traditional gift.”

  “What Aidan is trying to tell you,” Patrick said, “is that the two of you are as married today as you were back in Vegas.”