She sat and his hand finally fell away from her elbow. He, however, didn’t sit. He moved away several feet, and focused his intense attention on another tree that stood at least fifteen feet tall.
She looked upward. The ceiling was there, eventually. Most of it was glass. Her gaze moved back to Morito. His long fingers were touching a tree leaf.
Caressing it.
She looked away. Focused beyond the clusters of bushes to realize the atrium wasn’t only an atrium. A hotel suite lay beyond.
“Is this your room?” She hoped the muted light masked her flush from the abrupt question.
“Hai.” He gave her an inscrutable sidelong glance.
It wasn’t merely a room. Nor a luxurious suite. It was a penthouse the likes of which even she was unaccustomed. And she’d grown accustomed to plenty as the wife of George Hanson.
The trophy of George Hanson.
The words circled inside her mind, mocking her.
She rose. “May I look around?” She nodded toward the living area beyond the small jungle. A winding stream of water flowed cleverly beneath the floor, enhancing the room’s delineation.
“Hai.”
She crossed the floor that was really a bridge over the water, and eyed the wall display opposite her.
Swords. Masks. Vases. Artifacts that looked as if they belonged in a museum somewhere rather than a hotel. She walked closer to the swords. They weren’t encased under protective glass. She had the sense that she could have reached up and removed one from the wall, if she’d wanted. She stepped closer, studying the detail on the handle.
“It was my great-great-grandfather’s. One of the last of the samurai.”
Not just a hotel penthouse, then, but Morito’s penthouse? The irony that Jenny’s family owned the hotel where Mori Taka evidently lived struck her.
She wasn’t going to wonder where his lovely companion, presumably still waiting downstairs for him, figured into the equation. “It’s remarkable. The entire collection is remarkable. Also family heirlooms?”
“Yes.”
“The only thing my family has of my greatgrandparents’ is the family bible.” A bible that would have contained Jenny’s name, if Helen had been stronger in the face of her father’s anger. “All the births are recorded in the front of it,” she elaborated.
He slid the sword off the wall. “Tradition,” he murmured, studying the weapon. “It is important. Many families are forgetting that.”
He held the sword comfortably. Confidently. The deadly blade was nowhere near her, yet she still felt a nervous jolt inside her. The way of the samurai had passed…hadn’t it?
“And do you conquer your adversaries with the sword, still?” She kept her voice light.
His gaze transferred from the sword to her face. “Then the attorneys, yours and mine, would be left with no enjoyment at all.”
It took her a moment to realize he’d made a joke. The corners of his lips were curved ever so slightly upward.
She smiled. “Very true.”
Silence settled, and she realized she was still looking at the smile that so subtly touched his lips. Well-defined lips in a well-defined face.
He’d wielded a sword in her dream, too.
“Well,” she said suddenly, “I should get back downstairs before they begin wondering where I’ve gone.”
“Hai.”
She was grateful he didn’t voice the suspicion that nobody was likely to miss her presence no matter how long she was gone. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Taka. It was very kind of you.”
“I am rarely kind, Mrs. Hanson.” He replaced the sword on the wall. “I am certain you know that. Perhaps I, too, needed a reason to excuse myself from the celebration.”
“I can’t imagine a man like you wanting to excuse yourself from someone as lovely as your companion.” A companion who was undoubtedly twenty years—or more—his junior.
Which was the same thought most people had had upon seeing her with George.
“She is lovely,” he agreed noncommittally. He walked with her across the bridge and pressed the button for the elevator. The doors immediately opened. “Your sons should be ashamed of themselves.”
Whatever relaxation she might have obtained in this odd garden-penthouse-museum immediately fled. She could feel the vertebrae down her spine slipping into stiff alignment. “I don’t believe my stepsons have done anything of which they should be ashamed.”
She only wished they knew—could accept—just how proud she was of them. They’d all come a long way since George’s death, but to say they had a warm, familial relationship was grossly overstating reality.
Helen was determined to face reality. She’d spent enough of the last several years living in something that had been anything but.
“They have a duty to you, yet they have openly shown disrespect,” Morito stated.
“They are grown men who are free to express their opinions.” Her tone went a little thin. Jack, the eldest, was only six years her junior. “Perhaps what you’ve interpreted as disrespect is merely open communication among the Hanson Media Group family. It was something my late husband valued,” she added, mentally crossing her fingers. While alive, George had never valued anyone’s opinion except his own. She may have realized it during his lifetime, but it wasn’t until after his death that she’d had to truly face the consequences of it. “You’re a businessman, Mr. Taka. I’m sure you understand the value of many ideas being brought to the table, even when those ideas are dissenting.”
“A wedding is not a meeting being held around the thirtieth-floor conference room table,” he countered. “Perhaps if your husband were still alive, he would—”
“But he’s not alive,” she responded evenly. “I understand you would have preferred to deal with my husband, Mr. Taka.” Ironic, since George had been keeping a separate set of books on Hanson Media Group, disguising the fact that the company was on the verge of ruin. “Or that you would prefer to deal with my stepson, Jack.” She stepped into the elevator and turned to face him. “However, I hold the controlling interest in Hanson Media Group, so—as we say in my country—I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”
His hand lifted, holding the doors from closing. “Ah, Mrs. Hanson. Do not forget.” His lips curved upward again, but the motion only heightened the hardness of his high, squarely sculpted cheekbones. “Currently, you are not in your country. You are in mine.”
He moved his hand and took one step back.
Helen stared at the dull reflection of herself in the doors as they closed. Her breath slowly leaked out.
“Oh, George,” she whispered. “I gave you my heart and you gave me…this.”
A floundering family who’d never wanted her, a sinking company and the responsibility for saving both.
Maybe she never would feel real happiness again. Not the kind that Jenny and Richard were experiencing. Maybe she’d never felt that in the first place, and the delirious emotions she’d felt when she’d first married George had been nothing more than a figment of her imagination.
But she’d just been firmly reminded that she didn’t have the luxury of worrying about it. Not when so much stood at stake and the man who could make or break them was a modern-day warrior named Morito Taka.
Chapter Two
Trophy Wife to Media Madame?
Helen sighed, reading the headline plastered across the front of the oversize magazine.
Would the gossip never end?
The headline was accompanied by a splashy photograph of her and George from years earlier. She looked exactly what the headline proclaimed—the epitome of trophy wifedom. Not a blond hair out of place from the big, wavy affair that stretched down her back. Diamonds glittering from every point—ears, throat, wrists, fingers. The black dress was hardly sedate, either. It was cut down to there, and cut up to there. And the man beside her, George, had looked like a beefy gray bear with his proprietary arm heavy on her shoulder.
She eyed his i
mage. She’d changed since that photo had been taken, admittedly, mostly during the past year. No longer did she favor the big hair that George had claimed to adore. The jewelry he’d bestowed upon her, except a few narrow bracelets, her favorite watch and a tasteful necklace or two, had all been relegated to the safe back home and she didn’t care if she ever wore the rest again. There were days lately when she felt as if she ought to have locked away her wedding ring, as well.
George had placed the ring on her finger all those years ago in a ceremony on an exotic beach that neither his family nor hers had even known about until after the fact.
She needed to take off the ring, yet wearing it was a reminder of what she was doing—and why.
She brushed her finger over the printed photograph. Yes, she’d changed mightily. But George hadn’t.
She waited for the familiar wave of grief, but it didn’t come.
She sighed again and turned the cover to the article inside, but her mind wasn’t really on the rehashed story of the problems Hanson Media Group had found itself embroiled in.
Hanson Media Group had proved themselves innocent in the recent porn scandal involving their Web site, so why couldn’t the gossip rags catch up with that?
She slapped the magazine closed and shoved it aside. The plate of fresh fruit and yogurt she’d ordered for breakfast held little appeal and she pushed that aside, as well, picking up her cup of coffee instead.
She probably should have stayed at her own hotel. Had her breakfast in her suite.
But she’d felt restless, particularly since Evan, Meredith, Andrew and Delia had departed for Chicago earlier that morning. Jack and Samantha had accompanied them all to the airport.
And somehow, Helen had ended up back at the Anderson hotel.
All around her, morning diners were rushing in and out of the dining room. Businessmen hunched over laptop computers while they sucked down coffee and talked on cell phones. Families waved travel brochures about and argued which sights they wanted to see that day. It was no different than any other morning she’d spent in Tokyo, yet that morning was different.
Jenny and Richard were married and had headed off for a brief honeymoon—all that they would allow themselves at this critical juncture of the TAKA deal—despite Helen’s assurance that they should take however much time they desired.
And Helen had ended the prior evening by not endearing herself any to the exalted Morito Taka.
She rubbed her fingertip over the pain that throbbed beneath her right eyebrow. There was yet another meeting scheduled for the following afternoon with Morito and his merger and acquisitions people.
She wished it were scheduled sooner. Having to wait around more than twenty-four hours for Morito Taka to pull the plug because of her behavior the night before was wearing on her. She’d hardly slept at all and she was definitely feeling it. She wanted to snap at every person who came within five feet of her, and it was such an unaccustomed crankiness that she annoyed even herself.
She propped her elbow on the horrid gossip magazine and sipped her coffee. At the table beside her, two teenagers were trying to convince their parents that an amusement park was more appealing than the Imperial Palace garden.
Pick the garden, Helen silently commented. Amusement parks—fun though they were—abounded elsewhere, after all.
“Doing your morning reading, Mrs. Hanson?”
She jerked, spilling a drizzle of coffee over the white linen table cloth. Swallowing a curse that would surely have convinced him that she was just as coarse as he seemed to believe, she looked up at the man standing over her.
He was uncommonly tall for a Japanese man, she thought, not for the first time, and resisted the urge to stand. She might feel on more equal footing if she had, but asserting herself at the moment was probably not wise.
“Good morning, Mr. Taka.” Helen summoned a pleasant smile from somewhere inside her and pinned it on her face, taking in both him and his companion—the young woman from the reception. The girl looked even more perfectly beautiful and perfectly young in the unforgiving morning light that streamed through the tall windows than she had the evening before. “Can I offer you both some coffee?” She settled her hand atop the fine silver coffeepot that sat in the middle of her table.
“I never acquired the taste for coffee,” Morito said. His gaze was still on the gossip rag. His expression showed little, but Helen nevertheless sensed his disapproval.
It was the same sense she’d gotten from him since their first meeting.
The woman with him settled her long, slender hand on his arm, speaking softly. Helen’s Japanese was still too shaky to follow what she said, and she made no attempt to try. Instead, she pretended not to notice the short response Morito gave to his companion, or the unmistakable credit card he removed from his pocket and handed to her. The woman bowed, expressed a musical “goodbye” to Helen, and then glided out of the dining room, her sheaf of gleaming brown hair swaying around her slender waist.
Helen looked back at Morito. “I’m sure it would take only a moment for tea to be brought, if you’d like.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hanson, but I will decline. I have business to attend to.” His voice was polite, but cold. “Please enjoy your morning and your…reading.”
Her molars clenched a little. “I wasn’t actually enjoying this reading,” she said just as politely. “But an older man in the company of a younger woman always seems to strike a popular note.” Her gaze transferred briefly to his departing companion. “I’m sure you’ve experienced that yourself.” She couldn’t believe the words came out of her mouth.
His expression didn’t change, but she knew with uncanny certainty that the unsubtle jab had hit its mark.
She felt no pleasure in it, however. Only more annoyance with herself for letting the man needle her. She— Hanson Media Group—needed this man. Why was she having such difficulty lately remembering that?
“I would feel no shame being photographed with my cousin.” His voice was smooth. “As you have said, she is a lovely young woman. Now, if you will excuse me.” He inclined his head and moved away before she could summon an apology.
She didn’t bother cursing, now. She simply pulled out enough yen from her minuscule purse to cover the check that had not yet been delivered, and strode after him.
Her heels clicked on the gleaming floor, joining the morning cacophony. She quickened her step, following right after him as he left the building. She was probably breaching the rules of etiquette in a dozen ways, but she couldn’t let herself worry about it as she practically sprinted after him. If she didn’t catch him before he entered his waiting vehicle, she wouldn’t have a chance at this until their meeting the next day.
She already felt on the defensive during their meetings—she didn’t need to add to it.
“Mr. Taka.” She reached out and touched his arm from behind.
He stopped on the sidewalk, five yards from the teeming road, and gave her fingers a seemingly deadly look.
She let go, knowing she’d made yet another gaffe. “Sumimasen. I’m sorry. I made an unforgivably rude comment, Mr. Taka, and I apologize. I hope you’ll accept it.”
Mori stared at the blond woman standing close beside him. She seemed ignorant of the throng of people flowing around them like water separated by an annoying boulder. “Why?”
Her eyebrows drew together. She had a very narrow face, he thought. Everything about her seemed narrow. Tall. White.
She often dressed in white.
He wished he were not as aware of her as he was. He wished she were not insistent on attending every meeting concerning the takeover. She could have delegated the responsibility to someone else as she had done earlier in the process.
“Why should you accept my apology?” Her voice was low. Smooth. It possessed none of the lilting notes of the voices of the women in his life. And her gaze met his straight on. Another uncommon trait. Not just among women, but among men.
He shoul
d have found her bold gaze rude.
Instead, he found himself comparing the color of her eyes to the jade paperweight that his daughter had given him for his last birthday.
He did not like women such as Helen Hanson. But the female standing before him intrigued him, nevertheless.
His driver was waiting nearby on the sidewalk, prepared to open the door for Mori the moment he stepped toward the car. Mori ignored him. “Why does it matter to you? Our negotiations are beyond the point of worrying over small offenses.” This was not strictly true. He held the power to pull out TAKA at any point he chose.
Despite his father’s dissenting opinion, Mori did not yet choose to take that action.
“Then I hope you’ll accept my apology because I’m not ordinarily rude.” Her gaze didn’t waver. “To anyone.”
“So you chose to practice on me?”
A tide of pink flowed over her cheekbones. “I was irritated. Because of the magazine I was reading. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”
He understood what she was saying, but remained silent, still studying her. She wore trousers like a man, and a jacket like a man. But the white silk was closely tailored, following her lithe figure as finely as his custom-made suits fit him, and what it covered was not a man.
From his vantage point, he could see the pearl suspended by a thin gold chain where it rested a bare inch above the buttoned lapel of her jacket, and practically sense the velvety moistness of her skin in the morning humidity.
She took his silence for misunderstanding, though. “What I mean is that I shouldn’t have turned my irritation with that ridiculous article toward you.”
“The article was untrue?”
Her lips pressed together for a moment. “It was gossip.”
“Fabricated?”
“Trivial, outdated and slanted. I’d hoped that publications like that would have moved on to some other topic by now rather than continuing to dwell on the past travails of Hanson Media Group.”
“Are they in the past?” An Internet porn scandal. The revelation of a secret baby. Neither were things which he wanted even distantly associated with TAKA. No matter how advantageous it would be for TAKA to acquire Hanson’s not inconsiderable U.S. assets.
Mergers & Matrimony Page 2
