by Rhodan, Rhea
This theme had repeated itself ever since he’d been jerked too early from his bed this morning. Hazier by the hour, the nightmare might have been a hellish dream within in a dream. Or maybe that idea had been triggered by the crow’s feather he’d found stuck on the sill of the bedroom window. Or it could be because the goth-girl clerk at HandiMart, Cayden-something, had quoted the line after he’d given her shit for using an apparently-authentic early edition of Poe as a prop for her costume.
Up until this morning, when she’d pissed him off by doing that, he’d managed to ignore her. Sure, she was cute in an exotic sort of way. Her outfits, such as they were, were always well put-together, her super-heavy makeup artistic, rather than appearing as if it’d been applied with a putty knife. She simply wasn’t someone he could allow himself to be interested in, or distracted by.
His type was more along the lines of the secretary sitting across from him. As sleek and fashionable as everything else about the place, she could moonlight as a runway model. He’d turned down the coffee she’d offered because he still suffered from the damn headache and he didn’t trust his stomach, having failed to actually buy the stuff he’d gone to HandiMart for in the first place.
Keeping anything straight after being run over by the truckload of strange his big mouth had gotten him into there was a small miracle. But some things stood out more than others. Like the way Cayden’s scent, rain-soaked wind blowing across a green field, had eased the pounding in his head while she’d been on her knees across from him, cleaning up the mess he wasn’t quite sure how he’d made. Then he’d looked up, right down the low V of her tight little jacket.
He licked dry lips. When he’d forced his gaze up, he’d caught the provocative flare of gold in her hazel eyes. Since the mop of curls on her head was scattered equal parts black and an impossible shade of flaming red, and her complexion was so fair, he wondered which one, if either, was her natural color. Not that he’d ever find out. Not that he wanted to, right?
There was no good reason to think about her at all. Especially not remembering her on the sidewalk while he was on the way to his truck. She’d raced by—on roller blades!—toting a beat-up backpack and carrying a lacy black umbrella. What really stuck in his head, though, was the last glimpse of a short leather skirt hugging a well-rounded ass above strong pale thighs.
The door to his highness Dean Cumberland’s office opened, disturbing Clint from his ruminations. The angle prevented him from getting a look at the source of a mumbled apology with words like “sorry” and “important.” Yeah, right. He couldn’t wait for the day he didn’t have to put up with this kind of bullshit. The entire set up of the reception area was designed to be intimidating and uncomfortable, to put someone like him in his place. The same with the thirty minutes he’d been cooling his heels and cramping his ass out here.
A glance at the mighty king of developers had him scrambling to his feet.
“Please, come in.” The tone was cultured and smooth, private school-educated, possibly in Europe.
Cumberland couldn’t have stood more than five foot six in his Italian loafers. With his orange curly hair, slightly flushed face splashed with freckles, and toothy smile, Dean Cumberland looked more like a circus clown than the formidable CEO Clint had spent hours last night researching. Which probably explained why he hadn’t been able to find a photo of the guy.
“Have a seat.” Cumberland gestured to an overstuffed leather chair that probably cost as much as half a year’s payments on Clint’s truck. He didn’t sit on it so much as sink into it. The chair was every bit as comfortable as the one in the outer office had been uncomfortable. As opposed to the reception area’s warm and stifling air, this office was pleasantly cool, the colors soothing, the scene through the large window to the right of a gorgeous mahogany desk tranquil. He sighed. Oh yeah, this was more like it.
“You can’t know how much I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.” Cumberland beamed enthusiasm and sincerity. “Didn’t my secretary offer you any coffee?” He sat behind the desk and pressed a button on an impressive-looking communications array. “Say, sweets, could you bring—”
“No thank you, Mr. Cumberland. She did offer. I’m afraid I turned her down.”
Cumberland flashed him an indulgent grin and continued as if he hadn’t heard, “—us a carafe of your wonderful coffee and some of those butter cookies? Thanks.” He released the button and rolled his chair back. “You simply must taste the coffee, Clint. May I call you Clint? I’d like to dispense with the formalities. You and I will be doing great things together.”
Clint wasn’t aware how much Cumberland’s voice had dulled his niggling doubts until he scratched an itch on the ring finger of his right hand. A couple of things hit him immediately. The first was a memory flash of the peculiar copper ring he’d picked up off the floor at HandiMart; the next pushed that and everything related to it aside.
How could he have missed it? All of the genial comfort surrounding him was nothing more than another kind of set-up; this one designed to lull the unwary. Well, he was too hungry for this contract not to be wary. And he wasn’t dumb enough to think Cumberland wasn’t fully aware just how desperate he was, either. For the CEO of a multi-national corporation, the little man did seem awfully happy to be meeting the humble owner of a small struggling construction company.
Only a fool would walk into a lion’s den with his eyes closed, no matter how much that lion resembled a tabby cat.
Clint kept his expression on the cool side of neutral. “Thank you, Mr. Cumberland. I’m sure you can imagine how happy I am to hear you say that. Before we break out the champagne, though, I have a few questions.”
Cumberland was frowning at Clint’s hand, the one that had itched, when a knock on the door announced “sweets’” arrival.
She deposited the tray on a side table. “May I get you anything else, Mr. Cumberland?”
“Not right now. Thanks.”
She left and closed the door softly behind her.
Cumberland coughed and winked. “She makes excellent coffee, too.”
He’d been busted trying not to ogle Cumberland’s secretary while she’d bent over right in front of him to fuss with the cream and sugar. Her skirt had slid up those sky-high legs far enough to reveal a scrap of red lace. What Cumberland didn’t know was, instead of appreciating the view in front of him, Clint had been brooding over another pair of thighs, not nearly so long, trim, or suited to his future.
Whether the display had been a planned distraction or not, the result had served to remind Clint he couldn’t afford to take his eye off the prize: ultimate success.
“Mr. Cumberland—”
“Dean, please.” Again, Dean nailed him with that grin.
It didn’t make it any easier for him to ask what he had to. “Okay, Dean. As long as we’re being open and friendly, you won’t mind if I ask, why Green Man Construction? Why offer a contract prior to meeting me? A company the size of J. Milton doesn’t need an outfit like mine to build a mall, even a cutting-edge green one. You could hire your own people to do it, or work with someone you’re already familiar with.”
“I knew I was going to enjoy doing business with you. I appreciate someone who gets right to the point. Since you’re being up front, allow me the same. You’ve obviously done your homework. I’m guessing a smart man such as yourself was able to discover a few, shall we say, issues involving J. Milton and some rather radical environmental groups.”
“Issues” was an understatement. And no matter how desperate he was Clint couldn’t allow Green Man’s reputation to become associated with those kinds of issues. So he had to test Cumberland, throw him enough rope and hope like hell he wouldn’t hang the whole deal with it.
Clint led with, “When you put it that way…”
“I’m not saying some of those compla
ints might not have had a degree of legitimacy. But that was the old J. Milton Developments, the one my father founded and ran. I want—no, need—to separate myself from that. To make it clear the company is in different hands now, caring hands.”
Nice save. Dean did look pretty puny sitting behind the massive desk. It didn’t take much imagination to picture him getting pounded on a lot as a kid, no matter what school he’d gone to. Clint would lay a fifty this was as much about Dean wanting to make a name for himself as it was about his company’s bottom line. He understood the drive to succeed. Before becoming a recluse, Dean’s old man, Milton Cumberland, had been ruthless in his tactics and immensely successful. It was a lot to live up to.
Clint leaned forward in the chair. “And you believe Green Man can resolve these issues for you?”
“I do. You’re small, you’re local, and your name is above reproach.” Dean flashed that smile of his and gestured to the side table. “Hey, you haven’t tried the coffee yet. It’s fresh-ground shade-grown organic Hawaiian Kona. Those cookies are baked fresh daily in a shop around the corner.”
Clint poured himself a cup. Odd, now that Dean had invited him to drink it, he couldn’t remember why he hadn’t wanted any. He inhaled the rich aroma, took a sip, sat back, and tried not to moan in pleasure. He popped a cookie. It melted in his mouth, a perfect complement to the best cuppa joe he’d ever tasted.
Dean cleared his throat again, calling Clint away from paradise. “My only concern is that this mall project is somewhat larger than anything you’ve done to date. There’s a deadline of June twenty-first, and frankly, I don’t see it happening with the manpower Green Man currently has at its disposal.”
The second cookie turned to powder in Clint’s mouth. There it was, the other shoe that was always waiting to drop-kick his ass. Experience made it easier for him to calmly take another sip of coffee while he formulated his response.
“You’re right, this project is somewhat bigger than what Green Man’s built in the past, and with construction being what it has the last few years, I have had to thin the crew some.” Corporate-speak for the grim task of laying off his crew, good people, one by one until he was down to the bare essentials. He hoped hiring again would help him forget what that had felt like. “Filling it in won’t be a problem. I’ve got a solid call-back list, and the union locals here have plenty of qualified people looking for work.”
“Unions? No wonder your resources have been stretched.”
Dean’s voice was light, teasing, as if they were old friends, or at least as if they were back to where they’d been a few minutes ago. When someone in Dean’s position was generous enough to offer his advice, it couldn’t hurt to consider his ideas.
Clint set his cup down. The funny itch in his finger had returned.
His father was a union man. Clint had never considered running anything but a union shop.
He consciously sat deeper in the chair, smoothed his best tie, and said, “You don’t need to worry about Green Man. We do top-notch work, and we can meet your deadline. Feel free to leave the construction details to me.” And don’t even think about telling me how to run the company I built from scratch with more sweat and blood than your silver spoon could shovel in a hundred years. “Now, are there any other details to work out, or shall we get this contract signed so I can get started?”
Clint studied the other man. Cumberland’s lips were pressed together, those pudgy fingers of his steepled on the hand-rubbed finish of his desk, his carrot-colored exclamation-point eyebrows hovering over fierce blue eyes at odds with the rest of his good-natured face. Trying to figure out what he was thinking was like trying to read a calm lake mirroring a bright sun. Dean Cumberland wasn’t as simple as he appeared to be.
When Dean finally pushed back his chair and laughed, Clint couldn’t say why the sound set him on edge when it should have relieved him. He knew his answering smile was weak.
Cumberland only grinned more widely. “Sure, sure, whatever you say. You’re the man I want. Why not take a look at the list of construction workers J. Milton has on hand? When you compare their cost with the unions’, you’ll understand what I’m talking about. See for yourself.”
This time, Dean’s pleasant voice overrode the faint itch in Clint’s finger. Surely, there was no harm in looking, right? He could hardly afford to insult the guy.
Neat columns grouped by skill and experience filled the page. Dean did have a point. Clint took another sip of the freaking divine coffee he hadn’t wanted. Maybe he should make an exception, just this once. Hadn’t he been told often enough that he should be more flexible, a little less obsessive and controlling?
The snick of a pricey pen being uncapped sounded like success. Dean’s pink freckled face beamed. In spite of the disparity in their financial situations, Clint saw someone like himself, a man with something to prove.
Dean signed the contract first, giving the Mont Blanc fountain pen to Clint. It felt good in his hand as it whispered across the paper with none of the usual scratching. He re-capped it before returning it, just to relish the subtle note of prosperity.
“Keep it. We can use it to sign the next contract.” Dean’s smile oozed confidence as he reached out his hand.
Clint shook it, surprised by the small man’s firm grip.
He found himself standing in front of his truck without quite remembering walking there. A blast of trapped spring sun greeted him when he opened the door. His ring finger was itching again, and his stomach started rolling before he even had the key in the ignition.
How had Cumberland persuaded him to drink that coffee, anyway? It was not mixing well with those cookies. He thought about the list of non-union workers in his briefcase, no longer sure what it was doing there.
The powerful engine turned over. He needed this project. Queasy guts, strange itchy finger, and vague nightmares be damned.
The not-quite country road dipped gradually. Cayden rolled along past clumps of stately pines and split rail fences in various states of repair, not really listening to The Damned’s “Grimly Fiendish” on her brand new iPod, when a static screech poured from the ear buds into her brain. The popping shock following it jolted Cayden hard enough to send her veering around the curve headlong into a shallow ditch.
The ancient grove atop Buchanan’s Crossing glowed. The leaves on the gnarled oaks were that special sort of green they wore only in spring when they were still young and naive, before failure, disappointment, and the heat of the sun had their way. The deceptively gentle early light caught the leftover rain’s clinging drops. The leaves sparkled in the distance, enhancing the dangerous effect, tendering seductive fragments of joy.
Yes, this was one of those brilliant spring mornings so full of new life. The kind that might fill a person with all kinds of ridiculous ideas, as long as that person wasn’t flat on her butt in a rain-soaked ditch, wet and bruised, smoke literally wafting out of her second iPod in a month.
Ignoring the wildflowers that had cushioned her fall, she silently cursed Clint MacAllen. While some occasional trouble with anything electric might be expected by anyone this close to the Crossing, said trouble was absolutely certain to find her. She should have, would have, had her iPod long since safely stashed if she hadn’t been thinking about him.
She was still vexed as she skated up to the solid oak door of Gran’s cottage. She wasn’t surprised it opened before she’d made it up the porch stairs. Gran always knew when she was coming.
“Cayden. How lovely.” Gran’s blinding smile, the one everyone said Cayden had inherited, fell. “Oh my. That bad, is it? Well, don’t stand there on my doorstep looking like Armageddon’s come upon us. You’re just in time for breakfast.” She opened the door wider. “I’ve a nice Lorne sausage in the oven, potato scones, and some black pudding. There’s fried eggs and rasher too, if you’re of a mind. I
had a feeling you’d be by.”
Thank Goddess. At least something was going right today. A real Scottish breakfast was balm for the soul, true fortification against any manner of pains in the butt.
She clomped in and Gran closed the door after her. “Take off those clever contraptions, why don’t you, before you cause yourself bodily harm. Besides, you’ll have my neck stiff from looking up.”
Her smile wasn’t the only thing Cayden had inherited from Gran. She’d been the somewhat less fortunate recipient of her wild hair and vertically-challenged body, too. Except while Cayden was more than generously padded, Gran had none at all. When ponchos had made their brief reappearance on the fashion scene, Cayden had forbidden Gran to wear the one she’d woven herself, afraid if the wind kicked up hard no one would ever see Aileen Buchanan again.
Cayden sat down on the faded sofa, unlaced her boots, inhaled deeply, and unleashed a long sigh. She was with Gran now. Everything would be all right.
“‘Tis good to see you too, Cayden darling. I don’t mind saying, though, it’s awfully early in the day for such a sigh as that.” Beneath her thick round glasses, through the folds of her skin, one of Gran’s blue eyes winked. The uninitiated would never know that combined, those two eyes could pierce any defense. Her gnarled fingers reached out to brush a lock of Cayden’s hair, coming back with a red flower she’d plucked from it.
“Such lovely things, columbines.”
“Gran—”
“Whatever it is, my darling, you can be sure the story’s best told over a nice cup of tea after a good breakfast.”
“But—”
Gran was already on her way to the kitchen when Cayden heard the growling meow. No matter how many times she’d heard it, it still made her jump.
Not bothering to look behind her, Gran said, “Will you be joining us then, Rob Roy?”
